Overcoming the False Self

Deconstruction (literally), church hurt, and Thomas Kinkade

image courtesy of Tremolo Productions

Art for Everybody is a new Thomas Kinkade documentary (preview here) making the film festival rounds. It covers the career and personal life of the self-branded “painter of light.” As someone whose method of Christian college rebellion was writing sneering papers about why Kinkade’s work wasn’t real art, I knew this was a must-watch when it came to the Seattle International Film Festival.

Kinkade’s prints were ubiquitous in 90s and early 00s America. Even my small Montana town had a Kinkade gallery in the mall where salespeople evangelized about the “blessing” of decorative plates. Ads for prints and tchotchkes dotted newspapers and magazines, he was a regular feature on home shopping networks and late-night informercials. Kinkade branded himself as the ultimate conservative, God-fearing family man, someone whose art stood as a heaven-sealed rebuttal to provocative fine art such as Andres Serrano’s Piss Christ.

But behind Kinkade’s public persona was a much darker reality—a spiraling addiction that led to the breakup of his marriage, public scandals in his personal life and fraud allegations in his franchise business, all before his untimely death at age fifty-four. Art for Everybody uses interviews from his immediate family, critics, business partners, and fans to probe the mystery of the artist’s true identity.

For me, the pinnacle of this riveting documentary was the moment an art critic described Kinkade’s art as having no shadows, no darkness, “no room for grace.” They are a visual manifestation of modern Evangelicalism’s shame-based theology—we must annihilate our broken selves to become vessels for God’s perfection. Since salvation means transformation, we must perform perfection, live fully in the “after” of before-and-after, strictly controlling all aspects of thought and behavior, or risk demonstrating the flaws in the Jesus-is-all-you-need sales pitch. Kinkade cashed in on these Christian fantasies until he was ultimately crushed by them.

For all his complicity, I found myself sympathizing with Kinkade. I know the cost of living as a false self. In my upbringing as the eldest daughter of an alcoholic, I didn’t feel valued for who I was as much as for what I could do for others. I could care for younger siblings and pretend I didn’t also need care. I could plaster on a smile to soothe parental anger while trembling inside. I could keep everyone’s secrets. This false self was reinforced by a church which valued my service while also telling me I talked too much. I belonged when I remained docile, chaste, and feminine. Living as a false self is a deep form of suffering.

It’s only in parenting my children that I’ve realized the delight in watching someone become more of themselves. When my youngest son nags me to take him rock climbing, it’s a strange joy, because, after years of trying various things, he’s discovered this piece of his identity. Good parenting does mean shaping children in various ways—teaching resilience and fostering their virtues—but it’s more akin to Michaelangelo discovering the form hidden within the marble than a parent chiseling away in hope of achieving some preconceived design. Here’s what I want for all of us: authenticity and belonging; faith communities that value us for who we are.

But how do you trust an institution which has perpetuated so much harm under the guise of love? If the church were a person, I could confront them, demand amends or sever the relationship. Institutions are infinitely more complex, made up of not just individuals but also cultures and systems. In the case of the American Church, many of these cultures and systems are geared towards protecting institutional power rather than attending to justice. It’s enough to make me want to burn it all down.

It was in this mindset that I set out to watch the demolition of Columbia City Church of Hope. I thought it might be cathartic for my anger towards the American Church as a whole. I didn’t think of myself as attached to the run-down building with its endless plumbing and heating issues, and so I was surprised at the sense of loss that came over me while watching the bell tower disassembly. In its destruction, I remembered our former nonprofit which was temporarily housed there, the preschool my youngest attended in the basement, the church letting us use its hall rent-free for an Integrated Schools meeting. My anger towards the church as a whole didn’t stop me from cherishing what had happened in this particular building.

the cross and church bell are removed before demolition

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying you should forgive the church. Maybe your anger is protecting you. There are real issues with the way our culture (and the church in particular) pressure people into forgiveness, especially forgiveness without accountability for wrongdoing. And there are systems in the global church that ought to be destroyed.

But watching the demolition made me realize that anger isn’t a home for me anymore. I’ve shared my authentic, painful self, and while I still don’t trust the church as an institution, I trust myself to know a red flag when I see one. I know that I am becoming more of myself, and I like to think that God the good parent delights in my discovery.

Journal/Discussion Questions:

• Have you lived as a false self? Who/what provoked the invention of this false persona?

• What things make you feel like your truest self?

• What is the most egregious Thomas Kinkade product? Is it the Lazy Boy?