Going before the mast

It's been a busy few weeks--a side effect of which has been fewer blog posts. It's just normal life stuff that's come all at once, nothing drastic or life altering: end of school, household management and projects, finishing up T-ball, library trips, birthdays, summertime with the kids, a week of VBS, trips to museums, friends, and the like.

While I've really missed being able to write, I must admit there have been some benefits--one of which has been I've been forced to live more in (and, at times, even simply enjoy being in) the present.

Recently, in the July issue of Washingtonian, I read a comment by Getty's Chip Somodevilla regarding a subtle change in what is happening on the other side of his camera lens. Under a photo of a group of people at a McCain rally in Tennessee with cameras and cell phones in hand was the caption "Curse of the camera phone," which notes that photos from campaign rallies in the 1960s and 1970s "capture supporters with faces upturned and eyes filled with adoration." Somodevilla notes, "It made for beautiful pictures." But today, things have changed. "Nowadays, everyone brings a camera," he says. "They have to take a picture to prove they were there, to send it to a friend, to have as a keepsake.... They're working to record history, just like I am. I miss the pictures of people who are just enjoying the moment."

As a writer (and an amateur photographer), I spend a lot of time recording moments in my head or looking for potential photos. Most of the time, I get a chance to write that into a post or capture a moment with a photo. Over the last few weeks, however, much of what's going on in my life hasn't made it into written words or photographs. At first, that was frustrating--there were so many interesting observations I'd loved to have blogged or beautiful moments that would have been wonderful on (digital) film. But as the days tumbled one after the other, I gradually began to savor those moments without a way to record them other than a turning in delight to God.

Like last night. We went to a minor league baseball game with a fireworks display afterwards with two families that have become wonderful friends. We left in a rush from the house and I forgot to bring my camera. For a moment I regreted it--it turned out to be a record attendance game and one with some mind-blowing plays that would have made incredible shots (really, that's the reason I love minor league ball). But there's something to what Somodevilla articulates. I found myself enjoying the chance to simply focus on the game and explain the plays to my six-year-old son. And when those fireworks started--wow. It was one of those moments of true delight that we soak in simply to soak in. It was a magical night.

Maybe I could have taken a photo or written words that captured that magic. But, at least for now, it's okay that I didn't. I know that I will go back to writing more and taking photos again. I can't help it. It's what I love to do. Yet I'm learning to appreciate those unexpected seasons that we walk into that change our routine. It not only lifts us out of our habits and normal ways of doing and being but it also allows us to hear and encounter God in new ways--for it is in the present that he meets us.

Like Thoreau observes, we wear paths into the world without even knowing it. So, even if my paths are shifted by the onslaught of life's responsibilities, in the end I welcome it. For, like Thoreau, "I did not wish to take a cabin passage, but rather to go before the mast and on the deck of the world, for there I could best see the moonlight amid the mountains." And, for now, that moonlight is shining on the ordinary moments I am unable to record for history but free to simply enjoy.

(Image: my daughter with a sparkler the day before July 4)

Film Snapshot: Reasons we do what we do

Man does everything for a reason. Even if he doesn't know it.

--a pilot, Mutant Chronicles

Mutant Chronicles, a science fiction film set in 2707 in a darker age where machines are powered by steam and wars are fought WWI style between armies formed by corporation instead of nations, isn't the best of films, but it does have a few rare moments--like the one above. I resonated with the comment above because it reminds me that we don't choose or act in a vacuum or out of randomness, but that our actions have an origin or "reason." Sometimes we act out of our brokenness and darkness. Other times our acts are born out of the echoes of our original creation. And that reminds me how God invites us back into a relationship with him and how we find within us a new Spirit--and how as we walk with God, he transforms us (as Dallas Willard puts it) into "the kind of people" who act out of Christ-likeness more and more consistently. And along the way, we become more and more aware of from where our actions are born--the "reason" for which we act.

Personally, the film reminds me a bit of a weak cross between 300 and Chronicles of Riddick. And while Mutant Chronicles has a plethora of religious and faith talk (the most interesting being the idea of the power of hope in darkness and acts of faith in the midst of doubt), I tend to agree most of the critics on this film: it is rather contrived, gratuitously violent, and borders on melodramatic. I caught the edited version that ran on the SciFi Channel and was a bit amazed at the violence and gore. Heh, I'm not sure I'd have made it through a theatrical version.

(Image: Magnet Releasing)

Virtual communion in a virtual world?

Last night, after posting my thoughts on our relationship with virtual realities as explored in Fox’s Virtuality, I ran across a tweet on Twitter pointing to a very interesting conversation in the virtual bloggy world about virtual sacraments (communion). It all starts with a short paper by Professor Paul Fiddes on Mark Brown’s blog and continues over at Liturgy with Bosco Peterson’s response. Some interesting thoughts and responses are also to be found in the comments of each blog. While for some this may seem like a ridiculous exploration, I find it yet another opportunity to examine what it means to be human and walk with God in the midst of this kind of technology. Interesting stuff.

(Image: mine)

Technology and God-talk in 'Virtuality'

In the dearth of summer television, I was admittedly pleased to discover that Battlestar Galactica creator Ron Moore had penned the Fox pilot/movie Virtuality, a story ostensibly about a 10 year manned space mission to a distant star in hopes of finding another habitable planet—all of which is beamed back to earth as a reality television show. Moore's stories on BSG often dealt with themes and issues that brought God-talk into open spaces, and not surprisingly, Virtuality does so as well.

Not that I don’t have mixed feelings about the two-hour movie. Or was it a pilot? Apparently, it was meant to be the pilot for a series that may or may not get made. Which might explain why I have mixed feelings about the thing. I had a hard time keeping track of who-was-who in the large ensemble of characters—or caring about what happened to them. As a television series, I’m guessing we would have time to learn about and care for the characters, but in a single two-hour block, I found that difficult. In addition, it felt a bit stretched thin (which might be attributed again to the number of characters and thus stories-within-the-story), with too much happening within a short time frame.

But, I must admit, I agree with those who’ve noted that Virtuality sports an interesting premise and explores our relationship with technology, how that affects our relationship with each other (and visa-versa), and the nature of reality in a way I find thought provoking and unique. The story touches on and delves into a plethora of issues and themes associated with that exploration (maybe too many), but I must admit I was particularly captivated by the use of virtual technology.

The only real privacy the crew has is through the use of virtual technology head sets which allow them to program and design their own modules of virtual realities. For example, the ship’s captain rides through a world set in during the Civil War while the ship’s doctor uses his module to paint canvases of vast vistas. The second-in-command (who is in a wheelchair) is mountaineering in his module while the ship’s computer specialist plays out a rock-singer super-spy story.

(Warning: major spoilers and disturbing scene descriptions ahead)

But something’s gone wrong with the program. A man—which the ship’s master computer (Jane, an obvious nod to HAL in Space Odyssey 2001) apparently can’t detect—appears and commits several very violent acts in the different modules. He first appears in the Captain’s module, shooting and killing the Captain even after he has frozen his program. (Death in virtual worlds does not result in death in the real world, though individuals will feel the physical sensations of the event as if they are real). The intruder appears a second time in another module in which he shoots and kills the wife of the ship’s psych officer and the Captain (again), who are having virtual sex. But I found the third time the man appears to be the most disturbing: he assaults and rapes the ship’s computer specialist. While she is not physically harmed, she experiences the physical pain and emotional trauma of a rape. For her, the experience and memory of it were as if it actually happened.

