Perceptions from a Pewboy

Those of you who know me well are already acquainted with the fact that I am a collector and reader of comic books. The appeal of comic books is multi-layered for me. First, comic books help me to preserve a link to my childhood (since I learned to read with the Bible in one hand and a comic book in the other). Second, comic books create an unparalleled artistic hybrid between the literary and the graphic. Third, since they traverse the territory of the sublime, the supernatural, and the iconic, comic books employ a narrative creativity that demands the expansion of one’s imagination (which, personally, helps me to be a better preacher, a better thinker, and a better imaginer). Finally, and perhaps most importantly, comic books create an approachable and innovative forum in which theology, philosophy, and morality are often explored with unique and noteworthy depth.

In his film “Unbreakable” (2000), M. Night Shyamalan highlights the important role of comic books in the exploration of cultural trends and the transmission of a culture’s history. One of Shyamalan’s characters in the film, Elijah Price, offers this observation:

“Comics are our last link to an ancient way of passing on history. The Egyptians wrote on the walls, there are countries all over the world that still pass on knowledge through pictorial form. I believe comics are a form of history that someone, somewhere felt or experienced.”

I share Shyamalan’s enthusiasm for comic books, their hieroglyphical art, and their illuminating narrative. In fact, some of my most creative moral and theological reflection these days is inspired, not by the academy, but by my interaction with comic books and by my conversations with the proprietor who sells them to me.

Case in point, one of the monthly comic books that I read is “The Walking Dead,” a production of a comic book company called “Image.” “The Walking Dead,” on its surface, is a zombie story about a group of survivors endeavoring to make sense of a catastrophic happening that brings the recently deceased unpleasantly back to life. These reanimated beings become savage flesh-eaters, driven by their relentless desire to “taste” of the life force that they can no longer possess.

As the story unfolds, however, an attentive reader begins to sense that the title “The Walking Dead” is a reference, not simply to the zombies, but to the survivors as well. The “zombiefication” of the world compels many of the survivors to recognize that, prior to the catastrophe, they were living their lives like “the walking dead,” sleepwalking from day to day, conversation to conversation, experience to experience without ever really coming alive to what was before them. The survivors see far more of themselves in the zombies than they could have ever imagined, and, ironically, some of them feel more alive than they have ever been.

As one might anticipate, many of the survivors in “The Walking Dead” begin to articulate theological questions about the circumstances in which they find themselves living. In the most recent issue (#63), an agnostic survivor named Eugene strikes up a conversation with another survivor—a pastor named (interestingly) Gabriel. It is a lengthy conversation, but I include it in its entirety here because of its theological significance:

Eugene: Well, let me ask you this: The rule is, in order to get into heaven, you not only have to do good deeds, you also have to accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior?

Gabriel: No. But it’s a start.

I share that dialogue with you because of the way in which it illuminates the theological wrestling that sometimes occurs within the pages of a monthly comic book. Quite honestly, the exchange between Eugene and Gabriel is the most starkly realistic discourse on the subject of divine methodology that I have experienced in quite some time. It is discourse that raises issues of theophany and judgment; revelation and evangelism; Christology and soteriology. Furthermore, it is a discourse that leaves me meaningfully unsettled as I continue to ponder the way in which I might have responded if I had been in Gabriel’s place.

Sometimes a comic book is good because of the clever way in which a hero solves a crime, saves the world, or thwarts a villain. On other occasions, however, a comic book becomes a hieroglyphical journey into a much deeper place. When that happens, I have to smile.

I’m thinking of a certain six-year-old boy, sitting on his front porch back in 1972, drinking a glass of lemonade and reading a Superman comic book. He had no idea of what he was getting into.

In recent days, much attention has been given to Disney’s purchase of Marvel Comics for a cool four billion dollars. While I am not devoid of interest in that transaction, I have been giving far more attention recently to a smaller comic book company called Image Comics. More specifically, I have been reading and re-reading a trade paperback from Image Comics entitled “American Jesus.”

