Understand the Real Housewives through a Jesus Lens

When I admit I am a lover of reality television, most people roll their eyes, ask me how I can even stand those shows, assume I’m just kidding, since what English professor would prefer an evening of reality television to several hours of blissful engagement with the literary canon? But it’s true. I love reality television, and believe there is no shame in watching it, and watching it religiously. 

That there is no shame goes against conventional thinking, for sure, and plenty of folks—academic or otherwise—have critiqued the carnivalesque nature of reality TV; its canny ability to distill people into one-dimensional stereotypes; its carefully edited representation of people’s lives, less real than producers want us to believe. Others just see reality television as low-brow skankiness, awful in its voyeurism and cattiness. I am not one of those people. I’ve loved reality television since the genre’s early iterations, when young people were getting drunk and hooking up on MTV’s Real World. I justify my viewing habits by claiming part of my interest in reality television is academic, but really, I just love the entire seemingly sordid genre.

Still, because my discipline is life-writing,  and I teach classes on memoir and personal essays, I can say that reality television reflects a core objective in what I do: that is, I help students see that every person’s life story matters, no matter who that person is, because every person’s life story reflects the imprint of their Creator. That goes for reality TV stars, too. So what is reality TV but another kind of memoir, as carefully edited and crafted as the best memoirs published today?

            But also, there’s this: sometimes, when we follow reality shows, we are reminded that while its stars may seem entirely Other to us, their lives so utterly different than ours that we seem to occupy different planets, we might also come to find out that, fundamentally, we share the same longings, the same humanness, despite this alterity. And that, in fact, it is in this shared humanness that we can affirm we are fearfully, wonderfully, uniquely made by a Creator who formed each individual and called us good. This, I want to argue, is a sacred affirmation that reality television can give us, including in  a seemingly profane show like The Real Housewives of Orange County, now in its 13th season on the Bravo channel.

            There are a number of other housewife shows, but the Orange County women are my favorite. There’s something pure in the nouveau riche of the Orange County housewives that makes them more fun to watch. Oh sure, large swaths of what the Orange County housewife experience is far beyond my comprehension, from their inordinate spending on surgical aesthetic enhancements to the raucous parties that seem more suitable for frat boys than for middle-aged women. As a conflict-avoidant Mennonite, I’m also flabbergasted by their willingness to openly critique their friends, yelling right up in each other’s faces in ways I cannot imagine doing to anyone, ever. At times, I even wonder that we are the same species, inhabiting female bodies, assuming similar roles as mothers and wives.

While I share a Christian faith with many of the women on this show, their religious expression often feels foreign to me, my quiet living-out of faith in Yamhill County so far removed from the giant crosses worn nestled into the well-tanned, well-endowed bodies of the OC women.  And yet, it is also with the housewives’ religious experiences where they seem most human, providing an (almost) unalloyed glimpse into lives that appear, for the most part, incredibly plastic and pristine. In particular, the on-screen faith expressions of three OC wives—Alexis Bellino, Tamra Judge, and Lydia McLaughlin—provide space for viewers to consider their own spiritual journeys, and what it means to find faith in a material—and materialistic—world.

            Alexis Bellino is probably the first OC housewife to be upfront about her Christian faith. On the show from seasons 5-8, Alexis and her husband, Jim, and their three children, attend a nondenominational church called Free Chapel OC. On Sunday mornings, Alexis and Jim raise  hands during worship, a blingy Bible in their laps. The couple talks often about the Christian values that serve as a foundation for what they call their “biblical” marriage: Alexis as a stay-at-home mom and nurturer; and Jim as provider and protector. The couple also believes that married couples should not secede to temptation by being apart, and Alexis has not been separated from Jim for more than 24 hours since marriage. For this reason, Jim comes along on the infamous housewife trips, which sometimes spoils the housewife shenanigans.    

