Dollhouse starts its second season, and for those frustrated by the show's one-step-forward-two steps-back approach to currency and complexity, hope abides. Unfortunately, much of that hope is vested in the never-aired but straight-to-video episode 13.

Like most of today's best television, Dollhouse examines what constitutes human-ness as well as the good/evil dilemma that tinkering with the formula entails. The much-missed Sarah Connor Chronicles  had us wondering whether souped–up robots like Cameron had a soul and why even sleeker model, Catherine Weaver, opposed the Skynet behemoth—one of her, umm, “people.” Syfy's Caprica will probe the human-machine mash-up that led to BSG's cylons, and True Blood and Vampire Diaries ask whether the undead can be as human as some, well, Christians. Even warm-blooded TV characters are not always exactly human: Dexter is hardwired to murder, and Blair Waldorf is downright mean.

Techno-fy—sci-fi that focuses on the dystopic potential of advanced technology—is not new, but current iterations refine and redefine how humans and machines blend, battle and bond. Dollhouse's premise is that a shadowy corporation develops the wherewithal to harvest, store and repurpose the individual soul, which the characters call “memory,” but viewers know better.

In Episode 13, which jumps ahead in time, the corporation has sold its technology to the highest bidder, and most of the world's population has become soulless killers. The Dollhouse, where the experiment initially programmed young lovelies to sate wealthy clients, is now Ground Zero for the resistance.

Obviously, these stories manifest confusion and discomfort with rapidly changing technology. But they also provide oblique angles on challenges presented head-on in the news. Terrorism, health care, hate speech—all pose questions about human responsibility. What to do about Gitmo? Who needs medical insurance? Is it justifiable to call the president a monkey or a liar?  

Journalists would say they're not responsible for helping news consumers think through the questions their stories raise. I agree—even as I offer thanks to Joss Whedon for creating Echo and Alpha to help with some answers.

Diane Winston

I don't have any scientific data to back this up, but it's a safe bet that most Americans are far more interested in the occult than in Methodism, Episcopalianism and Presbyterianism all rolled into one. Think of it like this: sales for Dan Brown's The Lost Symbol versus sales for Will Willimon's United Methodist Beliefs: A Brief Introduction. Willimon's got a two-year headstart, but do we really need to do the numbers? Even if I picked a work of mainline religious fiction—and Abingdon, an imprint of the United Methodist Publishing House, has just such a new line—its titles still aren't breaking into the New York Times best-sellers list.

Notwithstanding popular interest in occultism (the word sounds so bad—better to use supernatural, mystical or even folk religion), there's little about it in the news media other than secondary reporting. In other words, there are stories to explain the popularity of Dan Brown's books and TV shows like Warehouse 13  or Medium, but there's little coverage of actual on-the-ground people, practices, events and trends.

That's why I stopped to listen when I heard an NPR report that mentioned the Five Percenters. Turns out that the music video for Jay Z's “Run This Town” is thick with occult allusions.  (That's yet another secondary story, but. . .)

Backtrack for anyone unfamiliar with the Five Percenters: it's a breakaway movement from the Nation of Islam which teaches that only 5 percent of the world's population know the truth. Most popular among African American urban youth, its message is spread through local academies, word of mouth and hip-hop. According to the NPR report, Jay Z isn't a follower, but he uses a familiar Five Percent greeting “Peace God” in the video. He also wears a sweat shirt emblazoned with “do what thou wilt,” the central maxim of occult bad-boy Aleister Crowley's  path to spiritual development.

There's a lot of this going around—Dan Brown is just the edge of the wedge. More intriguing is how marginalized communities use esoteric teachings for affirmation and empowerment: hip-hop borrowing from Five Percenters is one example, just as some women make use of Wiccan tools such as circles, crystals and moon rites. And there are probably equally fascinating permutations among other affinity groups that are hungry for a sense of prestige and power.

As Jon Butler reminded us in his landmark book Awash in a Sea of Faith, American religion—and particularly American Christianity—has always been a roiling stew of staid institutionalism and the occult, of elitism and radical democracy.

The only thing surprising about the current uptick in our enthusiasm for woo-woo religion is that we should find it at all surprising.
 
Diane Winston
 

Mary Travers' obit, in the New York Times and other newspapers nationwide, features a black-and-white photo of a lissome young blonde flanked by two handsome hipsters.

Peter, Paul and Mary were an early '60s sensation—affixing  the nascent counterculture's political edge to mainstream American folk music. Several years before the Beatles ballyhooed a “Revolution,” the Greenwich Village trio saw what was blowing in the wind—subsequently performing at civil rights marches and other progressive causes.