While these scenes (particularly the last one) are disturbing, they aren’t used gratuitously but instead serve several very relevant and thought-provoking functions. For example, it causes us to consider the idea that what occurs in virtual realities—and if we push the image, we could include what occurs in our thoughts and minds as well—has serious and very real effects on us individually as well the relationships we share in the world around us. In particular, by juxtaposing the virtual sexual affair and the disturbing and abhorrent rape, the movie confronts us with the seriousness of former. Initially, both individuals treat their liaisons much more lightly than if it was an actual physical affair, but as we discover later, it has affected their relationship (and the relationships they have with others) in the real world. By juxtaposing it with profound effects of the sexual assault on the computer specialist, the effects and consequences of the virtual affair are given added weight and seriousness.

These scenes and their aftermath also cause us to examine our own interaction with and how we are affected by this type of technology in our world. While we don’t have the kind of technology in the movie, we do have access to virtual worlds and communities every day, like forums, blogs, and even services like Twitter. Then there are online games of intricately designed worlds in which players interact with their own created avatars and characters. How does all this affect who we are and the relationships around us? This film suggests that we should not approach this technology lightly but warns us that how we use it will have ramifications—some of which may affect us and the people and world around us in very deep and profound ways.

My husband recently observed that it’s to be expected that we see stories like this—ones that examine our relationship to technology and how it affects us and our relationship to each other and the world—as we are in the midst of a technological revolution that includes the development and existence of virtual realities. Stories like these are reflections of our need to explore and figure out what it means to be human in the midst of this kind of technology.

And that kind of exploration is full of potential God-talk as well—and this film hints at some of that. At one point, the Captain—who repeatedly and cryptically indicates that there’s more to experiences of the crew members than they realize—quotes lines from the spiritual hymn Amazing Grace (“I once was lost, but now am found/Was blind, but now I see”) and a few moments later Jesus’ words, “Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32). For the Captain, the experiences in virtual reality are causing him to reexamine reality itself—leading him to question who he is, his purpose, the nature (or illusion) of the world and people around him, etc. His use of spiritual language may not actually be referring to God or Jesus, but I find it appropriate as this kind of questioning ultimately invites us to consider the existence and nature of God.

In addition, I can’t help but consider how the crew members’ experiences in virtual reality reflect the reality of how our thoughts, emotions, behavior and souls are dramatically affected by each other. What we think about will drive our emotions and behavior. One of my favorite parts of Paul’s writing comes in his letter to the Romans in which he says: “Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. Then you will learn to know God’s will for you, which is good and pleasing and perfect.” I also like how Mark Scandrette talks about the word "repent" in Soul Graffiti:

The word literally means "rethink your thinking" or "reimagine" your life in view of new alternatives. The instruction to "repent" or "reimagine" is meant to shock and arrest, to incite us to rethink our goals and priorities, to call into question our previous ways and awaken us to new possibilities. We reimagine our lives by allowing the Creator to examine our thoughts, attitudes, motives, and behavior.

The way we think has a great deal of power over our emotions and behavior. And I really appreciate how this story’s examination of our relationship with technology explores also the power of our thoughts on our actions and the world around us. Stories like this give us a great opportunity to ponder just why we think and act the way we do—and when we need to “rethink our thinking” and “reimagine” our lives.

And I must admit, I am thrilled that the form this story comes in is science-fiction. I’ve been observing for awhile now that this genre seems to be the preferred or safe one in which to explore themes related to faith and God. While the story has its faults, it does use an interesting premise and ideas to nudge us to examine our ourselves—and brings God-talk into open spaces along the way.

(Images: FOX via IMDB)

Shyamalan's 'Avatar' trailer is here

Above is the teaser trailer (hat tip Peter Chattaway at A&F) for M. Night Shyamalan's Avatar: The Last Airbender, a live-action rendering of the Nickelodeon animated series--of which, I must admit, I have become a pretty big fan.

The animated series takes place in a world of four nations based on their abilities to manipulate one of four elements: fire, water, air and earth. It follows the adventures of 12-year-old Aang, the last “Avatar” (who can “bend” all four elements) whose destiny is to help maintain peace between the four nations. The mythic foundation of the series draws heavily on Asian influences, from its art to philosophies and religion, and explores themes like redemption, sacrifice, suffering, good versus evil, and what it takes to face the challenges involved in saving a world. At first glance, its Eastern influences might seem to take it out of the God-talk realm, but I found it a good story, one that presents Aang and his friends with hard challenges and choices in their quest to "save the world," and along the way they make mistakes but also are able to find answers outside the box--and all of these elements have the potential to bring God-talk into open spaces (and periodically did as we watched the series with our kids).

After recently watching again the last season of the series, however, I am growing somewhat concerned that Shyamalan (whom I also adore) may have a difficult time pulling this one off. I developed a surprising amount of affection for the main characters, and this time through I found the last couple of episodes particularly moving and, at points, poignant (I noticed how the musical score contributed to that this time). That is something that comes with good stories, but perhaps in this case it also comes because the time was taken to tell the story over a period of three seasons. How do you cram three seasons of that kind of character and story development into three movies?

But, then, I believe one of Shyamalan's strengths is in his ability to tell a compelling story. And I'm still willing to give him a chance with this one.

More thoughts on HBO’s ‘Deadwood’: Community, darkness and love

As I mentioned before, we recently started watching the now cancelled HBO western series, Deadwood. I must admit, I’m becoming much more intrigued with series, in part due to the dramatic quality of the story (thus far) but even more so because of the surprising amount of God-talk surrounding the series.

While we are early yet in the series (we just finished watching episodes three and four), I have been impressed by the Shakespearean sense of the series in its character exploration, focus and drivenness. Part of that might be due in part to the syntax and colloquial speech of the characters, and it doesn’t hurt that Ian McShane (above, a British actor who most recently portrayed Saul in the ill-fated modern retelling of the biblical King David, Kings) exudes a kind of Shakespearean aura. This series definitely pushes to the edges of Shakespeare’s darker plays, exploring the baser and lawless edges of society (and, as previously mentioned, that includes an abundance of bad language, some violence, adult content and sexual situations).

But it’s the God-talk surrounding the series that’s got me more intrigued. I actually stumbled on it all when I blogged my first impressions of Deadwood, and I got an interesting comment:

If you are watching Deadwood from the POV of someone interested in the development of a spiritual or God-focused story, I would suggest you keep watching. David Milch wrote Deadwood with the idea of the town as God's body and each inhabitant an un-knowing and sometimes even un-willing part of that body. It also may surprise you which characters start out as villains and become ersatz saviors of Deadwood…

So, I started digging up interviews with Milch, the creator behind Hill Street Blues and NYPD Blue. Interestingly, there’s an amazing amount of God-talk associated with this guy—some of which I posted at the Arts & Faith forum. In one interview Milch explains how before he came up with Deadwood he had originally pitched a show about Rome centering on “the genesis of faith” and “faith as a regenerative and reorganizing principle for community.” In that same interview Milch talks about how he sees all stories being essentially about the same thing:

Which means that if God is anywhere, he's everywhere, and it's my task - I said to a priest, as he was dying, ‘I'm grateful to have lived long enough to be able to say to you that the shadow in which I always believed I and my characters must move is cast by God's sheltering hand.’ So any story can let you do that.

