Lust for Life

It’s funny how as the pace of life speeds up, we as humans slow down to compensate. I’m not sure if this is a good thing, or if it simply complicates the process; but as so many haggard old men and jaded adults tell me: “It is what it is.”

Moving so slowly myself, it’s near impossible for me not to notice this cycle of cause and effect. Over the past two weeks or so everything has become a whirlwind of activity and pine and turkey and driving and Santas. After spending nearly a week straight in my van touring Virginia, haggard seems like a very good word.

Of course we move slower; when faced with a whirlpool or cliff face, you tend to cling onto whatever piece of stable ground is in sight. You don’t want to fall, you don’t want to die. Even humans who have nothing to live for tend to actively avoid situations where their sanity and wellbeing will be tested. We like safe, we like known... even if we don’t know why.

Amid all this transitioning and insanity, around the time when Thanksgiving was transitioning into Advent, Quentin Tarantino began to come up a lot. I really have no idea why. Perhaps it was the release of his 20th anniversary box set containing all his films, or maybe he was just coming up in conversation more naturally... but I suddenly found myself holding conversations about him with my girlfriend, Leslie, and my old film buddy from college, Jeremy.

With Leslie, I expounded on Tarantino’s unique flavor of dialog and tone, and how similar it is in many respects to Flannery O’Connor (which Leslie had just been sharing with me). They both have a very strong ear for conversation and ethnic colloquialisms, and both add sudden spurts of violence to their stories to punctuate themes and ideas.

With Jeremy, I reminisced about the time we had gone to see Tarantino’s WWII epic, Inglourious Basterds in theaters together, not realizing that we were witnessing film history. The movie singlehandedly launched Austrian actor Christoph Waltz’s career, and once again threw Tarantino’s hat in the ring with such filmmakers as James Cameron, the Coen brothers, Peter Jackson and Pete Doctor. Of course, neither of us could ever forget that opening scene.

It was a given that since he came up more in conversation, the films I began to watch in my free time (which I tend to have to much of as of late) we mostly his. I began with Death Proof, then worked my way through Kill Bill and Reservoir Dogs, leading up to his masterpieces: the afore mentioned Inglourious Basterds and, of course, Pulp Fiction.

At this point, I realize that a lot of you are wondering where I am going with this, and perhaps even a few are offended by my love for such a “twisted” man as Tarantino. Allow me to explain: As I began to rewatch his films, I also started looking up interviews on Youtube and watching mini-documentaries where he talked about his work. The wild look in his eye might disturb some even more than the gratuitous violence of his films; it suggests that he is either constantly huffing cocaine, or that he had a serious case of untreated ADHD. Whatever the case may be, the wild look in his eye and gregarious gesticulation of his hands always punctuate whatever he says. The man is larger than life, but more than that.... he LOVES life.

And then it hit me, say whatever you want about his films, I want to be more like pointy jawed, foulmouthed, interrupting crazy man. Why, you ask? Because I would bet good money that there is not a day of the year where he wakes up disappointed or clinging to that last bit of solidity the day before. I would bet that each morning when he walks up, he says something to the effect of:

“Hot DAMN it feels good to be alive! Booyah! I get to make movies and hang out with awesome people and it’s totally ******* awesome! You know? I think I’m going to get myself a tasty beverage to wake up!”

His enthusiasm is infectious, and despite the fact that he may be a sub-par filmmaker, I firmly believe that it is his boundless enthusiasm which inspires those that surround him to do their best.

It reminds me of my history and math professors in college. They might not have been the best in the world, and I was most definitely not the best student, but the energy that they exuded in class infected my being. I excelled in those classes, not because the professor cracked a whip over my back, but because he loved what he did.

Anyone can be “good” at what they do, not everyone can LOVE what they do. Take for example the Apostle Peter. Poor Peter was pretty much just bad at life, he backstabbed his friends, he sliced off people’s ears and just made a general fool of himself... but there was something in him that Jesus saw that many others probably did not have: the Love. After Christ’s death and resurrection, Peter became the most vocal and prolific of all the Apostles (save for Paul, who came later). He offended, healed, preached, and probably drank and sang his way through life, never abating from the cause of Christ. Even his final request to be crucified upside down was for the Love. He loved Yahweh, and it showed.

How many of us live mediocre lives of mediocre excitement? Far too many, I would hazard a guess. The trite, cliched piece of inspiration might come in the form of: “Be the best you you can be.” But that is truly a chiasm from hell.