Alexis presents herself as so sincere in her faith that she earns the nickname “Jesus Barbie,” in some part because of her very large, and very enhanced, breasts, highlighted by her always form-fitting clothes. This apparent dissonance—assuming some parts of conservative Christian culture, but definitely not its demands for women’s modesty—does not go unnoticed, nor does Alexis’ mean spiritedness, the latter so much so that the women arrange an “intervention” of sorts to let Alexis know her behavior is a shameful insult to her insistence that she is a Christian above reproach. At the season five reunion show—where the housewives generally dish the most gossip, and where the claws definitely come out—the women revisit Alexis’ contradictory behavior, leading to Tamra proclaiming that Alexis is “Jesus Jugs,” an insult that Alexis decides is blasphemy. “She shouldn’t use the Lord’s name that way,” Alexis writes on her Bravo blog. “And now she's taking it to a whole new level by selling wine glasses on her website with ‘Jesus Jugs' on them to make a profit. She really shouldn't use religion to make nasty remarks about me or take the Lord's name in vain."

Now, like many RHOC viewers, I’m never going to be called Jesus Jugs or Jesus Barbie, and though many conservative Christians embrace a marriage ethic similar to the Bellino’s, the couple’s on-screen discussions still seem fairly foreign to me. Most of us will “allow” our spouses out of our sights for more than 24 hours, and are not going to receive a 7-carat diamond bracelet to symbolize our great efforts as mothers, nor are we going to hear that the gift we’ve received is “7 carats, all diamonds,” as Jim repeats ad nauseum when giving this “just because” gift to Alexis. And yet, there’s something about Alexis’s spiritual journey that seems uneasily familiar to me, and no doubt to her other Christian viewers. After all, most of us have acted in ways dissonant to our explicit faith witness. Like Jesus Barbie flaunting her Jesus Jugs, we refuse to acknowledge our worst behaviors, instead scapegoating others, as Alexis does in the reunion show, when she blames her poor behavior on the other women, and in particular on Tamra Judge, whom she sees as the blasphemer.

Alexis believes her “hardships” on the show and with her peers are really part of God’s plan, that she is on the OC Housewives “for a reason,” and that she’s thankful for her persecution as a Christian, as she knows this has only made her stronger. In  this way, Alexis’s worldview is like that of Lydia McLaughlin, a housewife who appears in later seasons of the show, and who has written a devotional guide about her time on RHOC, titled Beyond Orange County: A Housewives Guide to Faith and Happiness. Like Alexis, Lydia is forthcoming on the show about her Christian belief, even though her role is also that of a shit-stirrer: that is, she manages to foment conflict between women by spreading gossip; reminding fellow housewives of the ways they’ve been wronged; and claiming innocence when one kind of fight or another breaks out between the housewives. The mother of three, Lydia and her husband own an art gallery and a magazine, called Beverly Hills Lifestyle. Lydia’s mom also makes frequent appearances on the show, though she is admittedly a pot head and makes friends by sprinkling fairy dust (aka, glitter) over their heads.

Lydia is clearly a proponent of a “name it and claim it” theology, and sees God’s plan and God’s blessing everywhere, in her beautiful family, her hot husband, her well-appointed home, and in the call to join the housewife cast in the OC. Although Lydia has misgivings about being in reality television, she prays for a sign about what she should do, and God answers through the words of Philippians 1:6: “He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” In her devotional guide, she writes that she joined the housewife cast because “I know that God had started something in me and He wasn’t going to abandon me but would carry His call on my life to completion.”

For Lydia, being on the OC cast comes directly because she answered God’s call. She writes that “It is my desire to lead women to Christ. It has long been my dream to write a book. I want to use my gifts and talents to point ladies to Christ. I saw the opportunity to be on a hit reality TV show as a chance to go for it! God was giving me a chance to be bold and know that even though I might fail, at least I did try.” God is also using her role as a cast member to teach her other important lessons, she says: about forgiveness and grace, given the preponderance of fights on the show; about the significance of family, as the show reminds her that the only people who matter are her family; and about finding inner peace, no matter the situation.

