Perceptions from a Pewboy

OK, from the “just for giggles” department…

If you know me well, then you are aware of my peculiar fondness for the experience of being frightened. Those who harbor a similar fondness will understand the dynamic to which I am making reference. We are the people who gravitate toward literature, television, and cinema that take us beneath the surface level of life in order to explore unsettling mysteries and horrifying scenarios—hauntings, hobgoblins, and things that go bump in the night.

Some of my Christ-following sisters and brothers have had a difficult time making sense of this particular proclivity. One of my friends, for example, recently invoked Philippians 4:8: “I thought that we were supposed to be thinking about whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable! How do you square that with your fascination with the macabre?” Of course, I should point out that the friend who asked me this question is practically addicted to televised vacuousness (better known as “Dancing with the Stars” and “The Bachelor”), thereby helping us to remember that “pure and lovely” always reside in the eye of the beholder.

Truth be told, it is not my intention to justify or defend my proclivity. It is what it is. I seem to have come into this world with an innate predilection for exploring narratives that are unsettling and stories that venture into dark places. I will trust you to understand that this does not mean that I am glorifying evil, celebrating wickedness, or even magnifying the monstrous. In fact, I feel free to explore such stories and narratives without any real (or at least lasting) fear precisely because of my conviction that the Lordship of Jesus Christ holds perfect authority over every evil that this world might place before us. With that blessed assurance securely in place, a frightening film becomes for me a playful, imaginative, and cathartic journey into the land of (macabre) make-believe.

So, having offered that Christocentric disclaimer, allow me to ask you a question that seems to resonate with appropriateness on this October 31st:

What have been the films that have frightened you most over the years—the films that have brought you into an exhilarating and enlivening sense of cinematic anxiety?

Although it has been a couple of years, I have shared my personal list of such films in previous blog posts. I offer my list once again (updated and augmented) in the hope that it will inspire some playfully scary memories, not to mention some light conversation.

Here are the films that have scared my proverbial socks off, in no particular order:

“The Exorcist” (1973)
This film is replete with some of the most horrifying cinematic moments that I have ever experienced. Though certainly a bona fide horror film, the film’s pacing, dialogue, and acting are far more reflective of a well-crafted drama. The coldly manipulative and dreadfully eloquent phrases offered by “the devil” create a sense of palpable spiritual tension, especially since they are starkly juxtaposed with the vulnerability and brokenness of the people to whom the phrases are offered. Lastly, Linda Blair’s bold performance forever changed the way I think about both the human spinal column and pea soup.

“The Changeling” (1980)
A memorable haunted house film starring George C. Scott. It is a film that compels the viewer to understand that, in the right setting, even old wheelchairs and rubber balls can become something terrifying.

“Halloween” (1978)
This is a small but effective film that wisely resists the temptation to say too much about its villain or his motives (a fact that has escaped Rob Zombie in his recent remakes). The film simply puts a mysterious and, apparently, motive-less villain in front of us, throws an old Captain Kirk mask on him, and compels us to be terrified.

“Psycho” (1960)
I still have to keep an eye on the door when I shower! Enough said.

“Seven” (1995)
Although more of a frightening crime drama than a horror film, “Seven” nevertheless provides several occasions of true cinematic horror. Personally, I find it to be a better film than “Silence of the Lambs,” to which it is often compared.

“Alien” and “Aliens” (1979 and 1986)
I place these two films together because they work in much the same way. By creating a powerful sense of claustrophobia, a dreadful network of circumstances, a number of interesting characters, and a way cool monster, the films stand as a couple of the finest “monster movies” ever made. Along with…

“Jaws” (1975)
Years ago, when we first purchased a DVD player, my wife Tara asked me if I wanted her to buy our very first DVD on her way home from work. I said yes. She asked me which one to buy. I told her to buy a gripping classic that would be both fun and exciting to watch. She came home with “Jaws,” thereby proving once again that she’s the coolest woman on the planet. Put simply, “Jaws” rocks. Speaking of which, did you hear about the woman from “Jaws” who had a dandruff problem?…………. They found her head and shoulders on the beach! (I’ve been using that joke since 1975!)

“The Ring” (2002)
I know, I know. “It’s not as good as the original Japanese film, ‘Ringu.’” But, having seen both, I just don’t buy that. I’ll take “The Ring” over “Ringu” any day. During my first viewing of the film, when Samara actually crawled out of the television set, I yelped like a crazy man and whispered to Tara, “That’s one of the scariest things that I have ever seen!”

