America's most popular reality show, "American Idol,” begins Season 9 this week.  One more season of judge in-fighting, audition train wrecks, pop divas, contestant theatrics, and some authentically talented vocalists.  And I couldn't care less.

Before you start writing your rebuttal response, let me say:  I don’t really hate American Idol.  It’s just that AI exposes some things about our society that run in both subtle and flagrant opposition to things I feel very strongly about—things like faith, art, personal expression, and even basic human principles like decency and the golden rule.  Besides, “hate” is a strong and vulgar word to me, one that I use sparingly.  So I guess when I say “hate” American Idol, I really mean to say something more akin to “cringe with embarrassment and aversion. ”  And there are reasons why.

We’re all about “Idols.” When did fame become a virtue? And when did the word “idol” become a positive term? For some strange reason, we have become a society that turns actors and musicians and sports figures into people to be adored and emulated, like a role model. But aren’t real role models supposed to be people of substance—men and women who live, and sometimes die, for highly esteemed values, people who made a real difference in the world? Martin Luther King, Mother Teresa, Mahatma Gandhi—these are people who have lived lives of significance, people who deserve to be role models.

I think we have confused fame with real virtue. We seem so enraptured with the idea of being famous that people will do practically anything to have it, if even for a moment. And we hold in high esteem those people who have fame, even those people who have it for the wrong reasons. The guy on the Subway sandwich commercials, the popular and scantily dressed daughter of the rich hotel magnate, the guys who do insane stunts on YouTube—they are all “famous” to some degree, emulated and even admired, and yet none of them have done anything significant or virtuous. And people actually want to be like them.

The same is pretty much true on American Idol. We emotionally attach ourselves to the contestants, root for them, call them by their first names, talk about them at the water cooler like they are our friends. We want to “idolize” them, make them our heroes. And though they are nice (I am sure) and have much, much more talent than the previously mentioned people, they are mere people after all.

Consider the most famous idol in human history: the Golden Calf. The nation Israel, tired of waiting for Moses to come down from the mountain, creates with their own hands a false idol, which they proceed to worship and glorify. On many levels, it is irrational, immoral, absurd. And yet, there are parallels.

Fame is not a bad thing. But neither is it a virtue to which we should aspire. Virtues are things like integrity, goodness, faith, hope, and love. That is the stuff of character, the stuff that matters.

We’ve turned artistic expression into a commodity. Art is so many things. On one edge of the spectrum, it is a deeply personal expression of the self and a way in which we interpret and make sense of the world around us. As artists, we express the human condition in such a way in which others can empathize and maybe seek to make sense of it.  On the other edge, art is a commodity, bought and sold, commercialized and dumbed down. Art is used to sell soft drinks, glorify violence, propagate political views. And for the artist, art can become self-promoting, self-gratifying, self-anesthetizing.  And we have a whole generation of people that, I’m afraid, doesn’t know the difference between the two edges.

Art has become simply a means toward fame. I’ve met young people who have completely devoted their adult lives to the pursuit of that elusive record contract. And I ask them, Why are you an artist? If you never got a contract, would you still be an artist? Would you still sing or play or write songs? And I always hope the answer is “yes,” because I know that the lifestyle associated with touring and being on contract is a difficult one. It is easy to forget why you are doing it to begin with. And it is harder if you never even know.

The road to fame is paved with artistic compromises, and it is a slippery slope. Those on AI seem willing participants in the pursuit of market-driven, formulaic pop. And we applaud them for every step they take away from their own personal artistic integrity.

We like to laugh at the freak show. It’s like watching a car wreck. At the beginning of each season, the long parade of AI hopefuls grasp at their fifteen minutes of fame, and we are there to point and jeer at them. And then—like the Christians and the lions—we wait for the three caesars to give their thumbs down.

Whenever I hear these conversations at the water cooler, I cringe. Did we also cheer when the playground bully pushed the fat kid down? Or did we laugh when the class clown stuck the “kick me” sign on the guy with the glasses? Whatever happened to the Golden Rule?  Now I realize that a lot of guys on AI try out just for the fun of it. And that there are those people wholly out of touch with reality as it relates to their own talent. But even so, shouldn’t we all feel a little bit of shame for laughing at them?

We have forgotten that art is not just an expression, it is also a discipline. It is more than obvious that many of the people who try out for AI have little or no training. For some strange reason, many people now seem to believe that you can attain great artistry without having developed one’s craft.   But for those of us who are artists, we know that art comes with a price, whether it is hundreds of hours in front of a piano (like myself), or hundreds of hours at the ballet barre, or hundreds of hours with a paint brush and canvas, or hundreds of hours learning proper vocal technique.

The Latin word for “art” is “tecnicus,” which is derived from the Greek derivation where we get the word “technique.” Art is something that must be developed and honed and rehearsed. Work ethic is a presumption with any great skill. Yet, it seems lacking by most people who try to get on American Idol.  How do you get to Carnegie hall? Practice, practice.

We have limited our definition of music by applying narrow criteria to it. The definition of “good” seems to be a very narrow band on AI.  They don’t want vocalists who sing bebop, opera, screamo, classical. What they seem to be looking for is a good looking, younger pop singer with a wide vocal range. And so, the public accepts this narrow criteria as what “good” is.  But I think about some of my own musical heroes—Miles Davis, Donald Fagen, Dave Brubeck, Sting—none of them would have made it onto AI.  Of course, none of them would have wanted to.           

Finally, we have forgotten that art is a deeply spiritual thing. Art is, as Jeremy Begbie asserts, “capable of affording genuine knowledge of reality beyond the confines of human self-consciousness.” It is much more so than any of us understand. Art is transcendent. it allows us an opportunity to pull back the curtain, to have our hearts quicken and be moved, to transcend ourselves. Such is the music of Bach, the paintings of Da Vinci, the writings of C. S. Lewis. And although art has been used for many other reasons, I believe God’s intention for art and music was that it ultimately point us back to Him. It is the same for all of beauty, whether it be a snow-capped mountain, or a crimson sunset, or the coo of a newborn baby. All creation ultimately points to the glory of God.

There is a moment in the film, The Shawshank Redemption, when a classical aria is played throughout the Shawshank prison. Every man in the institution, prisoner and guard alike, is moved to stop and breathe in the beauty that is in the song. There was no panel to rate it, no critiques, no voting for the best singer. There is only the artistic expression, the transcendent moment, and the response of simple awe.

That is what art was intended to be and do.