I will admit that when I read through parts of Beyond Orange County, I had to restrain myself from making snarky comments and deep eye rolls. Lydia’s theology feels simplistic, and I certainly don’t connect with her sense that “everything happens for a reason,” as my theodicy reflects a different understanding. But I can certainly appreciate the sincerity of her belief and her conviction that the Orange County fandom is her mission field. And while I know that Hollywood producers are never going to pitch me in a housewives series—Real Housewives of Newberg, Oregon really has no cache—I share Lydia’s belief that we are all given a distinct call on our lives. For Lydia, that has meant using her fame to reach other women and to share Jesus with them; for me, that has meant using my gifts to be a teacher and a writer.  Most of us seek, through one way or other, to follow God’s call for our lives, and while I can’t connect with the particulars of Lydia’s situation, I can certainly connect with the longing to do that which God has created us to do.

One of the women Lydia ministers to on the show is Tamra Judge who, in early seasons, is ribald, debauched, vindictive and angry. For part of the show’s run, she is married to Simon Barney, with whom she had three children; she has an older son, Ryan, with her first husband. After a contentious divorce, Tamra marries Eddie Judge, and it is during her marriage to Eddie that she finds Jesus. In season 10, Tamra is baptized in a backyard pool, an event for which she makes arrangements: buying the right dress for her baptism, insisting that the after-event be an en vogue “white party,” where all the guests wear white. And yet, even though the baptism features lots of housewife bling, and even though Tamra seems emotional (and also, contrite) during her baptism, finding Jesus is such a departure for her that others question her sincerity: Alexis Bellino says she “cannot believe” that Tamra has been baptized. “More power to her,” Bellino says. “Let’s just hope her actions stay with what a baptism really means.”

After her baptism, Tamra remains the show’s villain in most episodes, though a more contrite one. She stokes arguments between the housewives, but apologetically; she spreads rumors, though with a kind of self-awareness that suggests she knows doing so contradicts her commitment to Jesus. In season 12, she more explicitly turns to faith as an answer to her tumultuous life: the bitter custody battles with her ex-husband result in the estrangement of Tamra from her teenage daughter, and the pain of this separation is expressed through Tamra’s involvement in a women’s Bible study. The prayer circle—which takes place at Lydia’s house—shows the sincerity of Tamra’s belief, and that “God has a plan” for her life, even if it’s not clear yet. Lydia and the other women lay hands on and pray for Tamra in what—to me—is the most honest moment in the show’s ten-year history.

And the truth is, it’s in moments like this throughout the show—when the women are speaking about their faith—that I find myself connected to them. Sure, I may not connect with outward accoutrements of their religious expression: the blingy Bible, the baptismal white party, Lydia’s “God has a plan” assurances about her prosperity. But I certainly do understand these women’s longing to find meaning in their lives, and to turn to their faith as a way to contend with the uncertainties they face. Their longing to raise and love challenging kids, establishing whole and holy relationships with their spouses, even knowing exactly to what God calls them is my personal longing, too, as I imagine it must be for many viewers who fit my demographic, and for whom shows like Real Housewives are created.

In my creative nonfiction classes, one of the central principles we return to again and again is that the power of personal story resides in its ability to take individual experiences and, through the use of scene and summary, make those experiences universal. In my writing classes, I talk about the connection between the universal and the individual so often, and so passionately, I imagine my students might just mimic me behind closed doors, right down to the ways I hold up my arms and shut my eyes, as if I’m in a contemporary Christian worship band. Perhaps I do this because I believe so ardently that our personhood is holy and to be honored—as much so as our individual experiences, experiences that show we are each fearfully, uniquely, and wonderfully made. This exchange between the universal and the individual happens in good creative nonfiction, for sure; but I would argue it also happens in a reality program like Real Housewives of Orange County, where the women’s individual lives are beyond our understanding, even as their stories of faith also connect viewers to them.

This is essentially why I believe reality programming is worth watching: we are invited to witness the stories of folks wholly unlike us, who are also—in all their bling, their plastic appearance, their superficiality—still image-bearers of God. They are also fearfully, uniquely, wonderfully made. In those moments when we can connect to their experience, to the humanness of it all, we understand more fully that their stories matter, too, and that we are more alike than different, even if some of our body parts are not real.

And that, my friends, is why I watch reality TV.