Penned by an award-winning Scottish comic book writer named Mark Millar, “American Jesus” represents a compelling effort to re-frame the narrative of Jesus’ return (second coming) as the story of a seemingly ordinary twelve-year-old boy named Jodie Christianson who begins to perform small miracles, followed by larger ones.

As Jodie’s adolescence continues to unfold, he finds his heart consistently drawn to the possibility that his life has a divine origin and an eschatological purpose. As he learns more about Scripture and christological doctrine, he begins to attach a specific narrative to his personal ontology: specifically, he begins to believe that he is the returned Christ, the incarnation of divinity whose life is to usher in the completion of God’s kingdom.

At first, Jodie is worried about his own mental health. Fearing that he is on a dangerous road to psychosis, he attempts to talk himself out of his delusions of messianic grandeur: “If I really were Christ, why wouldn’t I know about it more definitively? Why would God keep me in the dark until now? It can’t be true.”

Jodie’s convictions begin to change, however, when he finds himself in the center of some bona fide miracles: inexplicable “A’s” on exams, healings, supernatural deliverance from disaster, and even a Lazarus-like resurrection. Once Jodie accepts the fact that he is the source of these miracles, he is left with no choice but to consider the possibility that he is the Christ of whom Scripture speaks.

The British press describes “American Jesus” as “Spider Man meets the book of Revelation.” The magazine SFX describes it as “Harry Potter for Christian fundamentalists.” Both descriptions, I think, are attempts to acknowledge the significance of the nexus between christological narrative and comic book storytelling. It is yet another example of comic books functioning as the cultural hieroglyphics of an increasingly postliterate people.

It is worth noting that, in true postmodern fashion, “American Jesus” frames the Second Coming, not in the institutional church and its pageantry, but in the mundane social network of a small American town (another instance of Bethlehem over Jerusalem, I suppose). Throughout the story, Millar gives frequent expression to the postmodern distrust of institutions (even institutions as blatantly religious as the church). In fact, in “American Jesus,” the church attempts to subvert and rationalize Jodie’s messianic claims. Instead of exploring the mystery in its midst, the church looks to embrace every possible explanation except for the spiritual one. It doesn’t take a brilliant theologian to read between the lines of this not-so-subtle illumination of what Millar perceives to be the spiritual dullness and theological myopia of the contemporary church.

Another ecclesiastical indictment is to be found in Jodie’s relationship with his priest, Father Tom O’Higgins, a weary soul for whom the Mass has lost its meaning. Father O’Higgins attempts to silence Jodie, not because of some malevolent agenda, but simply because Jodie’s claims force him to come to grips with his own agnosticism. (Interestingly, thanks to Peter Gross’ creative artwork in the comic, Father O’Higgins is always painted in muted colors compared to the brightness of the non-ecclesiastical characters. His face is as gray as his faith is.)

In what I consider to be one of the more interesting conversations in the comic, Jodie and Father O’Higgins’ relationship comes to a head:

Jodie: Why can’t you just accept the simplest explanation of what’s happening here, Father?

Jodie: When did you stop believing, Father?

It is a troubling portrait that “American Jesus” offers. It is a portrait of a world in which people have rejected the church, not because the church has believed too much, but because the church has believed far too little. It is a critique that deserves the attention of anyone who wishes to take seriously the church’s continuing ministry. Should you read it, be warned: “American Jesus” is replete with profanity, vulgarity, and unpleasant images. But, then again, that is the world into which Jesus was sent.

On the other hand, I find myself strangely encouraged by “American Jesus.” It offers compelling evidence that, while interest in the organized church has taken some serious hits in recent years, a passionate interest in Jesus is still somewhere very close to the heart of the human pilgrimage.

As I purchased “American Jesus,” the vendor at the comic book store asked me a question as he took note of my purchase: “You’re not one of those Jesus freaks, are you?”

“Actually,” I said, “I suppose that I am.”

“Good,” he said. “Me too.”