Essay
America
Church and state
Conspiracy theory
Culture
6 min read

Disney at 100: The Magic Kingdom's simulation of modern life

Disney is more than a mouse and entertainment. Theologian Jared Stacy dissects how the Liturgy of Disney reflects modern America in all its contradictions.

Jared holds a Theological Ethics PhD from the University of Aberdeen. His research focuses conspiracy theory, politics, and evangelicalism.

A statue of Walt Disney holding hands with Mickey Mouse in front of Cinderella's Castle
The Magic Kingdom of Disney.

Walt Disney once said, “remember, it all started with a Mouse.” An incredible fact considering that after a century of Disney, it is impossible to describe and interpret our modern world without mentioning Disney, the Christian church included. Once, Disney came up during an interview I took for a pastoral role at an American megachurch. Those with experience in low church American contexts won’t be surprised at what comes next.

During the interview, the church’s creative director casually mentioned taking his entire creative team to Disney World. It hadn’t been a pleasure trip; church employees toured Disney’s backstage creative department for inspiration they could bring back to the church. For this church, the Disney company – its vision and practices – was an index for its own. 

Now, my hunch is this little anecdote will offend the sensibilities of readers who are practicing Christians in high church traditions. I might also guess it will equally offend secular readers who see Disney as the archetype of corporate greed, pushing glib, crass sentimentalism as art. Christian readers might share some of these criticisms as well. Together this is what, back in 2001, sociologist Alan Bryman recognized as the ‘Disneyization’ of society.

Disney... is not a purveyor of morality, but of product that must (like any good neoliberal agent) sail with the prevailing winds of market-based morality.

Disney In the crosshairs  

Bryman’s work demonstrates how most criticism of Disney tends to expand into criticism of modern life itself. . Walt Disney himself dedicated Disneyland at its opening in 1955 with the words: 

 “this park is dedicated to the hard facts that made America.”  

To talk about Disney and the modern world is ironically enough to talk Walt at his word. It means reflecting on modern America and globalization, and the economics, aesthetics, ethics, and politics which characterize it. 

I have more to say about this. But first, we need to tackle just where Disney sits today in the social and political moment.  

Disney today finds itself in a familiar position: fixed in the crosshairs of US conservatives waging the culture war. (Ironically, both culture war and Disney are some of America’s prime exports.) But Disney today is as wise to the market as it’s ever been. It is not a purveyor of morality, but of products that must (like any good neoliberal agent) sail with the prevailing winds of market-based morality. 

Disney promotes prevailing values domestically and does the same for values of the Chinese Communist Party internationally. For example, in its Stateside parks, Disney recently decolonized or altered some of its attractions. It re-themed Splash Mountain attraction, a water ride based on Walt Disney’s Song of the South film. The 1949 film is banned on Disney’s streaming platform. It traded in racist tropes and revisionist historical propaganda (often called the 'Lost Cause') which originated in the American South after the Civil War. Disney also altered a scene from the Pirates of the Caribbean ride which depicted women as victims of sex trafficking.  

These are surely good changes. But conservatives tend to categorize these changes, together with LGBTQ inclusivity efforts, under the appropriated phrase ‘woke’. Armed with a weaponized slogan, vapid reactionaries continue to influence popular sentiment on Disney. Meanwhile, Disney CEO Bob Iger met with the US Government’s House select committee on China. To discuss Disney’s censorship practices and production in the Chinese market.  

To talk about Disney in the present, immediate sense is to (among other things) grapple with the political power of corporations, the moralities that sustain market practices, and the formative power of binge-watching on human beings. But what about Disney in the broader sense? The Disney that is a window into the (failed) promises of modernity? These are promises and possibilities that continue to haunt us as well as shape us.

I can find no better word to describe Disney’s parks. Liturgy, both in the Greek and Christian sense, speaks to how the parks provide a public service and fuel a religious experience.

The “Liturgy” of Walt Disney  

At the end of his life, Walt Disney had more in common with Elon Musk than JK Rowling. He was more obsessed with harnessing technology in service of “progress”. His ultimate dream (called EPCOT or Experimental Prototype City of Tomorrow) was envisioned as the sum total expression of his theme parks. Disney wanted to take all the lessons of Disneyland and redirect them towards the construction of a permanent, liveable World’s Fair expo in the backwater of Florida’s swamps.  

But EPCOT today is something of a simulacrum. It houses a World Showcase where you can stroll the streets of Paris, Piazza San Marco, or a Mayan pyramid that houses a water ride. Disney even hosts student worker programs to ensure that if you order fish and chips in its England, you will be served by someone from York, Surrey, or Manchester. But this is not what EPCOT was supposed to be. Walt envisioned it as a real time, fully functioning “city of tomorrow” where all the best and brightest of American Post-War technological might and efficiency would make the human society something called “better”. In short, EPCOT was Disney’s public works project.  