Also akin to but predating the Beatles, the group understood the power of hair. Travers wore hers long and straight, telegraphing loose and youthful sexuality. Peter and Paul had goatees—a look that echoed Lenin, Trotsky and “Negro” jazz musicians. Oh, and Maynard G. Krebs—Dobie Gillis' ne'er-do-well  beatnik buddy.

“On television the group's mildly bohemian look—Ms Travers favored beatnik clothing and Mr. Yarrow and Mr. Stookey had mustaches and goatees—gave mainstream audience their first glance of a subculture that had previously been ridiculed on shows like 'The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis.'” writes the Times.

“You cannot overemphasize those beards,” said Mr. Wald [Elijah Wald, a popular music historian]. “They looked like Greenwich Village to the rest of America, They were the first to go mainstream with an artistic, intellectual, beat image.”

Flash forward 40 years, and now everyone wants that artistic, intellectual, beat image. No longer linked to left-wing politicos and godless Communists, the goatee is a popular look for businessmen, ballplayers and evangelicals of all persuasions. They're positively de riguer for youth ministers, and Rick Warren has made his facial hair, along with colorful Hawaiian shirts, the trademark of a hipper, friendlier “new evangelicalism.”

Historically, evangelicals have had a genius for appropriating popular culture to spread the good news. They pioneered mass communications before secular institutions did, experimenting with hot type, film, radio and television in each medium's early days. Likewise, they've made use of popular forms of entertainment—from 19th century Chautauqua lectures to the 21st century XXX Church—in an effort to reach the masses.

But don't confuse style with substance. Saddleback Church and others helmed by conservative hipsters remain mainstays of old-time religion and its conservative social, political and theological claims. Rick Warren, T.D. Jakes and Bob Coy may all wear goatees, but the answers they hear blowing in the wind are not the same ones that inspired Mary Travers.

Diane Winston

Just hours after George Mitchell, the U.S. Middle East envoy, expressed a “sense of urgency” about the Middle East peace process, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu let slip that he would not freeze West Bank settlements—thus defying a key U.S. position.

The issue of the settlements, long central to the peace process, is fraught with political and religious symbolism. Both sides call the territory home, but many Israelis also see its possession as their divine right and have no intention of leaving.

Likewise, news from the Middle East shows no signs of becoming less contested, conflicted and controversial. Just a few days after the eighth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks—almost anticipating the Mitchell-Netanyahu face-off—a taped message, allegedly from Osama Bin Laden, chastised America for its ongoing support for Israel.

President Obama may be trying to accelerate negotiations, but the slow pace of progress has frustrated not just the Al Qaeda leader. Hollywood, too, is clamoring for change. More than 1000 filmmakers, actors and academics signed a letter opposing  the Toronto Film Festival's decision to spotlight Israeli filmmakers. Protesters call the festival organizers “complicit in the Israeli propaganda machine,” while counter-protesters denounced the “blacklist.”

But even as it seems the cycle of violence and recriminations might last forever, the New York Times has spotted something new on the horizon. James Traub's profile of “J Street,” a primarily Jewish advocacy group that supports a “new direction” for the U.S.'s Middle East policy, concludes, “J Street may still be too small a blocking back to clear much of a path for the Obama administration. But you can compensate for size if you're not afraid of contact.”  

Hmm—more contact, more conflict.

Of course the Middle East is newsworthy and deserves the copy it gets, but does anyone ever consider the how, what, where, when and why of story selection? Are conflict narratives privileged, or are journalist activists who promote alternative coverage—often called peace journalism or conflict resolution journalism—naïve, if not addled?

I'm very interested in the question—not just because I've followed the Middle East story for a long time, but also because I intend to take my journalism class there this Spring. Together, we'll explore religion, politics and the media—probing how synagogue and state are covered, the impact of social media on the conflict, and alternative narratives that may not always make the news. During the lead-up to the trip, I'll be keeping close tabs on the region. If you find stories, op-eds, blogs or web sites that you think are helpful resources, please send them along.

Diane Winston

Jerry Falwell never betrayed an iota of irony, reflexivity or doubt. In the decade I spent covering the Religious Right, Pat Robertson once admitted that he didn't really hear God's voice and Jimmy Swaggart would plaintively ask if I still were still a Jew, but Falwell never dropped his mask.

