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I did not grow up loving horror. Sure, my dad has a complete collection of the published works of Stephen King, and yes, my parents' attic is packed with our myriad Halloween yard decorations over the years, and yeah, the house I grew up in was maybe haunted, but I myself was a bit of a scaredy cat when it came to the spooky. Like many of my generation, I loved Disney's Fantasia, except for "Night on Bald Mountain" (and that horrific dinosaur battle!) and I enjoyed listening to the folk tales our substitute teacher would tell us, but I could not abide Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. (Those illustrations haunt me to this day.)
But that all changed when I discovered the podcast Welcome to Night Vale. WTNV is presented as a community radio show from a small town out in the southwest desert where the strange and horrifying is an everyday occurrence. From the dog park where dogs are not allowed (because the shadowy hooded figures need a place to be) to the library where many-mouthed monsters stalk the shelves, the citizens of Night Vale have learned how to keep themselves safe in an unsafe world, together.
From there, the world of horror opened wide. I listened to other horror podcasts, I picked up some of those Stephen King novels, and I began to dip my toe into horror movies. I took a leap and watched Mike Flanagan's "The Haunting of Hill House" and as I watched the Crane family fall apart and come back together despite the house trying to consume them, I finally saw horror for all it could be: stories that help us feel, practice, and advocate. It's oddly similar to what we do in worship.
Horror helps us feel. A large part of my thesis research focused on religious experiences, especially experiences of awe and wonder. Awe is what our sanctuary tries to evoke in us with its high ceilings and stained glass, drawing our eyes up toward the heavens. Wonder is what we might experience at the foot of Niagara Falls or when a delighted baby giggles during baptism. These experiences can bring us closer to each other and to God.
Horror is the flip side of awe. Rather than drawing us closer, horror tells us to run away. While the sanctuary invites us to awe, horror compels us to react. More generously, horror gives you permission to feel. You're supposed to be disgusted and scared and nervous when you read or watch or listen to horror. That's the whole point. It's encouraged! If you're having trouble connecting to those awe and wonder feelings, give horror a try. It just might crack you open enough to let some light in.
Horror can help us practice. There are many ways to understand what we do in worship, but one way to think about worship is as rehearsal. In worship, we rehearse who we want to be out in the world. We greet each other. We read and listen to stories and discussions about how to love one another better. We listen to good music together. We meditate on the good and bad in the world and we make promises to each other about what we're going to do about it. For an hour each week in the sanctuary, we rehearse our Christian life out in the world.
Horror helps us practice too. For those with anxiety, horror can be a place where we see our worst fears played out and we see how people survive those fears (most of the time). Each time we scream, "Don't go into the basement!", we're practicing how to keep ourselves safe. Each time we see the Big Bad of a horror movie move in the background, we're teaching ourselves to pay attention to how things move in the real world. Even as we watch the unlikely timeline in which Michael Myers goes after every single one of Jamie Lee Curtis's friends before finding her, we're practicing compassion and concern in the face of depravity.
Horror can help us advocate. What we feel and practice in worship helps us advocate for others in our community. Each week, we ground ourselves in the truth that God loves us, our neighbors, and our enemies. We learn about the places in the world that God is calling us to notice and we restore and prepare ourselves for that work.
Horror has a mixed history when it comes to advocacy (but hey, so does the church!) and it has a long legacy of confronting social issues in a way that holds up a mirror for us. From powerful ending of Night of the Living Dead (Romero pulls no punches about the reality of racial violence in the US) to the incisive social commentary of the 1992 Candyman to the mind-bending world of Us, horror gives us an unflinching look at what we've built and begs us to do something better.
Horror isn't perfect and it isn't for everyone (but hey, neither is worship!). If this piece has shifted your thinking on the horror genre at all, though, let me know! I'd be happy to send along an Intro to Horror viewing list that just might take you to church.
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