The ancient Greeks had a word for projects like this: “liturgy”. The English word comes to us from combining the Greek noun for “people” leitos or laos with the Greek verb for “working” ergos. Nowadays, we tend to associate liturgy with Christian tradition, particularly the external rites and forms of worship for the church. But the idea of Christian liturgy emerged from this Ancient Greek practice of private financing of public projects. George Tridimas  shows how these “works for the people” were originally a Greek form of politics. To the Athenians, liturgies were a symbiotic practice: the wealthy elite competing for the honor and power associated with a project, while each project served everyday citizens of Athens.  

I can find no better word to describe Disney’s parks. Liturgy, both in the Greek and Christian sense, speaks to how the parks provide a public service and fuel a religious experience. They are a public works project that continue to shape the American consciousness, directing its worship, which is inevitably exported too, through the medium of culture. If you doubt the religious factor of the parks, ask again why a church might find itself believing a tour of Disney serves its task of Christian proclamation and formation. This isn’t just crass entertainment, but a profound (yet often uninterrogated) influence.  

The parks exist as an inhabitable space that suspends the contradictions of modern life and actually resolves them in a simulated fashion. 

This is why I think Disney biography Neal Gabler puts his finger on the essence of Disney’s parks. He argued that the parks aren’t successful because they provide an 'escape' from reality, but because they provide a ‘better' reality than the one outside. In this sense, the Disney imagineers don’t just tell good stories, they master physical space. The parks continue to attract guests the world over not because of popular franchises, but because,as a public works project, the entire parks experience is a high-control, surveiled effort to provide public efficiency, thematic immersion, crowd control, transportation—all of it.  

The parks exist as an inhabitable space that suspends the contradictions of modern life and actually resolves them in a simulated fashion. To treat the parks as a tasteless venture into plastic sentimentalism obscures how the parks attempt to satisfy, at nearly every turn, the modern contradictions that shape our human experience. To say this experience is a religious one would not be far from the truth, the Athenian liturgy and Christian liturgy converging into one.  

This is one reason why, however tragic it may be, churches in America continue to emulate Imagineers. The architecure of churches constructed within and without Christendom have communicated transcendence. And in spite of America’s embrace of Protestantism, we should not be surprised that American Christian traditions continue to emulate Disney’s mastery of physical space in the key of modernity. I understand criticisms of all things Disney, from parks and art to economics and adult Disney fans. But the parks are a liturgical experience, both in a religious sense and in a public sense. To understanding the staying power and influence of Disney means grappling, at a human level, with the park experience as a simulated resolution of modern life, rather than an escape. 

Essay
Church and state
Creed
Politics
7 min read

How to test the religious claims made on Trump

An old Puritan offers a way to question the assertions.

Anthony is a theology professor at Seminary of the Southwest in Austin, Texas.

A montage shows a bishop, a preacher and a president being looked down upon by a puritan.
Jonathan Edwards considers.

Christian theological language is a fairly constant garnish to the dish that is American political theater. In recent weeks, however, with the rhetoric responding to the initiation of Donald Trump's second term, such language has arguably shifted into a substantial side dish, if not the main course.  

At the Inauguration, Rev. Franklin Graham prayed, "Father, when Donald Trump’s enemies thought he was down and out, you and you alone saved his life and raised him up with strength and power by your mighty hand." He compared the new President to Moses and Samuel of the Hebrew Scriptures, and implied that the years of the Biden administration were akin to Israel's years of enslavement in Egypt.  

The President himself made a bold claim of divine intervention in Inaugural address: 

 "I was saved by God to make America great again." 

Christians, however, are far from united in this interpretation. Pope Francis suggested prior to the election that American  voters were facing a choice between two evils. He has since called Trump's mass deportation plans "a disgrace." The Episcopal Bishop of Washington went viral just after the Inauguration when she called on the newly elected President to amend his rhetoric around sexuality and immigration in the name of mercy:  "Our God teaches us that we are to be merciful to the stranger, for we were once strangers in this land." 

The discipline of theology can seem like an exercise in evaluating faith language against the grid of personal conviction. Rev. Graham has his theology, Pope Francis his, Bishop Budde hers. But as any true student of theology knows, the tradition is rich with critical tools that go far beyond private taste or political orientation.  

Good theology acts as  a grammar for the language of Christians. Think of how German or French has rules that keep our subjects and objects aligned and that connect propositions and antecedents. Sentence-diagramming, that dreaded rite of passage for the language student, shows those connections visually on a chalkboard. Cumbersome as they are, such structures  allow us to make the most sense possible when we go to put thoughts into words.  

So too in the language of faith traditions: we can fail to make sense by ignoring the long evolution of "grammar" that is that tradition's critical reflection on its own faith.  

What forms and structures might allow us to evaluate claims about whether or not God's hand is at work in the election and vision of a new U.S. President?