Always a man on a mission, Falwell ticked off goals that initially seemed implausible: start a grass-roots movement of religious conservatives, check; become a national spokesman and political power broker, check; spearhead a landmark First Amendment case, check; turn a small Bible college into a national Christian university, check.  

But though his goals were met, they were never fully realized: the Moral Majority fell apart after a decade or so; the press looked to Falwell less for his leadership than because he gave good quote (he blamed 9/11 on pagans, abortionists, feminists, gays and the ACLU); his failed suit against Hustler strengthened free speech guarantees; and his beloved Liberty University was $110 million in debt and on academic probation by the 1990s.

By the time Falwell died in 2007, the university's finances had improved, and since then its academic fortunes also have risen. John W. Kennedy lays out the story in Christianity Today, pinning the school's improvement on the leadership of Falwell's sons: Jerry Jr. and Jonathan.  Kennedy provides an overly upbeat picture (his discussion of the university's decision to disband the College Democrats club is cursory, as is his reportage on the school's academic standing—how does Liberty plan to improve when it accepts 94 percent of applicants?). But Kennedy signals several angles worth a second look.

The first story is the degree to which the “new evangelicalism” has penetrated the bulwarks of fundamentalism. Falwell senior happily used the F-word, and his sermons and public comments frequently reflected the movement's myopia and insularity. Jerry Jr and Jonathan, while not explicitly repudiating their father's proclivities, seem headed in a different direction. What this signals for the social and cultural engagement of the next generation of religious conservatives bears tracking.

The second story Kennedy alludes to is the fate of Christian colleges. Liberty University may be up and coming, but what about the 110 other members of the Council for Christian Colleges and Universities? If Harvard and Yale are experiencing budget hits, what's going on at Azusa Pacific and Wheaton? Again, Christianity Today provides some answers—and trajectories for additional reporting.

Among the Christian schools' strategies for survival are new programs that tap non-traditional students—whether through long distance education, specialized degrees (often business majors that can be done at night, on weekend or in summer classes) and other innovative interdisciplinary offerings. Capitalizing on growing evangelical concern for the environment, Lipscomb University opened an institute offering degrees in environmental sustainability.

The legacy media took great glee in reporting Jerry Falwell's preposterous quotes and provocative stands. But it has been less interested in religious leaders who offer pragmatic programs and low-key leadership. With the proliferation of online sites, reporters now have the opportunity to explore the full range of evangelical expression. Is the younger generation truly up to something new, or is it the same old, same old with a friendlier face? Even Christianity Today isn't saying.

Diane Winston
 

Last week, with the advent of new semester, I inadvertently (or not) waded into THE J-school issue of the day: whither journalism? But rather than whither, my gaze focused on why—which is how I came to recommend an exemplary story whose deep reporting and elegant writing were not simply ends in themselves but clarion calls for self-scrutiny as much as justice.

This week, I'm ready to consider whither—and thankful that Mark Bowden laid out the current morass in The Atlantic. Bowden argues that the journalist's search for information has been replaced by the ideologue's hunt for ammunition, thus debasing not just the profession but public debate.

Back in the glory days, sez Bowden, print reporters delved through public records, dug through clips, and dove into interview after interview “searching for those moments of controversy or surprise that revealed something interesting about the subject.” Contrast that with today's online “journalists” who comb the web looking for dirt. Case in point: Sonya Sotomayor' problematic quote that a “Latina woman” might have better judgment than a “white male.” The excerpt, from a 2001 speech, received wide media play almost as soon as President Obama nominated Sotomayor to the Supreme Court.

Bowden explores how the quote was found, spread and manipulated by the Right. Then he looks at it in context—something most of the legacy media failed to do given constraints of time, resources and budget—and discovers that it had a wholly different meaning than the one propounded by Sotomayor's conservative critics. In our post-journalistic world, concludes Bowden, “the model for all national debate becomes the trial, where adversaries face off.” He finds this lamentable; politics should be a endeavor to seek common ground for the public good. Journalism, which once facilitated that process, now upends it (New York Times columnist Bob Herbert makes a similar point).

I don't agree that the good old days were all that good—but that's another story. Still, I will second Bowden's point that  the search for ammo has eclipsed the search for info. It's symptomatic of the polarization and the sensationalization of news, and it's in direct opposition to the nuance, depth and complexity that mark most important stories. That's especially true when religion crosses into domestic politics or international news.