“The Shining” (1980)
This, by the way, is also one of my favorite Stephen King novels. As a film—and, more specifically, as a film brought to life by a visionary director like Stanley Kubrick—it grabbed my attention and never let go. I find it to be a brilliant story about ghosts, family dynamics, and one man’s rapid descent into madness. Plus, it is some of Scatman Crothers’ best work since Hong Kong Phooey.

“Rosemary’s Baby” (1968)
Ostensibly a story about the spawn of Satan, this film also creates a portrait of social alienation among Manhattan’s elite. Quite frankly, I’m not sure which storyline is more terrifying!

“Fright Night” and “The Lost Boys” (1985 and 1987)
These are not stellar films. But it didn’t feel right to create a list like this without putting a couple of vampire films on it. These two films contain a wonderful combination of campy fun and genuine jolts. That’s the tooth, and nothing but the tooth.

“American Werewolf in London” (1981)
Humor and horror, in my opinion, are never far away from one another. Do you need proof? Look no further than “American Werewolf in London.” Throughout the film, I found myself simultaneously giggling and covering my eyes. Plus, this film offers the best “transformation into a werewolf” scene that you will ever see.

“Exorcist III” (1990)
Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. This clever film is a well-crafted piece of work that captures some of the depth and dread of “The Exorcist” while at the same time exploring some new territory. Unfortunately, its final segment betrays the film’s earlier integrity. But this does not change the fact that the film is genuinely and creatively terrifying.

“The Orphanage” (2007)
This is a smart and cleverly-written ghost story that brilliantly juxtaposes the security of a mother’s love and the spiritual unsettledness of a memory-laden (and, by the way, genuinely haunted) home for children.

“The Sixth Sense” (1999)
Is this film really a frightening drama or a dramatic horror film? Who cares?! All I know is that, when I saw it a second time, the scary scenes still gave me goosebumps, even though I knew they were coming. That’s the mark of a truly haunting film.

“When a Stranger Calls” (1979)
When the innocent babysitter hears that ominous question from the mysterious caller—”Have you checked the children?”—I am always pulled into the depths of her fear and helpless vulnerability. Later, when she discovers that the calls are coming from inside the house, I normally lose control of my bodily functions.

“Paranormal Activity” and “Paranormal Activity 2″ (2009 and 2010)
These are nicely structured and cheaply made films in which young couples attempt to capture evidence of a haunting in their house through the use of a video camera. Since most of the manifestations of the haunting occur at night while the couples are asleep, the film succeeds in taking one of our most comfortable and vulnerable conditions—sleep—and transforming it into something utterly dreadful.

“1408″ (2007)
A creepy hotel room with a ghostly history, coupled with an exceptional performance from John Cusack, make for a refreshing and unnerving treatment of the haunted house genre. Let’s just say that, after a night in room 1408, bedbugs don’t seem like so much of a threat anymore.

Thanks for taking the time to read through my list. I hope that it was a fun trip for you. Perhaps you would like to add to it.

Enjoy your Halloween–-and have a couple of good scares while you’re at it.

“The world ended. Didn’t you get the memo?”

With that seemingly simple string of words (spoken by a young survivor named Amy in the third episode), the eschatological tenor of AMC’s new weekly television series “The Walking Dead” finds its most succinct and trenchant expression.

Here are the basics: “The Walking Dead” is based upon an award-winning, monthly, black-and-white comic book written by Robert Kirkman and brought artistically to life by Tony Moore and Charlie Adlard. Published by Image Comics, “The Walking Dead” brings its readers into the lives of a group of diverse survivors who are desperately attempting to make sense of their pilgrimage in the aftermath of what can only be described as a zombie apocalypse. In short, for unknown reasons, the dead start coming back to life all over the world—not in a miraculous “Lazarus come forth” kind of way, but in a horrifying “let me eat your flesh” kind of way.

Far from a one-dimensional horror story, however, “The Walking Dead” has consistently accomplished something that no other current comic book can claim: It has created a sophisticated and multi-layered narrative that pits a host of compelling and well-crafted characters against unimaginable challenges and invites the reader to suspend disbelief long enough to visit the remarkable world that it creates. I have read the comic book since its creation in 2003 and have regularly found in its pages an unparalleled blend of pathos and hope. Furthermore, I have yet to encounter the comic book in which issues of theology and community are approached as seriously and creatively as they are in “The Walking Dead.”