But it was this interview with Salon that really caught my attention, in which Milch connects the idea of the body of Christ to the Deadwood community:

Some people will not know themselves. As the minister says at Hickok's funeral, he quotes Paul—that was what I wanted to do that Roman show about, was the first guy they arrested was Saint Paul. But Paul says, "If the hand shall say, 'Because I am not the foot, I am not therefore the body of Christ,' is it not of the body?" In other words, because we misunderstand our natures, does that exclude us from the community of spirits? And the answer is no, it just means we misunderstand our natures. So many of these characters misunderstand their natures, but that does not prevent us from recognizing that they're of the body of Christ. My feeling about "Deadwood" is it's a single organism, and I think human society is the body of God, and in a lot of ways it's about the different parts of the body having a somewhat more confident sense of their identity over the course of time.

While I don’t agree completely with Milch’s theology as presented here, I immediately resonated with the concept that much of our journey in this life is becoming aware of and growing more confident in our identy as members of the body of God. We were created and intended to be a people—a community, body, “called out ones, the “church”—who love God and others, who extend God’s will and Kingdom of restoration, right-ness, just-ness and care as we walk with him and others.

In Deadwood, Milch presents a very broken and fringed society—one intentionally “outside the bounds of ‘civil society.” At Hollywood Jesus, Maurice Broaddus notes that a theme around which Milch focuses this show is “how does society organize itself in the absence of law?” The characters, says Broaddus, are set against “a backdrop of rampant sex, alcoholism, drug use (laudanum--pure opium in alcohol--being the drug of choice for ladies), greed, and racism/fear (because of the omnipresent Indian threat).”

One of the stark realities that this series reminds me of is that there not only have been dark and lawless places like Deadwood in history (in fact, the series bases much of its depiction on the nature of the historical Deadwood) but there are also places like that today. And one of the first questions many of us ask (and, with the God-talk surrounding it, this series more than invites us to ask) is: Where is God in a place like that?

In the aftermath of the Beslan massacre, Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams was asked a very similar question. In part, he answered:

The short answer is that God is where God always is, and that is with those who are trying to comfort and bring light in any such situation. I would guess in such a situation and, how can one imagine the nightmare in that school, how can one begin to imagine it, I would guess that there must have been older children putting arms around younger children, you might see God there.

Williams is describing love. And as I watch Deadwood, it strikes me that it is also love that reveals God’s presence in Milch’s dark story—and I find it most striking in the character of Calamity Jane.

Jane is a hardened, foul-mouthed and unattractive woman who travels with (and, we discover, carries a deep infatuation for) Wild Bill Hickok. Early in the series, she is handed a young Norwegian girl (who can’t speak or understand English) whose family has been massacred by road agents, and she immediately becomes fiercely protective of the child, not only guarding her but also stumblingly nurturing her in mother-like ways. In the third and fourth episodes, we see the effect of her acts of love for the child: her face noticeably softens, her voice takes on a softer tone, her touch is gentle and she sits patiently and still. As I watch Jane love that child, she borders on outright beauty.

Notably, Jane also transforms when she’s in Hickok’s presence. Hickok does not return her feelings of infatuation or romantic love (and Jane appears to know that), but he does treat her with dignity, respect and as an equal. When she is with Bill, she transforms as she does when she is with the child, her face softer and her tone more gentle.

Loving and being loved utterly transforms Jane. In the context of Milch’s interviews, I don’t think it’s a stretch to suggest that love is what helps Jane move closer to her identity—towards the truth of who and whose she is. And love is what puts her in right relationship with those around her. Love pulls and nudges her towards a right community, however small, in the midst of great darkness and brokenness.

Not that Jane is fully transformed. Her moments of transformation are fleeting, but in contrast to Deadwood’s darkness, they are starkly evident. That kind of light is a bright light in a lawless society. Broaddus suggests that the “seeming absence of Law in Deadwood” itself “still points to a Lawgiver. The preacher on the show,” notes Broddus, “at Wild Bill Hickok’s funeral, summed it up this way: ‘I believe in God’s purpose, not knowing it. I ask Him, moving in Him, to see His will. I ask Him, moving in others, to allow them to see.’” Love is one of those ways God moves in others—and one of those ways that allows others to see him moving.

I’m only four episodes into the series, so at this point I’m not formulating a conclusion about the series as a whole or recommending it to others. It is really dark, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to stick with it. But, at this point, I’m finding it hard not to be more than a little curious about a show written by a guy who talks the way Milch does.

Note: The series has a TV-MA rating, which means it “may contain extreme graphic violence, strong profanity, overtly sexual dialogue, very coarse language, nudity and/or strong sexual content.”

(Images: screenshots, HBO)

Thinking on evil, God and fellowship in 'The Lord of the Rings'

Recently, my kids starting watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy again. As I watch Frodo struggle with the burden of carrying the Ring, I'm reminded about the nature of evil. I too often catch myself thinking of evil and sin as a condition or state, but these films remind me that it is actually insistent and aggressive, moving hungrily and greedily, clawing out territory.

In these films, one of the ways evil is represented is in the One Ring, originally created by and infused with the power of Sauron to control the other Rings of Power. In Fellowship of the Ring, Gandolf will not even touch the Ring, so wary is he of its power. It is not a magic tool to be manipulated but has its own purpose and seeks to bend the will of those that bear it to its own. “It wants to be found,” he warns Frodo as he gives him the task of carrying it.

We can see the greedy and insidious nature of the Ring in the characters who encounter it throughout the three films—including Gollum, Boromir and even Sam. But its insidious nature is most striking in Frodo. The burden wearies him, and it also changes him; by the end of Return of the King, the weight of it is not only eating into his skin at his neck (by the weight of the chain that bears it) but also into his heart. We watch it cloud his judgment more and more, sap his strength and attempt to destroy his relationship with Sam. And in spite of all of Frodo’s determination and desperate will power to get it to Mount Doom, it eats at his will and soul and finally overpowers him.

As I watched Frodo’s face transform into a twisted grin as he fully gives into the Ring’s power, I couldn’t help but think of the descriptions of sin and evil I’ve read. There’s the slithering insistence of the serpent in the Garden and the warning God gives Cain that “sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you.” Peter echoes that warning, when he tells writes, “Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.” There’s Paul’s magnificent mini-treatise on the sucking power of it all in the opening section of his letter to the Romans. And in The Rest of the Gospel, Dan Stone describes sin as “a power, or force, that is in rebellion against God and produces sin as its fruit.” It isn’t just a condition, but active and aggressive. And “as long as it dwells at the center of our being,” says Stone, “it will produce sins.”

But as aggressive and powerful as evil and sin are, there is good news to be heard: God is more so—much, much more so. As destiny works its way through to rid the world of The Ring in The Lord of the Rings, so throughout our Story God has been aggressively and faithfully working his own plans to restore, redeem and heal us and his creation. As insidious, hungry and machinatious as evil is, it cannot and does not win, for we turn a page and at last comes Jesus, whose birth, life, death and resurrection explode outward with a Life that swallows death and evil.