An alternative? In another article, The Atlantic offers a surprising (at least for many American readers) suggestion. Robert D. Kaplan explains “Why I love Al Jazeera.” Yes, the Arab television network is more sympathetic to the Palestinians than the Israelis, but it also has the hustle, broad gaze and deep reporting that mainstream American news outlets lack. It also—and here Kaplan seems to be scolding—exudes “a breezy, pacifist-trending internationalism.” Worse yet, its reportage's “subliminal message appears to be that compromise should be the order of the day.” Imagine that! Or, if you work in an American newsroom, not.

Diane Winston

If you read nothing else this Labor Day weekend, dig into “Trial By Fire” in the current issue of the New Yorker. (Yes, that's for all of you planning to pounce on Levi Johnston's Vanity Fair tell-all.) 

David Grann's story about the trial and execution of a potentially innocent man is exemplary journalism. Thoroughly reported and gracefully written, the article recounts how “expert testimony” sent Cameron Todd Willingham to prison for a crime he most likely did not commit.

Willingham's house burned down on December 23, 1991 and his three children died in the blaze. Although he had no motive for the crime, Willingham was tagged as a murderous arsonist by two local fire officials. In time, their steadfast presumption of his guilt turned family and his Corsicana, Texas neighbors against him. Defended by a lawyer who likewise believed him guilty, Willingham refused to say he'd started the fire and, therefore, exchange a likely death sentence for life imprisonment. He swore he was innocent.

Rather than describe Willingham's troubled family history, his unlikely supporters and the true criminality of the Texas Board of Pardons and Paroles, I leave the uncomfortable mix of humanity and horror that unfolds with this story to your reading. When I sat down with the magazine, my own place and time slipped away—and I was back in the odd corners of Texas where, coincidentally, I had reported during Willingham's marriage.

“Trial By Fire” rarely addresses religion, spirituality or ethics but its subject matter—life and death, justice and mercy, compassion and cruelty—threads these concerns through the narrative. When the story ends, the ultimate question coheres in the space after Willingham's last words. He says: “I am an innocent man convicted of a crime I did not commit. I have been persecuted for twelve years for something I did not do. From God's dust I came and to dust I will return, so the Earth shall become my throne.”

What is our responsibility when innocent men die in our name?

Diane Winston

The Scoop's mission is to lift up creative coverage at the intersection of religion, ethics, culture and society. But sometimes the coverage itself is the story—especially when it raises ethical issues. This weekend's news on former vice-president Dick Cheney is a case in point.

Cheney appeared on Fox News Sunday to defend the Bush administration's use of torture in their war against terrorism. Responding to the recent release of a 2004 CIA report that found no reason to believe “enhanced interrogation tactics” provided trustworthy intelligence, Cheney insisted that torture worked. Dutifully, newspapers nationwide reprinted his contentions with very little context, nuance or even reference to earlier stories about the report's conclusions.  (See what we mean in these coast to coast examples.)

The report's actual findings garnered few headlines—a fact noted in the blogosphere. Greg Sargent pointedly asked  why “big news orgs decided that Dick Cheney's previous claims that the CIA docs proved torture worked were more newsworthy than what the documents themselves actually do prove?” And Howard Kurtz, whose “on the one hand, on the other hand” analysis is markedly more measured, raises a similar point.

It's past time (remember WMDs and the lead-up to the Iraqi War) for reporters to consider the ethical dimensions of their coverage—beginning with the criteria for coverage. News is traditionally made by conflicts, “celebrities” and eruptions of the unexpected. It's also increasingly generated by Washington insiders who play reporters by providing access and “information.” Since the legacy media are desperately seeking reasons to justify their existence, they have become increasingly dependent on such sources. But as illustrated by the Cheney brouhaha, the subsequent stories are self-serving and of dubious veracity. They are sensational, conflict-heavy and personality-driven: Former vice president attacks current administration—and so they lead the news.

What's a reporter to do? Can she offer an alternative story, provide better context and sourcing, or even turn down as assignment? In today's fraught and frightened newsrooms, just saying no is a far reach for anyone hoping to keep her job. But if reporters want to be deemed more legitimate, credentialed, accomplished and professional than any old blogger with access to WordPress, they need to adhere to the standards they so eloquently espouse: Speak truth to power; comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable; and, in the words of Walter Williams, serve as a public trust “that all connected with it are, to the full measure of responsibility, trustees for the public.”

Diane Winston

by Andrea Tabor

This morning, as I waited for the barista to brew my morning latte, I browsed the shelves of coffee mugs. One was emblazoned with my favorite Abe Lincoln quote.

“Folks who have no vices have very few virtues.”

It made me think of Ted Kennedy.