Instead, do it for the Love. It will make you jump out of bed, plaster a smile on your big dumb face, and cause everyone you meet to wonder what the hell has gotten into you. And you can tell them firmly that it is not hell, it is the Love. You did it for the Love.

New Year(s)

2012, the year I graduate, the year the world ends, the year that many people will die and many more will be born. A year that I have been looking forward to for a rather long time.

New Year's, a holiday, which like snow and rain and other such cleansing precipitation reminds me and many others of fresh starts. Where we reevaluate our lives and the direction that we have been going in and try to make drastic changes overnight in hopes that this time it will FINALLY be different and we will FINALLY have the fortitude to keep the promises we've made to ourselves. Deep down we know that this will not be the case, but humans are a forever optimistic bunch and love to fool themselves.

To be honest, New Year's has always felt like a very hollow holiday to me. Sometimes I am convinced that the only real reason that Americans keep it around is so that they can justify saying "Happy Holidays" around this particular portion of the winter. If New Years were suddenly to stop existing, they might be forced to start saying "Merry Christmas" again. The horror!

I suppose that if New Year's went away we would simply make a holiday revolving around football. My dad cheers on the Browns from his iPad as they go against the Steelers. 5 seconds left for a touchdown and they win. Will they? WILL THEY?! Oop, nope. All done, Steelers have bragging rights for another year.

Joking aside, why do Americans get so excited about New Year's? It feels so artificial, so fake, and yet we relish the idea of new starts so much that we cling to this odd holiday like a scared baby baboon to his mother. We are such an apologetic culture, we feel guilty for everything that goes wrong in the world. Some of the most prolific and effective advertisements in the USA are the ones that prey upon our innate guilt. "Don't you DARE hurt mother earth!" "You have so much, this poor kid has nothing. You aren't giving to him? You suck!!" It's condescending and base, and yet we gobble it up like Thanksgiving stuffing.

We want to feel clean and whole and new so badly. We want redemption, and we are looking for it in all the wrong places. There is nothing significant about a new calendar year that will miraculously cause you to be a better person. You are no better at cooking on the 1st of January than you were on the 31st of December. The passing of 24 hours does not make it easier for you to put down that cigarette.

So what gives us this fresh start, this new beginning that we all so desperately desire? Well... think back a week, exactly 7 days. What was seven days ago? Christmas. Christmas is the real new start. Christmas is the day that we commemorate which changed everything. It changed the shape of human history and is the root of new beginnings. Of course this new beginning was in the making since the beginning of time. But for those of us confined by timey-whimey stuff, December 25, AD 4ish marked the true beginning, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not. (I'm going off of the documentary The Star of Bethlehem for the validity of the the 25th as the actual date of Christ's birth.)

In the 33 years of his life, the Godhead used Christ's ministry and walk to alter the course of history. "Time can be rewritten." (And yes, I am going to continue to randomly insert Doctor Who references.) God used this to "Subdue the nations" and "use them as a footstool." Christ's birth cannot but be viewed in conjunction with His death, the are the beginning and the end of the same story. Anyone familiar with Old Yeller cannot think about the story without the context of how she began as a loyal family dog and ended as a rabid animal that needed to be put down. Simply saying "Old Yeller" often brings all that to mind.

Similarly, when someone mentions "Christmas" we ought to not only think of Christ's nativity, but also His death and how we would redeem all the world. Images of subjecting demons and healing the sick and the blind ought to leap to mind at the thought of Christmas. It is one story. It is one narrative.

Not only must we keep the grand narrative in mind, but we must also realize that Christmas, NOT the hollow celebration of New Year's, is the true new beginning. The Almighty Creator of the universe sent a part of Himself to come and not only change the Russian novel that is life, but through this act, He granted His own creations the ability to change themselves. Not only this, God helps us STAY changed, and that is what we so desperately look for in New Year's resolutions. But we cannot, and will never be able to muster the ability to stay changed ourselves. It must come externally. It must come from Christmas.

Christmas is the start of the new year... and is in fact the start of ALL the new years to follow. Christmas is my new beginning.

Cheers,
JSTT

Batman and the Kingship of Man

There are many interesting character relationships that are detailed in the pages of Batman comics, and nearly as many have been analyzed to death by modern philosophers, literary and pop culture critics. But I have yet to see a decent analysis of the relationship between Batman and Jim Gordon.