Divine intervention never shows up "full strength," given that it only ever arrives through the words and acts of human beings.

In the eighteenth century, American Puritan theologian Jonathan Edwards weighed in on arguments about whether God was at work in the movement of revivals that we have since taken to calling the First Great Awakening. His careful evaluation of arguments and claims for and against the revivals could serve as a model for evaluating the political theology of our day.  

Edwards is most famous for his sermon "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God," a text that my high school English teacher justly called a stunning piece of rhetoric and an alarming bit of theology. Less famous, though, are the writings that explore the true center of his theological vision. For Edwards, the world was created out of the bounty of God's own character. Call it a theological aesthetic: God delights in the beauty of his own goodness and truth, and so makes a world whose character is, at its best, a reflection of of a good and beautiful God.  

This aesthetic runs like a soft bass line through his short treatise The Distinguishing Marks of a Work of the Spirit of God. This work opens with a passage from the first Epistle of John.  The writer says that Christians should not believe every spirit, but rather "try the spirits whether they are of God." Edwards is surprised to find that this invitation is not one that his contemporary theological evaluators have taken up. There's his aesthetic running in the background: If God made us to be Godlike, then we ought to be vigilant in our attention to the energies sweeping through the world, and certainly "try them" before we decide to trust or mistrust them as the presence of God's own Spirit.  

When he addresses those who deny that the hand of God is at work the Awakening, he takes seriously their criticism that some preachers are excessive, or harmful, or even riddled with errors in their sermons. Edwards doesn't disagree or defend such preachers, but rather reminds the reader that one must consider the distance between the eternally holy and righteous God and the temporally limited and fallible creature. God made us to be Godlike, but that likeness is a calling, not a presumption. For this reason, "If some fall away into gross errors or scandalous practices, it is no argument that the work in general is not the work of the Spirit of God." In fact, "if we look into church history, we shall find no instance of a great revival of religion but what has been attended with many such things." In effect, humans are imperfect receptors of divine transmission. Acknowledgement of our imperfection is not a denial of divine activity. This is, for Edwards, as for the whole of the theological tradition, a key principle of good theological grammar. Divine intervention never shows up "full strength," given that it only ever arrives through the words and acts of human beings. 

 The "proof" of God's hand, theologically speaking, is not in the strength of one's conviction or in the number of people who hold it. 

When he turns from what might negate the claim of divine action to what might affirm it, Edwards says, first of all, that a growing affection for Christian teachings is an integral part of such evidence. "The devil has the most bitter and implacable enmity" against the whole story of the virgin birth and the redemption wrought by Jesus' death and resurrection. If people begin falling in love with the beauty of the story, he suggests, it is a pretty solid indicator that God is at work. 

But this alone is not sufficient evidence, if for no other reason, Edwards says, than that there are false prophets who mislead even as they speak in ways that sound pious. For this reason, a love of truth-telling supplies a touchstone for our theological grammar. "If we see that a spirit operates as a spirit of truth, leadings persons to truth, convincing them of those things that are true, we may safely determine it is a right and true spirit." For Edwards, if I speak out loudly in favor of the divinity of Christ while lying about my own actions or intentions, you should not trust that I am a faithful witness to the work of the Holy Spirit.  

But the most important of all marks of the work of the Spirit of God is neither of these; or perhaps, it is a mark that lies within and shapes all other evidences. Edwards says that "humble love" of God and fellow humans is the "highest evidence of a true and divine Spirit." The adjective here is important: a love that is self-aggrandizing is not the love that shares in God's own character.  

Here again the aesthetic sounds the bass line: God's love changes us like a beautiful memory or a lovely person does. We want to belong there, we want to be like that. If the energy, the spirit, sweeping through a culture is not that sort of energy, then it's likely not the work of the lovingly humble God.  

Edwards ends his own treatise by grading the revivals on his grammatical grid, and determining that it is, in fact, the work of God. For our current moment in U.S. society, the evidence is not yet in. Will the Trump administration cause an increase in affection for Christian teachings? Will it explode in an epidemic of truth-telling and a cultural outrage at falsehood? Will the policies and practices of the next four years demonstrate humble love? If so, Christians will have good reason to attest that the interpretations of leaders like Reverend Graham are accurate.  

The "proof" of God's hand, theologically speaking, is not in the strength of one's conviction or in the number of people who hold it. It is rather in the humility, Christian devotion, and the divine and neighborly love that grows from the events in question.   

On this note, Bishop Budde's admonition invites a reading that not far from the theological grammar that Edwards supplies. "You have felt the providential hand of a loving God," she reminded the President. "In the name of our God, I ask you to have mercy upon the people in our country who are scared now." If it was in fact God's mercy that spared you, it was so that you could be merciful. The proof of providence will be in the pudding of practice, Mr. Trump.  

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