With all the funerals we've had lately, there's a lot of talk about how legacy is generated in the media. In the days following the death of an American political icon, should we focus on Kennedy's achievements, his flaws, or a mix of both?

Undoubtedly, Kennedy's personal life will be remembered as another licentious chapter in the Kennedy family soap opera. The debauchery and womanizing of his youth (actually, up until the late 1980s) is on par with the rest of the Kennedy family scandals. But if the history books can look beyond the booze and the women, they might see a less stereotypical Kennedy.

Kennedy's political legacy will be as a bridge builder. His Republican colleagues voted him the most bipartisan Democrat in a recent survey.

“How in God's name could you explain the fact that people who had no ideological agreement with him walked away always feeling better for it, always feeling more respected?” Vice President Biden said on Good Morning America.

He was also a bridge builder as a Catholic, reaching out to conservative evangelicals and pro-choicers alike. Kennedy stood up to his political and religious critics, best exemplified by his speech at Jerry Falwell's Liberty Baptist College.  “They seem to think that it's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of the needle than for a Kennedy to come to [this] campus,” he said.

It's that fiery part-Catholic, part-troublemaker vibe that always resounded with me. As a young, liberal, American Catholic, I've been inspired by Ted Kennedy. When other Catholic Democrats tried to explain their liberal legislation with theological arguments, they floundered. (Read: Nancy Pelosi and Joe Biden on abortion.)

Rather than try to massage away the tension between liberalism and Catholicism, Kennedy embraced it. In many respects, he lived his faith like many modern American Catholics—focused on the ideals of social justice and fighting poverty.

When Kennedy passed away, America magazine's Michael Sean Winters pointed out, “The first thing about Kennedy's death is that it is personal if you are a politically engaged Catholic.” When it came to Kennedy's ideological differences, he simply wrote, “Kennedy was wrong on abortion.” It seems that even the Catholics at the nation's premier Jesuit publication could agree to disagree with him.

One of the best blogs remembering Kennedy was Rabbi Brad Hirschfield's piece for Beliefnet. “Deuteronomy 16:20 teaches, 'Justice, justice shall you pursue'. While we all may not agree about his vision of a just society or how it was to be attained, these words are ones that Ted Kennedy lived by.”

From Jerry Falwell and John McCain to rabbis and Jesuits, the overarching theme of this week's coverage has been the death of an imperfect man. Joe Biden said that Kennedy “made a lie out of [his mistakes] by the way he lived the rest of his life.”

Like the rest of his family, Kennedy's unique blend of vice and virtue will captivate generations of Americans to come.

Flaks say that any publicity is good publicity, but let's ask J.C. Penney to be the judge of that. The Texas-based retailer hit the mother lode when Cintra Wilson penned a “Critical Shopper” column on the retailer's new midtown Manhattan store.

Wilson did not mince words:

“Why would this dowdy Middle American entity waddle into Midtown in its big old shorts and flip-flops without even bothering to update its ancient Helvetica light logo, which for anyone who grew up with the company is encrusted with decades of boring, even traumatically parental, associations?”

No need to uncork this witch's brew of wicked adjectives, vicious verbs and insulting anthropomorphism since Clark Hoyt, the New York Times public editor, already took Wilson to task. Suffice to say, style writers for the New York Times will never again make fun of polyester, plus-size shoppers and J.C. Penney's.

But Hoyt didn't mention the religion and ethics angle that makes this story all the more fascinating. Wilson herself raises the “R” angle in this apology: “Because of my personal beliefs as a Buddhist, I very much regret that my J.C. Penney article in the Times caused any wounded feelings whatsoever particularly to people who already feel they take more than their share of abuse from our very shallow and ridiculous society. I was not sensitive to this, and the extent to which my article exacerbated these feelings is a real failure on my end for which I sincerely apologize.”

Where to begin? Could religion become the next journalistic defense. Imagine Rush Limbaugh: “Because I am a Christian, I regret that I accused  President Obama of wanting to kill old people on my radio program. I am sorry to have caused pain to someone (even someone who's a Democrat and wasn't even born here).” Or maybe Wilson can launch a new, Buddhist-based “Compassionate Shopper” column. Instead of writing for “1,300 women in Connecticut and urban gay guys in Manhattan,” she could pitch stories for the millions who need a good place to buy a meditation mat or a mandala.

At the very least, Wilson could raise awareness of a new type of Buddhism: one that embraces attachment to the material world and ennobles suffering when a retail environment sucks. I can already see a lot of stories waiting to be written. Now can anyone just shout, “om”?

Diane Winston