And here, in the middle of that Story, we turn around to find that God extends to us a hand that not only frees us from that hungry, greedy, clawing thing that seeks to destroy us (and, through us, those around us) but also create in us a new life (which, through us, brings life and restoration to those around us as well). When we trust that Jesus is who says and can do what he says, he brings us back into the relationship with the Father and each other that we were created to share—and we find that God’s Spirit is in us. We are changed on the inside. We may not feel like it or look like it, says Stone, but we are. We have a new nature. We have a new Spirit at the core of who we are. And part of the rest of the journey is learning to live out that life and that truth. It doesn’t mean we won’t struggle with sin or its consequences, but we will, as Dallas Willard puts it, become more and more the “kind of people” who are like Jesus.

And we are created to be those people together. In A New Testament Trilogy, Tom Johnston and Mike Chong Perkinson draw a wonderful allusion between the nine in Tolkien’s fellowship and our own calling:

What Tolkien’s world tells us is that fellowship finds its origins in the context of mission. Where there is a purpose greater than ourselves or even the meeting of our own personal needs. Like the nine men in the movie who volunteered for the dangerous mission of returning the ring to Mt. Doom, we find ourselves in a similar situation in our churches and in our world. There is an evasive evil in our world that seeks to destroy us, and most of those that inhabit the earth, including many Christians, who are simply unaware of the danger that looms about us. God has placed it on the hearts of His people to make the journey to Mt. Doom, if you will, with the fellowship (that is, of the “Cross”) to destroy the evil influence (1 John 3:8b). It is a journey that has uneviable odds, enormous obstacles, and armies that outnumber and outclass us at every angle. It is the battle for our families, our cities, our state, our country, and even our world. Our Mt. Doom, like that of Tolikien’s world seems impenetrable by the likes of us and cannot be done by an army one. . . .

The biblical concept of koinonia, the basis of community, cannot take place unless there is a sense of commonality of heart and purpose—a mission that unites us. Koinonia for the Western 21st Century Christian has been reduced to potlucks or coffee and doughnuts. You know, “stay after the service and enjoy the fellowship.” True fellowship can only take place where people are willing to share their lives as they share their hearts for something bigger than themselves. . . .

Koinonia . . . begins with Jesus as we enter into communion with our risen Lord and from that relationship participate in the greater mission. . . . Out of this partnership comes a genuine and deep koinonia that knits souls together in a way that normal social gatherings at church cannot. Much like Frodo and the Fellowship of the Ring, genuine fellowship takes place when people are committed to a common purpose.

It is good to be reminded of the harsh reality and nature of evil. And it is good to be reminded that we live in a Story where evil is and will be defeated, where Life and Rightness and Love are winning and have conquered. And it is good to be reminded of our own fellowship and purpose in that Life.

(Image: screenshot from Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring, New Line Cinema)

TV Snapshot: Working together

In “The Second David Job,” Nathan Ford’s crew—a group of former criminal type folks who now use their skills to get some measure of justice for those who have suffered at the hands of the unjust—is having problems figuring out how to get into a secured location. When Nate points out a way they overlooked, the crew looks at each other amazed that they didn’t see it before.

Eliot Spencer: How’d we miss that?

Nathan: Grifter, hitter, hacker, thief—you were all trying to solve your version of the crime instead of just solve the crime. There’s a reason we work together.

I really resonated with this scene in the season finale of Leverage (which is actually one of the shows I watch that did not recently get cancelled), a series about a group of con artists who use their skills to right wrongs perpetrated by unjust corporations and individuals. The crew split up some time before due to a failed con (due in part to the personal flaws of some of their own members). Interestingly, they soon all run into each other running their own individual reconnaissance on the same location (a facility of the man who was responsible for the death of Nate’s son). Even though they bicker, it’s easy to see that they all really want to work together again. And Nate’s observation above gets at part of the reason they miss each other: they each bring gifts to the table which enable them to change the world for the better in a much greater way then they could individually.

I can’t help but think about this as an image that echoes how it works in the kingdom. Like the members of Nate’s crew, we are all broken and flawed, with gifts that we all too often use for our own profit or desire—an endeavor which often ends up not only leading us down a path towards pain, suffering and destruction but also inflicts the same on those around us. But when we hear and enter into the good news that Jesus has lived and died to reconnect us to God, giving us his Spirit to live within and bring new life into us, we also discover we are saved into a community of others like ourselves. And this community has a mission that is burned into us as deeply as that new life—to love God and love others, a call to walk and work with God as he restores, redeems and loves this world and its people.

It’s easy to continue to look at the world and people around us from our individual experience and perspective. But when we remember that we were made to walk and work together, when we turn and enter into the community we were saved into, we benefit from the experience and wisdom and life of the Spirit that lives in others as it does in us. Our perspective and ability to see the world grows and deepens. Together, as the body and the people of God, we are enabled to work with God as his people in changing the world for the better in a far greater way than we ever could individually.

One of the other aspects of Leverage with which I resonate is how each member of Nate’s crew (including Nate himself) has become a better person not only because of their mission together but also because of their relationships with each other. I think this is a reflection of another part of our creation. We are meant to work and walk together, and when we walk rightly with him and with each other, God uses that to help us become the people he always intended and created us to be. And, like Nate’s crew, we find a home with each other in a way we couldn't find in the world before.

I like how this scene gets at part the part of what it means to walk to God in which we are saved into a community of his people where we can live out best that part of our creation in which we are made to walk and work together. And I, for one, am glad this series will be around for another season (which begins July 15, by the way).

(Image: TNT) leveragectgy

A nugget of 'Deadwood'

In the "Deep Water" episode, Calamity Jane tells the Doc Cochran that he can trust Seth Bullock (a former marshall turned hardware store owner) to know the welfare of a child—whose family was killed by road agents who made their massacre look like a slaughter by the Sioux—because Bullock was the one who led men out to investigate the matter (and the one to kill one of the men who did the killing). Doc asks her to consider what happens if Bullock circulates the news that the child will be okay—something that will bolster his own (even righteous) claims.

Doc: And supposing it was road agents, and they hear his talk? Where’s the little one stand then?

Jane: You got a dark turn of mind.

Doc: I see as much misery outta them moving to justify theirselves as them that set out to do harm.

I just sampled the first two episodes of HBO’s Deadwood, the Emmy and Golden Globe winning three-season western series based on historical locations, events and people.

And I really resonated with the observation of the doctor above, as even good intentioned actions can result in harm if they aren’t thought through. It gives us reason to pause as to our own actions, even those we believe we undertake for the greater good or on the side of justice.

That said, I'm still trying to decide if the story the series is telling is worth the form in which it comes. When it first aired, the series immediately drew attention for its profuse use of profanity—particularly the “F” word (a reportedly cumulative average of 1.56 utterances of the word per minute). When we watched the above episode, we made sure the children were in bed and the television volume was really low (in fact, we eventually turned the subtitles on so we could catch all the dialogue)—the series use of profanity is seriously that frequent. Interestingly, according to Wikpedia, that was a conscious choice, the creators indicating they wanted the series to reflect the “shockingly crude” language of the era, but such words (like “golddarn”) actually sound “downright comical.” So, instead, the creators decided to use profanity that would have “the same impact on modern audiences as the blasphemous ones did back in the 1870s” and “the frequency of the swearing was to signal to the audience the lawlessness of the camp in much the same way that the original inhabitants used it to show they were very self-aware of the fact they were living outside the bounds of ‘civil society.’” In that line of logic, it definitely succeeds. In addition, the series contains scenes of violence and nudity which may not be pushing the limits of theatrical releases but definitely seems rather shocking to folks like me whose viewing experience is limited to regular cable.

