On this 50th anniversary of the first appearance of the Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show, we find plenty of opportunity for contemplating the ironies of fame and adulation. I was 6 years old and I saw their electrifying performance. I liked their music. If only the relationships among performers and listeners could remain at a realistic level, with those listeners appreciating talent and thanking the performers for their good work, and leaving it at that, we could maintain a degree of perspective about entertainment.

But there was no such perspective. Already these four young men were enclosed in a bubble, from which they saw the frenzied reactions of fans all over the world. It is not a surprise that they found themselves wondering about their standing among mortals. The lads' self-deprecating humor gave way to a self-important 1966 remark about their being "more popular than Jesus now."

Such speculations, of course, are meaningless. The work of entertainment, and the (in the Beatles' case, ample) compensation received for the work, in no way compares with the matters of life and death, of human worth and justice, which are the substance of Christian faith. Anyone who feels threatened by this careless remark need only consider that matters of faith always consist of sterner stuff than even the best of popular culture.

I think about my very first acquaintance with the Beatles. I believe it was a few days before the Sullivan Show performance. I had not heard of them before I saw them on a television news report. My first reaction was: "They look like girls!" It must seem absurd to people younger than I that the length of their hair could have been controversial. But this was 1964, and even 6-year-olds knew the rules. By the end of the 1960s, there was a popular text found on many a teenager's bedroom wall: "Tell them I said that your hair can grow as long as you want it to. — Jesus."

The Son of God, of course, has never been a fashion arbiter. Our faith is a foundation deeper and stronger than popularity or style. Instead of style, there is the sobriety which comes from reflection upon human folly. Instead of popularity, there is the joy of incorporation into the Body of the One who has taken our griefs upon himself. Our acceptance of these gifts of faith will serve us long after the preoccupations of the moment are forgotten.

From the exuberance of She Loves You to the regret of Yesterday to the social commentary of Eleanor Rigby to the sheer fun of Penny Lane, I still find myself enjoying the works of the Beatles. We delight in the beauty of the arts, and give thanks that we always long for the ultimate beauty to be found in the love of God for human beings.