It was no surprise to me that the people at AMC saw in the comic book the potential for a weekly television series. AMC wisely tapped director Frank Darabont, whose directorial work in “The Shawshank Redemption,” “The Green Mile,” and “The Majestic” bear witness to his deftness in dealing cinematically with complex redemption stories. Darabont signed on, and so did a cadre of fine actors, many of whom will be familiar to viewers. On October 31 of 2010, “The Walking Dead” debuted as a weekly series and has quickly become my favorite current television show.

Make no mistake about it, “The Walking Dead” is a zombie story. That detail alone will prevent many from taking the show seriously or giving it a chance, and I can certainly sympathize with anyone’s hesitation in this regard. The graphic depiction of flesh-consumption, after all—which is par for the course in “The Walking Dead”—has a way of demarcating sharply the boundary lines between viewers and non-viewers. It is not a show for the squeamish.

And yet, beyond the graphic nature of its spectacle (which only serves as a visual reinforcement of the life-and-death tension that permeates the show’s storyline), “The Walking Dead” is a quality television show because of its dialogue, its characters, its emotional intensity and depth, and its daring efforts to address themes that are as relational as they are theological. Some of those themes are these:

The Theme of Spiritual Awakening: The show’s main character, Rick Grimes (played with great subtlety by Andrew Lincoln) emerges from a coma only to discover an apocalyptic environment that, at first, he is left to interpret on his own. Rick’s awakening becomes a metaphor for the heightened spiritual and relational attentiveness by which all of the survivors must now approach the frightening new world in which they find themselves. Put simply, survival now depends upon the characters’ willingness to lay aside the comfortable numbness that their previous existence could accommodate in order to embrace a heightened level of awareness that will enable them to become pilgrims on a journey instead of cogs in a cultural machine.

The Theme of the Second Chance: “Maybe we got a second chance,” protagonist Rick Grimes says to his wife (from whom he had been somewhat estranged prior to the apocalypse), “Not many people get that.” Call it redemption. Call it conversion. Call it an ironic experience of a new lease on life amidst a mind-boggling scenario of relentless death. Rick’s words bear witness to the show’s undergirding theme of an unexpected—and perhaps unmerited—second chance. Like Moses, Noah, and the Apostle Paul relying upon biblical grace, the survivors in “The Walking Dead” are saved by a mystery that has afforded to them the opportunity to live anew amidst widespread death.

The Theme of the Urgency of Community: In a moment of discernment, Rick offers this salient observation: “There’s us and the dead. We survive this by pulling together, not apart.” In one sense, of course, Rick’s reference to “the dead” is an allusion to the zombies. But might his words also suggest that even the survivors become “dead” (spiritually speaking) when they harden themselves to the possibility of relationship and community? Survival in “The Walking Dead” is absolutely dependent upon one’s willingness to look beyond one’s individual needs and preferences in order to labor for the good of the community. Such a theme resonates with particular vibrancy in a culture (and, for that matter, a church) that often champions a cold self-sufficiency over relational intimacy.

The Theme of Living Versus Surviving: The character of Shane summarizes post-apocalyptic life in this fashion: “We are surviving here. It’s day by day.” Shane’s words serve as a poignant reminder of the vast difference between surviving and living. Those who survive do what is necessary to get by. Those who LIVE, however, are available to the surprising joy and vitality that often hide themselves in the nooks and crannies of a painful journey. “The Walking Dead” recognizes that a willingness to settle for mere physical survival will result in a spiritual somnambulism that is tantamount to death. In that case, the “walking dead” is as much a reference to the survivors as it is to the zombies.

I am uncertain of what it says about me that my favorite show on television revolves around desperate human souls attempting to live (and not simply survive) in a world of flesh-eating zombies. Perhaps I am drawn to the stark yet artistic juxtaposition of life and death that “The Walking Dead” consistently maintains. Or maybe I am simply a sucker for a television show that dares to make the zombie a metaphor for a world that is all too familiar to us—the kind of world that eats its inhabitants.

Whatever my motivation, I’ll be there on Sunday at 10:00, rooting for the community as it attempts to cultivate life in a world where a spirit of death is all too common.

Sounds a little bit like the church, doesn’t it?

November of 2010 marks the 37th anniversary of the release of “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.” I watched it every year during my childhood. These days (in my “adult childhood”) I still make it a point to watch it every November.

Last year, I offered a post that described my favorite details of this wonderfully entertaining and socially significant cartoon. What follows is a reprint of that post, with a few additions.

Here are some of my favorite components of “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving:”

-SNOOPY’S BATTLE WITH THE ORNERY LAWN CHAIR—Tapping into the frustration that most of us have experienced with uncooperative folding lawn furniture, Snoopy’s passionate fight with the anthropomorphic chair ranks as one of the great moments in the history of animation. I think about that scene whenever I have difficulty opening up the folding chairs at church—which is often.