So far, the series is definitely exploring the darker, violent side of the human experience. And that kind of experience is definitely a part of this world and our history, and we need stories that explore that. However, I’m just not sure yet that this story is one I want to journey into. I must admit, I’d probably be more comfortable if I were watching an edited version, perhaps as HBO’s Sopranos is appearing on A&E now.

Note: The series has a TV-MA rating, which means it “may contain extreme graphic violence, strong profanity, overtly sexual dialogue, very coarse language, nudity and/or strong sexual content.”

(Images: HBO)

John Wayne and me

Thirty years ago today, John Wayne died. He was 72. I was 14. And I remember that day, watching on our small black and white television the slow motion and then stilled image of Wayne as he turns and looks back at the camera .

To this day, Wayne remains my favorite of all screen actors. Yesterday, I read Roger Ebert’s wonderful tribute to and memories of Wayne, which reminded me of many of the reasons why I harbor this longtime affection for Wayne. In particular, Ebert’s words reminded me how the characters Wayne portrayed often were flawed yet had a sense of goodness and strength about them. As a kid and young adult, my favorite Wayne films were the likes of Quiet Man, Donovan’s Reef, Rio Bravo, Hellfighters and Chisum. But in recent years, my favorite films have become those in which the characters are more deeply flawed and wounded: in particular, The Searchers and True Grit. These are two of his more broken characters, but—especially with Wayne’s character history—they carry with them a sense of redemption towards goodness.

Regarding The Searchers, I am among those who see the ending as a very moving and hope-full moment of transformation for Ethan Edwards, who has spent most of his life as a bitter, angry and callous man. But his experience in searching for his niece and the subsequent choices he makes when he finds her make that final image a moment dripping with redemption, new life and hope. (See more here.)

But it was in Ebert’s piece that I realized the power of Wayne’s persona and character history to transform a specific character, particularly that of Rooster Cogburn (the only role for which Wayne won an Academy Award). When Wayne asks Ebert what he thinks about his image, Ebert writes:

What came to mind was a scene in "True Grit" where Wayne and Kim Darby are waiting all night up on a hill for the bad guys to come back to the cabin. And Wayne gets to talking about how he was married once, to a grass widow back in Cairo, Illinois, and how she took off one day. And how he didn't care much, how he missed her some, but he'd rather lose a wife than his independence. And how he took off alone, and glad to be alone, and stuck up a bank or two, just to stake himself, back in the days before he took up marshaling. And Darby asks him about those old days, about how he got to where he was now. . . I think it's sort of a summation of the dozens of Western characters played by Wayne.

"Well," Wayne said. "Well, maybe so." He stood up and walked over to the glass doors, hands in his pockets, and looked out at the patio. Frosty was wagging his tail and begging to be allowed back inside. "I guess that scene in 'True Grit' is about the best scene I ever did," he said.

Then Wayne goes on to reflect on the film, particularly its ending:

He sprawled comfortably on an old leather sofa. "And that ending," he said, pouring a few more drops of tequila into his neglected glass, "I liked that. You know, in the book Mattie loses her hand from the snakebite, and I die, and the last scene in the book has her looking at my grave. But the way Marguerite Roberts wrote the screenplay, she gave it an uplift. Mattie and Rooster both go to visit her family plot, after she gets cured of the snakebite. By now it's winter. And she offers to let Rooster be buried there some day, seeing as how he has no family of his own. Rooster's happy to accept, long as he doesn't have to take her up on it too quick. So then he gets on his horse and says, 'Come and see a fat old man some time.' And then he spurs the horse and jumps a fence, just to show he still can."

I read the novel by Charles Portis earlier this year and hadn’t yet blogged it because I wasn’t quite sure how. For a story laced with biblical references and themes exploring justice, sacrifice, the power of our relationships and the effects we and our choices have on one another, I found the ending sad and disheartening. Not that the ending is inconsistent with the novel itself; themes like that don't necessarily lead to hope-full outcomes. I just wasn't quite sure how to process it all. Now, in light of Wayne's comments and Ebert's words, I think that was probably because of my experience with and appreciation of the film—and, of course, my affection for Wayne.

In the novel, Mattie is narrating the story from old age and her voice dominates the story. As a 14-year-old girl, she hires and goes with Cogburn to hunt down the man who killed her father. She is a headstrong, tenacious and very opinionated girl—and I’m with those who conclude that it is her grit rather than Cogburn’s that the novel is ultimately named for.

Through most of the story, the film and novel are pretty similar (with a few significant differences). Wayne captures Cogburn perfectly, and Kim Darby does a excellent Mattie. But the film diverges from the novel most significantly at the end. In the latter part of her life, Mattie is a one-arm spinster (losing her arm to that snakebit) whose work at a bank is her whole life. Though her words suggest she is content with her life, I can’t help feeling a sense of loss and sympathy for what must be a deeply wounded heart that she covers with a hard and bare look at life and the people around her. She goes in search of Cogburn, whom she’s told is traveling with a gun show that is stopping near by. But when she arrives, he’s already dead and she sees to his burial. The ending leaves us knowing that neither Mattie nor Cogburn were changed by their encounter except that they discovered like souls in each other. But even that is empty of sorts. The two remain unconnected to each other or anyone else in their lives. They are alone.

But the film, as Wayne points out, leaves us feeling hope and new life for the two. They are family, connected. Whether you agree or not with the idea of changing the ending of a story, the change is arguably a good example regarding the power of Wayne’s persona and the history of his characters (or, at the very least, a good example of the redemptive edge his characters seem to share).

The novel is an extremely enjoyable read and I highly recommend it. But personally, this is one time when I prefer the film over the book. Heh, perhaps that has more to do with my sense of pragmatic optimism than the quality of the stories themselves. I resonate with and am attracted to stories that witness to the power of love and sacrifice to birth transformation, and the film portrays that more than the novel.

Most probably, however, it is a testimony to my enduring affection for John Wayne.

(Image: film posters and book cover via Wikipedia; John Wayne’s footprints and fist impressions in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in Hollywood, mine taken July 2008)

Caprica: Before the Fall

Last night, I finally got around to watching the pilot to the Battlestar Galactica prequel series, Caprica (which will begin airing in 2010). The pilot opens 58 years before the events of BSG, with the tragic intersection of the lives of Joseph Adama (Admiral Bill Adama’s father) and scientist Daniel Graystone, who both lose daughters in a bombing by a monotheist teenager associated with a radical terrorist group (the vast majority of religion is polytheistic). When the grief-stricken Graystone realizes a combination of technologies could bring back a semblance of his daughter Zoe, Joseph struggles with the ramifications of the chance to bring back his own daughter. And so in these personal stories and choices we begin to follow the events that lead to the fall of Caprica and humanity’s way of life. We see how theses struggles, choices (good and bad) and events funnel BSG’s humanity down the road on which we know they end up.