Anyone familiar with Batman comics and the lovely locale that they inhabit will know that calling Gotham City “not a good place” is an understatement of the highest caliber. Gotham City, itself influenced by New York City, has been described by comic book author Dennis O’Neil as “Manhattan below Fourteenth Street at eleven minutes past midnight on the coldest night in November." (See footnote 1) And it’s not just the weather that’s cold. Gotham City is home to some of the most dangerous criminals and brutes to ever inhabit the printed page. And against this oncoming hoard of scum and villainy stands the stalwart police commissioner James Gordon; the only straight cop in a world of corruption. That is, until Batman came along.

It is Gordon who is usually responsible for lighting the bat-signal, calling for the Caped Crusader’s help. The public comes to Jim Gordon, and Gordon in turn looks to Batman. While in many origin stories the alliance begins with much distrust on both sides, Batman and Gordon always seem to have some sort of conversation before any given story is over. Besides his trusty butler Alfred, Commissioner Gordon is just about he only friend that Batman has.

Now would probably be a good time to bring up the notion of human kingship, specifically that God created man in the beginning to be the ultimate ruler of the created universe and that God would in turn rule over him. (See footnote 2) This specifically harkens back to God’s mandate for man to populate the earth and take dominion over it. (Genesis 1:28-30 and again in Genesis 9:1-3) It is also generally accepted that man was to become a ruler of the earth had he not fallen, and this is made the case again since Christ (the Son and Crown Prince of the High Throne) came down to make intersession for and redeem his people. Since He came back for us and didn’t simply let us abstain from our throne, we are now once again “heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ.” (Romans 8:17)

Back to Batman: I view Batman as a sort of imperfect Christ figure. As I put forth in my previous essay, he is imperfect because (among other things) he never truly triumphs over evil, but seemingly co-exists with it. But Batman is a sort of Christ figure nonetheless. This is particularly apparent in Christopher Nolan’s portrayal of Batman in the film The Dark Knight. In the film Batman defeats all sorts of evil, but in the end must run from the very people he swore to protect… taking the fall for the crimes that so many of Gotham’s citizen have committed themselves.

Nolan, widely held to be a nihilist due to his films like Following and Memento, portrays Batman as a scapegoat, a sacrificial lamb… but in a heroic way; and the film it self became at the time the second highest grossing movie of all time. This is what we call common grace at work, my friends. (See footnote 3) And not simply content to leave Batman as a willing sacrifice, Nolan realized that his story was not finished and ultimately decided to make a third Batman film, The Dark Knight Rises. (Are you seeing anymore Christ-like parallels here?) Nolan, a secular and a pagan, could not leave the hero in the dark; the nihilist could not end with nihilism. Strange, huh?

So if Batman is Jesus, then Commissioner Jim Gordon is Noah, he is Adam, he is David, he is Lot, he is us. Commissioner Gordon is the one righteous man in a sea of sin and iniquity. He strives to raise a faithful and good son, he stands up for the just, and condemns evil… no matter the price. He has been on the receiving end of both mockery and car bombs… and he simply could not do it anymore. Suddenly, without warning, and just in the nick of time comes Batman. A thief in the night, a righter of wrongs, a Knight… and Knight who takes on the Clown Prince of Crime (Prince of Darkness anyone?). He sacrifices himself to this end: to defeat evil for good, and to return to city of Gotham to the glory it once had and restore it to the good people who inhabit it.

If and when Batman won and was no longer needed, Bruce Wayne would return to his seat as king of Gotham. (Yes, I know that I am extending this metaphor pretty far.) And from his tower he would watch as Gordon and those whom he had put in positions of authority after disposing of the corrupt leaders took charge and ruled the city under him. They would have inherited Gotham after and long and bloody battle. They would have a newfound dominion over Gotham. A rule and dominion that Batman fully intended to give to them all along.





(1) O'Neil, Dennis. Afterword. Batman: Knightfall, A Novel. New York: Bantam Books, 1994. 344.

(2) For those of you who will upset by my choice of words, let me assure you that when I refer to “man” I am using it as John Frame and the entirety of the Scriptures us it: to refer to all humankind; male and female. I am not a feminist, but I do want them to read what I write. So let’s just call this clarification a compromise so that I don’t have to compromise. For a further and more exhaustive explanation, please see the preface to John Frame’s book The Doctrine of the Knowledge of God.

(3 )Reformed systematic theologian Louis Berkhof defined common grace this way: “[Common grace] curbs the destructive power of sin, maintains in a measure the moral order of the universe, thus making an orderly life possible, distributes in varying degrees gifts and talents among men, promotes the development of science and art, and showers untold blessings upon the children of men.” More simply put, this means that while not all people will be saved, all will retain some sort of common instinct of holiness and understanding of good that God placed in them… even if they choose to suppress it. For more awesome stuff that Berkhof said, check out his book called very simply: Systematic Theology.