-FRANKLIN’S UNIQUE GREETING WHEN ENTERING THE HOME OF CHARLIE BROWN—When Peppermint Patty and Marcie come through the door, they greet Charlie Brown with simple hellos. But when Franklin, the only African-American boy in the story, comes into the house, he and Charlie Brown exchange a pronounced and audible slap of hands. In light of the fact that this was 1973, such a greeting was a slap heard round the world—one that signaled the arrival of a new age of race relations, even in the world of animation.

-SNOOPY’S PANICKED EXPRESSION WHEN HEARING THE INVITATION TO PRAY OVER DINNER—Peppermint Patty calls for someone to pray over the Thanksgiving meal. Snoopy, in a split-second response, looks suddenly panicked, as though he’s afraid that someone will look to him for the prayerful words. That split-second makes me laugh every year, if for no other reason than its illumination of a spiritually reluctant family pet.

-SNOOPY’S TOASTED EAR—While preparing for Thanksgiving Dinner, Woodstock the bird accidentally puts Snoopy’s ear in the toaster, then butters it. Such bold and risky physical comedy can only be described as Chaplin-esque!

-WOODSTOCK’S FONDNESS FOR POULTRY—It hit me in late elementary school that, in the closing scene, when Snoopy and Woodstock sit down for a turkey dinner, Woodstock was actually committing a form of cannibalism before my very eyes! I wonder if the turkey was accompanied by some fava beans and a nice chianti.

-AN ECLECTIC THANKSGIVING MEAL—The actual meal that Charlie Brown serves to his friends includes jellybeans, pretzels, popcorn, and toast—just like the pilgrims ate.

-LINUS’ PRAYER—When Linus quotes the prayer that was prayed by Elder William Brewster at the first Thanksgiving meal, it is the only moment in the entire animation that his security blanket is not visible. What a winsomely subtle way of making the point that, when Linus experiences the security of prayer, he doesn’t need the blanket.

-THE SPONTANEOUS REJOICING—When the children receive word that they are all invited to Charlie Brown’s grandmother’s house for a real Thanksgiving dinner, they erupt with a joyful fervency normally reserved for Steeler games and Pentecostal worship services. Even Snoopy is jubilant, and he’s not even invited.

-THE COMPLICATED FLIRTATION—Peppermint Patty’s aggressive crush on Charlie Brown, counterbalanced by her dysfunctional tendency to rely on Marcy as a communicational go-between, puts Charlie Brown in mysterious and often confusing territory in the matter of romance. And yet, when Patty utilizes a simple handshake as an opportunity to point out that “you’re holding my hand, Chuck, you sly dog,” I am always inspired to smile at the labyrinthine politics of romantic flirtation.

-THE REALISTIC SINGING—In the car, when the children sing “Over the River and Through the Woods,” they are neither unified in their tempo nor disciplined about their tonality—meaning that they sounded exactly like every group of singing children that I have ever heard (except for the Jackson 5 and that time that the Brady Bunch kids became the Silver Platters).

-THE EMPHASIS ON REMEMBERING OUR HISTORY—When Snoopy and Woodstock don their pilgrim outfits, and when Linus recites the Brewster prayer, these peculiar little animated characters make a compelling case for the urgency of remembered history.

-GREAT SPECIAL EFFECTS—Snoopy’s impressive game of ping pong against himself makes Forrest Gump look like a bumbling novice!

-THE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF THE CULTURAL MOVEMENT TOWARD THE SUBUBRS—“There’s only one problem with that song,” Charlie Brown says about the bucolic “Over the River and Through the Woods.”

“What’s that, Charlie Brown?”

“My grandmother lives in a condominium!”

By uttering those six words, Charlie Brown concludes the production with a bold and prophetic acknowledgement of the frightening implications of suburban sprawl—implications that still carry substantive weight, even thirty-seven years later.

There’s a movie out these days called “Avatar.”

Perhaps you’ve heard of it!

Much of the conversation surrounding “Avatar” has focused on the brilliant filmmaking technology that it represents. Its mind-boggling financial success has also occupied many a Hollywood blog.

Beneath these more obvious layers of cinematic discourse, however, there is a conversation that interests me even more. It is a conversation about the film’s theology.

And make no mistake about it, “Avatar” presents a theological narrative that demands the attention of anyone who is willing to invest the time (2 hours and 37 minutes) and money (about 15 dollars) that the film requires.