And, you know what? It’s a pretty good story. It feels somehow more literary that BSG—more dense, perhaps? It moves slower (without the action and space battles of BSG), yet tension is still very much there. Perhaps some of that comes from knowing what will happen. We know how the story ends, and yet we are still gripped by its telling.

(Warning: While I touch on only minor spoilers concerning Caprica, there are major spoilers related to the BSG series.)

And we are often reminded that we are watching a part of a larger story. We meet the young Bill Adama. We see the coming into being of the Cylon (in more ways than one). And there’s the familiar religions and the tension between the planet-centered ethnicities. Some of that familiarity with the larger story also comes in the form of things like familiar lighting (that washed-out white-blue) and architecture of Caprica that we saw in BSG.

There are also the familiar themes—particularly (and perhaps even more directly than BSG) what makes us human. What makes who we are? Is it more than what is in the brain? More than personality? Is there a soul—and if so, can it be copied or downloaded somehow? And even if we could do that, should we?

In all that exploration, the grounding character in the story becomes Joseph Adama, even as he struggles with these issues in his own situation. Interestingly, for Joseph there are no gods and no life after death. Yet we know from BSG that there is an Other, something “more” that is working things out so that humanity and Cylon alike survive and prosper—even, if you will, a personal Being of sorts. It will be interesting to see if and how all that will all play out in this series.

I also found very intriguing the repeated articulation of a longing for a right and wrong in a world gone wrong. We see that most vividly in the depraved virtual reality world but also in the mafia-like world of Joseph Adama and the ethically-challenged world of Daniel Graystone. There is a sense in the series that there is “a line not to be crossed” (to use Joseph’s brother’s terminology)—even Graystone realizes it (though he chooses to reject it).

And that all plays into how we humans approach and relate to religion. I like Gabriel McKee’s thoughts on this. He suggests that the conflict between monotheism and polytheism (a theme of BSG) will be even more prevalent in this series—and he notes how both are critiqued in the pilot (though monotheism seems to bear the brunt):

In a conversation with the headmistress of Zoe’s school, the man investigating the bombing looks at the dangerous philosophy he sees lurking within monotheism:

It doesn’t concern you, Sister, that kind of absolutist view of the universe? Right and wrong determined solely by a single all-knowing, all-powerful being whose judgment cannot be questioned, and in whose name the most horrendous of acts can be sanctioned without appeal?

That’s a bleak portrait of monotheism, to be sure, but that’s the speaker’s bias. The monolog begs the question, however, of what kind of alternative polytheism is—can’t Caprica’s polytheists, too, find divine sanction for horrendous actions by appealing to a variety of minor gods? Indeed, a group of Hecate worshippers practices virtual human sacrifice in the VR world, so monotheism isn’t the only culprit in this culture. In any event, the role of religion in society is going to be a major factor in Caprica’s
story.

I also appreciate Ken Brown’s concern that the deeper aspects of faith are not being plumbed in the pilot:

It’s not an unfair remark, given what has happened and will happen in the story, nor is the history of monotheism in our own world innocent of such a charge. But ignored is the fact that the vast majority of monotheists have and remain neither violent nor extremist. Ignored is the way faith can be far more than a reaction, how it has also been an engine for reform and personal transformation, how it has fostered community and democracy and art and much else. None of this is acknowledged by Caprica, which instead trades on the same old fears of suicide bombings and narrow-mindedness, with only the slightest nod to the possibility that such might be a corruption of true belief rather than its proper expression.

Will Caprica go deeper in its exploration of faith? Time will tell. Let’s hope so, because what drew me in part to BSG was its thoughtful and personal exploration not only of how we approach and misuse religion but even more so its exploration of the sacrificial and transformational role of an authentic faith.

All in all, I found Caprica a story with good characters and good storytelling. And it felt wonderful to be back in the BSG universe—one that we now know plays out very close to our own.


Note: Be forewarned, there are scenes of nudity, sexual situations and violence in the pilot.

(Image: DVD cover) capricactgy

Is Charlie back for the final 'Lost' season?!

Maybe. Maybe not.
lostctgy

Another film on my radar

Somehow, the development of The Surrogates slipped by me. But I must admit that I am more than intrigued. So, why the interest in this film on a God-talk blog?

For one, the film's premise itself is interesting (via Wikipedia):

In the near future, humans live in isolation and only interact through robotic bodies that serve as surrogates. When several humans are murdered when their surrogates are destroyed, a cop (Bruce Willis) investigates the crimes through his own surrogate. After a near fatal encounter, the cop's surrogate is destroyed and forces him to bring his human form out of isolation and unravel a conspiracy behind the crimes.

And stories like that are rich ground to explore all sorts of interesting themes—like what makes us human, the nature of reality, how technological tools can be used for good and evil (which Robert Venditti—the author of the graphic novel from which the film was adapted—touches on in this interview), and the relationship between technology and wealth and the illusion that they can protect us from the reality of death, suffering and darkness. It also touches on our own relationship with and participation in online communities and virtual realities—from MMORPGs to forums and boards where we can create our own identities and personas. Interestingly, Venditti says (according to Wikipedia) that he developed the idea for his graphic novel “after reading about numerous individuals who lost their spouses or their jobs due their addiction to the internet and their online personas.” And explorations like these and themes like those above have great potential to bring God-talk into open spaces.

In addition, there may be some more overt God-talk in the story as well. Along the way, Harvey Greer's (Willis) investigation will lead him to cross paths with The Prophet (Ving Rames), an anti-surrogate activist—who’s character apparently has definite religious overtones in the graphic novel. At Comicscape, Kurt Amacker describes the graphic novel character as “a radical Christian prophet” who is somewhat ambiguous when it comes to whether he’s a good or bad guy. I haven’t read the graphic novel yet (I’m waiting for it arrive via snail mail), so I can’t say how religion or faith plays into this character or the story—yet, heh.

For what it’s worth, there’s an early review of the film at Latino (hat tip i09) and here’s another article about the graphic novel at Comic Book Resoures. And, if you dare, choose your own surrogate, heh.

"Mom, is that church music?"

The other day, I was listening to my Coldplay Radio on Pandora (an online music service that plays continuous music based on a song or artist that you enjoy, a kind of make your own commercial free radio station) while I was cleaning the kitchen, when my son walked in.

“Mom,” he asked, “is that church music?”

Heh.

Coldplay is a very successful and critically acclaimed British alternative rock band. The fact that my son would compare their sound to the music he hears at church says, in my humble opinion, some very good things about that worship band.

But I was also intrigued by how my son’s frame of reference for music is what he hears at church. Church is the context in which he views or thinks about music. And that got me thinking—and dreaming. If our children’s perception of music related to when we gather can change like this, then surely their perception of “church” itself can, too.

If you’ve been reading this blog, then you know that my own understanding of what it means be the church has changed over the last few years. And I’m still working out what it means to be this people of God that God calls and enables us to be. Recently, that perception was tweaked again as I read through New Testament scholar Scot McKnight’s series on the Kingdom Gospel at Jesus Creed (I compiled a list of links here). In particular, I have been soaking in this observation:

The gospel is about church formation before it is about personal formation.