The Voice

“I want to go home,” the voice echoed. Jimmy’d heard it too many times before. It appeared in the dark, like mermaids near dangerous shoals, like bats in caves—it came and whispered. Sometimes it screamed, but the whispers were worse.
“We ARE going home,” Jimmy tried to pacify the voice, but the voice was not impressed. It shook its head and hissed, low, cold, warning Jimmy not to speak such foolish words again.
“Home… hooooome…!” it called.
“Elaborate, please,” Jimmy begged, asking, grasping for anything that would quiet the voice. “A fire place? Loved ones? A dog? Does it have to do with a certain place?”
“No…….. hisssssssssssssss…” the haunting came. “You know better.”
“I’m trying. I’m TRYING!”
“Not hard ENOUGH!” the voice grabbed Jimmy by the collar and slammed his occipital lobe against the wall. Jimmy’s cranium waggled back and forth like a bobble head on the dashboard of a car off-roading. His neck was so much rubber—used to the point that it no longer regained its original shape after being stretched.
“If it’s not a place, then it has to do with people,” Jimmy reasoned, trying to work his right hand around the voice’s wrist. The voiced gripped more tightly.
“HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS….”
Jimmy tried to laugh. Laughing in the face of danger. It worked in the movies. Right? It confused and disoriented your enemy. A few raspy, wheezing coughs came out as he felt his trachea collapsing. The voice saw what Jimmy was trying to do and responded with a real laugh, dark, deep and full. Jimmy’s ears compressed and popped as the voice rocked the air with genuine amusement. He was a dead man; the voice was winning.
“Take. Us. HOME!” the voice maintained a forced smile until the last word, which is spat out in a roar. Jimmy started to cry as it bit into his forehead. Blood, he could taste it, feel it trickling down his jaw bone as the life-giving fluid seeped out of his eardrums and from the crown of his head. Calling for help would bring down men with suits and eventually a padded room that smelled like vomit. Jimmy could see no one’s face but the voice’s, but he knew they were there, watching, wondering, waiting for him to lose it completely. Not that it really mattered anymore. The voice, the voice, the voice…
“HOME!!!!” the scream came, then the repeated whisper: “home, home, home, home…” He could feel his spine crumpling, snapping. There was nothing left. Responses were now completely useless. Blood, pain—nothing. Goodbye.
But wait.



Wait.



WAIT!

Light… soft and warm, growing to burning, pressed up against his ear. It burned, searing, sharp and alive. Suddenly, he could see again. The bleeding had stopped as well. The light stared at him, licking like fire. Consuming and giving at the same time. And Jimmy could see. He could taste the sweetness of roses and lilies. He could feel her touch, distant though it was, it felt as fresh as if it was yesterday. He could see the dog running around the back yard, eating cicadas; he could hear the crush and taste the sharp barbs on his tongue. He could he hear the cicada’s brothers in the tree above him, sounding their battle cry against he dog on the ground and the blue jays in the tree. He could see them ready their lances and charge.
The green of fields in Carolina, the white blankets of snow in Idaho, the violent blue of the seas in Florida, the purple of a coat hung in the hallway with care, a red candle burning in the center of a dim room, warming someone’s pale hands. The brown of a tree, planted on a hill in a desert in the midst of an ancient city, a man hanging in it, blood and pain painted on his face—blood and pain Jimmy knew. They were his own… but yet not. The light told the story. It reminded him. It filled him, and Jimmy remembered the answer to the voice’s question at last.
“CHRIST!” he screamed. The voice didn’t look nearly as large as it had a few moments ago. The strength in Jimmy’s words frightened himself almost more than it did the voice.
“Christ is home, you damned spawn of hell! Get back and know what home is!” the voice let go and stumbled back in utter shock. The light grinned, grinned like a father who has just watched his son ride a bicycle with no training wheels for the first time.
“No matter where I am, no matter who I’m with, Christ is home. Always has been, always will be. Argue that, refute THAT if you will!”
“No…. NOOOO!!!” the voice shrieked. “You’re listening to the light! Stop, STOP!!”
“Why? Why should I?”
“Can’t…. fight… it… GrrrrrrraaaAAAAA!!!!” The voice flew up against the wall and shattered, broken glass everywhere. Falling, crashing.
The light smiled and held Jimmy as he gasped for breath.
“Well done, my good and faithful servant.”