As I read through this series, I realized how much I still hold on to an individualized and limited understanding of the gospel—what McKnight calls the “God and me” gospel. But when we read the Bible as the Story, McKnight points out, “we discover that the focus is overwhelmingly on God forming a covenant community.” This series pushes me to grapple with and grasp the truth that God’s attention to me is not simply for me alone but even more so as part of his formation of his people—one of people personally commited to Jesus. The whole Story “converges onto one person,” says McKnight. “In fact, the Story is a Person.” And in our reading, McKnight reminds us, we see Jesus gathering “a community made up of all sorts and it is especially populated by those at the margins of society.”

When we start to shift our perspective from a “me” based gospel, it leads to a broader, deeper understanding of the Good News—one that McKnight puts forth in his final post in the series, and one that I am still trying absorb:

If the kingdom is the solution, what was the problem? The community of God gone awry. What is the solution? A community standing on its feet, heart transformed, eyes and ears open, and a willingness to live as one.

Let's return to the gospel that deconstructs the church and offer its alternative:God loves you and everyone else and has a plan for us: the kingdom community.

But you and everyone else have a sin problem that separates you and everyone else from God, from yourselves, from one another, and from the good world God made for you.

The good news is that Jesus lived for you, died for you, was raised for you, and sent the Spirit for you - so you all can live as the beloved community.

If you enter into Jesus' story, by repentance and faith, you can be reconnected to God, to yourself, to others, and to this world.

Those who are reconnected like this will live now as God's community and will find themselves eternally in union with God and communion with others.

How would we change if the gospel expanded like this and really sank into our hearts? What would we look like? I think we would look a lot more like all those kingdom images that I’ve been gathering: bubbles and molecules, a collection, new wine skins, upside-down, a man looking with love at his wife, a cultivated inner life, a father’s love for a wayward-but-returning son, violence overcome with love, knowing “Life will out”, severed ropes, more like an embrace than a bridge, a better and far country, learning to see right, learning to live unbroken, the love between a father and son, opening a vein, sharing a meal, seeing in green, a dance, present to grief and pain without shelter or reserve, seeing and hearing like Jesus, collecting fall leaves, a brother’s love, true friendships, New York city life, “a membership” even cul-de-sacs or a good wine.

And, in the wake of my son’s comments above, now I can’t help but wonder and dream of what would it would look like if our children took for granted that that is what it is to be the church.

And that makes my breath catch and my eyes go all blurry.

But will that ever be? Too often, I get discouraged. We are such a shadow of who we are called to be, and I sometimes wonder how we could ever become a people like that. But recently, in a discussion about how God commands us to forgive, I wondered aloud if God would tell us do something if he wasn’t going to enable us to do so. Now I’m hearing my words spoken back at me, reminding me that God wouldn’t call us be a people like this if he wasn’t going to enable us to be so.

And hearing my son take for granted that church music is good music reminds me of this. I am reminded that God is a God who remembers his promises to his people, that he will show us how to become those he calls and enables us to be.

(Image: my Pandora web page)

Pitch Black: Survival and sacrifice

Last night on the Sci-Fi Channel, I caught a showing of Pitch Black, a 2000 sci-fi flick about a group of passengers on a transport who crash land on a desert planet infested with flesh-eating pterodactyl-like creatures that come out in the darkness. I must have seen this movie at least half a dozen times (admittedly, mostly the edited version they show on television, heh). I’m with those who think it’s a pretty descent film as far as science fiction films go (and I have hard time thinking of another planet-rise as amazing as the one in this film), but I think what draws me back has more to do with Riddick (Vin Diesel) and his story.

Riddick cuts a ruthless figure. When we first see him, he’s a convict bound in chains, like a buffed out Hannibal Lector. For Riddick, it is all about survival—his own. He kills without remorse* and walks through the film with a confidence that borders arrogance (except that his self-assuredness in his superiority is unquestionably justified in most cases, heh). If Riddick cares about anything or anyone else, he does so grudgingly. He really wants to be all about himself, but perhaps here’s the draw: he can’t.

Hats off to the folks at Hollywood Jesus who explore a tremendous amount of the religious and Christ-figure themes and symbolism associated Riddick in this film—and whatever I add here I fully acknowledge builds on their insights.

Like some of those at Hollywood Jesus, I too think there’s something to Riddick as a messianic figure. This film’s imagery and themes foreshadow what we discover about him in Chronicles of Riddick—that he’s the prophesized Furian who is destined to deliver the universe from evil and save us all.

But the Christ-like imagery in this film—particularly the crucifixion-like poses in which we find Riddick more than once—makes me think (as it does some of those folks at Hollywood Jesus) more in lines of Jesus words about taking up our own cross and dying to self in order to really live.

For Riddick, the struggle is one between survival instinct and self-sacrifice. While Riddick seems to adhere to his survival goal, throughout the film he makes choices to help others at risk to himself—but only in so far as he’s fairly sure he’ll survive and, in some cases, where their survival would help his own. (Caution: major spoilers ahead.) But this struggle comes to crux at the end of the film, when he taunts the group’s pilot Carolyn Fry (Radha Mitchell) with the temptation to save herself by leaving the only other survivors behind. No one would blame her, he says: It’s “survival instinct.” When she refuses—and goes as far to say that she would die for the others—Riddick not only finds it “interesting,” but it also gives him pause. And he makes another decision to put the interests of others ahead of his own—but this time, it’s at great risk to himself.

And for all the messianic imagery surrounding Riddick, ultimately it’s not Riddick who dies for the others but someone else who dies for Riddick—someone who has been transformed herself by the time she’s spent on the planet with the others. Some of the folks at Hollywood Jesus point out that we see this most notably in how Fry regards the people she crash-landed with. Initially, she regarded them as little more than cargo—that she actually tried to jettison in order to save the transport and her own life as she struggled to land the ship in the beginning of the film. During her time on that planet, however, Fry confronted her own darkness and “survival instinct” and chose to risk her life for the others in the group. But she dies specifically for Riddick.

And her willingness to risk her life and ultimately die to help him hits Riddick’s at his core. “Not for me,” he says into the darkness. “Not for me!” But we don’t get to choose whether or not someone sacrifices for us. And, when the depth of someone’s choice to sacrifice hits home, we are invited to change the way we think about ourselves and others. We are invited to “repent”—or as Mark Scandrette puts it in Soul Graffiti, we are invited to “call into question our previous ways and awaken . . . to new possibilities.” We are invited to change the way we think and embrace of a new way of thinking which will direct our actions. And, if we do, that will change who we are.

Interestingly, at the end of the film, when one of two other survivors asks him what they should say if anyone asks what happened to Riddick, he tells her: “Tell ‘em Riddick’s dead. He died somewhere on that planet.” And, in some ways, he did. As those at Hollywood Jesus have already noted, Riddick goes through a rebirth in this film. He’s learning to love (i.e., put the best interests of others above his own interests) and "rejoining the human race" (as one character puts it)—and Fry’s own transformation and choices played a big role in that.

How deep do those changes go? Heh, Riddick is a work in progress—as are we all—but it’s interesting to note that when we next come across Riddick (in Chronicles of Riddick), he has spent the previous five years on a frozen and miserable-excuse-for-a world with the intent of staying away from the other two survivors of Pitch Black in order to protect them.

I can’t help but think of how all this invites us to consider our own lives. How do we struggle with survival instinct and self-sacrifice? Why do we have a hard time when someone else sacrifices for us? What happens to us when we witness sacrifice on our own behalf? What do we do with all that? And how does Fry’s sacrifice and Riddick’s responses help us understand our own reaction—and the reactions of others—to Jesus’ sacrifice (whose sacrifice not only invites and enables us to change but also brings real life)? And what do we do with that?

This film isn’t for everyone—it’s rated R for its violence, language, gore and adult situations. Take that rating seriously. But, like those at Hollywood Jesus, when I consider Riddick’s story and struggles, I find some interesting and thought provoking themes that bring God-talk into open spaces.


*Update: Caution, spoilers. In retrospect, I don't think I remember Riddick directly killing anyone in this film. In fact, there's even insinuation that the murder conviction against him was trumped up. (He does, however, intentionally set up one of the character's death in this film.) But when it comes to death, throughout most of the film, Riddick is unfazed (though a couple of times he does seem somewhat disturbed), approaching death like a curious or a unaffected observer. He literally stares it in the face, most of the time without fear. When Fry's death comes at the end of the film, however, he's visibly shaken--which I think goes to support a change within him by the end of the film (as small, heh, as one might think that change may be).

(Images: USA Films/Universal, via YouTube)

Is that you, Ana?

The 2009 Atlantic Hurricane Season has begun four days early, with the formation of Tropical Depression 1 off the coast of Virginia (hey, that's where I live!). It's expected to reach tropical storm status (and, if so, will be named "Ana") within the next 24 hours, but she will twirl harmlessly out to sea. A fortuitous way to begin the season, I think, heh.

(Image: Weather.com)

More 'V'

Televisionary has an advance review of the ABC pilot for V, a remake of the 1983-85 miniseries and television show about an alien race who call themselves "The Visitors" seeking to conquer of Earth. The review has a significant amount of spoilers, but the reviewer insists that they aren't giving away any key twists or the ending.

Of interest to this blogger? More details on the character of Father Jack Landry (warning some spoilers ahead):

. . . Father Jack Landry (The 4400's Joel Gretsch) finds himself in a difficult position, having to explain the co-existence of a divine presence and an alien race among us. His job is complicated by the fact that the congregation of his small Manhattan church has suddenly ballooned with people turning to religion in the face of fear and uncertainty and his superiors are pressuring Father Jack to toe the party line and accept The Visitors as a miracle in itself. But Jack worries that gratefulness can quickly turn to worship... and worship to devotion. His fears are realized when he receives a package from a mysterious wounded man who dies after passing along a mission to Jack: he should fear The Visitors and take the package to a specific address.

I find it interesting that the series will include an exploration of how people of faith, religion and religious institutions can find themselves on both sides of injustice. History is full of examples of both, with the institutional church on the side of oppression and injustice as well as examples of people of faith (individually and together) who are often deeply embedded in standing and fighting against injustice. I'll be curious to see what motivations and choices land folks on which side.

And there's also this tidbit:

Joel Gretsch is fantastic as Father Jack, a man torn in half by questions of faith; you wouldn't ordinarily think to cast Gretsch as a man of the cloth but the casting plays against type here and gives this priest a visceral and virile quality not normally seen in portrayals of priesthood.

Heh. Seriously, though, casting a younger man in the role of a priest might make it easier for many viewers to identify with Jack as he struggles with and ultimately makes decisions based on his faith. Not that an older version couldn't do the same, heh. But there does seem to be an unconscious tendency to elevate or view pastors and priests unrealistically when it comes to their faith, so adding a "visceral and virile" quality to the character could help break that down.

That's it for now.

More talk about the 'Book of Eli'

USA Today (hat tip ComingSoon) has posted some photos from the upcoming post-apocalyptic sci-fi thriller, Book of Eli, starring Denzel Washington as the lone man "who fights his way across a desolate America to protect a book that may hold the key to mankind’s survival" (or, as Wikipedia puts it, "a lone hero" who "guards the Book of Eli, which provides knowledge that could redeem society"). Besides the photos (and a bit of explanation about their context), the bit also includes some interesting tidbits that hint at the film's spiritual themes/content:

At first, Albert [Hughes, who codirects with brother Allen] says, the script “seemed a little too spiritual or something…. But then I slept on it, and the next morning I couldn’t get the story out of my head. That’s when you know you should do a movie.”

And:

Eli follows on the heels of movies such as Terminator Salvation, Knowing and The Happening in depicting the end of the world. “This is the first time in recent history that I can remember where it feels like America is, at its core, vulnerable,” says Allen Hughes. “We’re mortal. After 9/11, the reaction showed how thin that line is between order and chaos. It feels like we’re at a boiling point. That’s why these themes of redemption and salvation are so powerful now.”

Interesting--both the themes and why Hughes thinks they are so powerful.

(Image: Warner Bros Pictures)

Film Snapshots: Two ways to look at relationships

In The Comancheros, Captain Jake Cutter (John Wayne) is talking to Pilar Graile (Ina Balin) about her relationship with Paul Regret (Stuart Whitman), who has just realized how much Pilar cares about him.

Pilar: Now he’ll be so sure of me he’ll be impossible to manage—or so he thinks. But I shall find the opportunity to teach him otherwise.

Jake laughs.

Jake: Oh, I’m sorry. I’m just glad that I’m not your age—or Regret’s. I went through all that. Me and my wife used to fight like a couple of wildcats with only one tree between us. But sooner or later, missy, you’ll find out that it doesn’t make a tinker’s damn who’s got the upper hand. A few years roll by and you kinda settle down to bein’ at ease with each other. Then life gets worth living.

Pilar looks at Jake with a sly smile.

Pilar: In every relationship between two human beings, one is dominant and one is subservient.

Jake: Well, you make it sound like it’d be one long war.

Pilar: Isn’t it?

Jake looks at her with a small and knowing smile.

Jake: Missy, you got a lot of surprise comin’—some good, some bad.

(Image: 20th Century Fox, via trailer on YouTube)

Some bloggy God-talk

1. It looks like Kings—a modern day spin on the biblical King David saga—has been cancelled (HT Peter Chattaway), though it also looks like the remaining episodes will still be seen on NBC starting June 13. At SF Gospel, Gabriel Mckee wonders if network squeamishness about religion killed the series. I wonder if it had something to do with why good series get cancelled.

2. Speaking of cancelled series, the official word came down that Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles was cancelled as well. Mckee says that while he thinks the series might be “the best thing the Terminator franchise ever offered up,” he’s not that upset to see it go. For those going through withdrawal, there is the latest film in the franchise and, in more general terms, Peter Chattaway looks at how Sarah Connor may actually have made the war worse.

3. For more miscellaneous God-talk in film, Ken Brown feels somewhat conflicted about Star Trek, and so does Gabriel Mckee. Jason has some interesting thoughts about Fright Night and vampire flicks, while Joe didn’t find much to like about 7 Pounds.

4. And for all you Lost fans going through withdrawal, check out Dr. McGrath’s posts at Exploring Our Matrix. Mckee, on the other hand, is going to wait until the series is over before he gives the series too much analysis. And you also might want to visit Jorge Garcia’s blog, Dispatches from the Island. Heh, there’s no God-talk on this one but the guy has a humorous way of viewing the world.

5. Back to God-talk subjects, take a look at some thoughtful (and biblical) arguments for The Work of Idleness and a Defense of “Meaningless Fun.”