It would be accurate, I think, to describe “Avatar’s” theology as a modified or at least nuanced pantheism that blends a nature-friendly scientific worldview with a willingness to assign a divine identity to the natural world. Pantheism (which literally means “God is all” or, perhaps more specifically, “all is God”) is not a new phenomenon. It finds its roots in ideas that were embraced by practitioners of pre-Christian Stoicism and Epicureanism—two philosophies that were vastly different in content but similar in their theological treatment of the natural world.

While pantheism has found a variety of expressions and proponents throughout its history, at the core of its message is the conviction that deity does not exist independently of nature. Rather, in pantheism, the Creator and the Creation are joined in the same kind of mystical and relational intimacy that Christians have always recognized in the relationship between Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

For the Christian, to speak of one person of the Trinity is also to speak of the other two persons, since, in Christian theology, the three persons of the Trinity are of one being, one essence, and one nature. In much the same way, for the pantheist, to speak of nature is to speak of the deity that created it (and vice versa), since, in the pantheistic worldview, Creator and Creation are joined together in one identity, one consciousness, one reality. A pantheist will approach nature, not as a product of God to be stewarded, but as a portion of God that is to be engaged in relationship.

New York Times’ columnist Ross Douthat has rightly observed (in this column) that “pantheism has been Hollywood’s religion of choice for a generation now.” Douthat maintains that pantheism was what “Kevin Costner discovered when he went dancing with wolves. It’s the metaphysic woven through Disney cartoons like ‘The Lion King’ and ‘Pocahontas.’ And it’s the dogma of George Lucas’s Jedi, whose mystical Force ‘surrounds us, penetrates us, and binds the galaxy together.’”

There are probably many different reasons for Hollywood’s fondness for pantheistic sensibilities, not the least of which is that pantheism does not require the naming of a particular deity (which makes it far more theologically palatable to Hollywood than what is often interpreted as a socially divisive Christocentrism). In fact, even atheist moviegoers can buy into pantheism, since, in one sense, the only kind of worship and rebirth that pantheism requires is a reverence for nature and the awakening of an environmentally-sensitive consciousness.

Pantheism, in other words, is seen as an acceptable spiritual common denominator in a theologically diverse culture. In the eyes of many, it brings profundity without dogma; transcendence without complicated sovereignty; revelation without painful conversion; theophany without prophetic demands. In the words of Ross Douthat, “Pantheism opens a path to numinous experience for people uncomfortable with the literal-mindedness of the monotheistic religions…For anyone who pines for transcendence but recoils at the idea of a demanding Almighty who interferes in human affairs, this is an ideal combination.”

It is not at all difficult to discern the pantheistic sensibilities and presuppositions that permeate the narrative of “Avatar.” The film, in many ways, gives expression to the idea that it is not religion that has to catch up to science and technology. Rather, according to “Avatar,” it is the other way around. Science and technology much catch up with (pantheistic) religion in order to be able to live within appropriate boundaries and understandings.

“Avatar” places before its audience a rich and colorful new world—the planet Pandora—the inhabitants of which (the Na’vi) live by a mystical pantheism that maintains that all life (plant and animal) is a part of the same “energy” that must be nurtured and one day given back to its source. The Na’vi’s most revered altar is the holy “Tree of Souls,” a natural sanctuary where the community gathers for sacred rites and special revelation.

At the heart of the Na’vi’s pantheism is a belief in the goddess Ewya, whose essence manifests itself in the oneness that exists between all living things and who is honored when all living things are in the appropriate relationship and balance with one another. As Neytiri (the film’s primary female Na’vi) puts it, “Our great mother Eywa does not take sides, she only protects the balance of life.”

The villain in “Avatar,” not surprisingly, is a corporation from earth that is interested in a precious resource that can only be mined on Pandora. With its technology and its militaristic methodology, the corporation, oblivious to the mystical oneness between the Na’vi and their natural surroundings, simply wants them to relocate so that they might exploit the land for their purposes. (Sound familiar?)

Interestingly, the scientific community that Earth has placed on Pandora begins to open its heart to the pantheistic realities preached by the Na’vi. Sigourney Weaver portrays Dr. Grace Augustine, a scientist whose name bears witness to her openness to further revelation. As the film moves toward its climax, Dr. Augustine offers a speech in which she reveals her conviction that the “primitive” Na’vi are actually onto something with their pantheism:

Those trees were sacred in a way you can’t imagine. I’m not talking about pagan voodoo here. I’m talking about something real and measurable in the biology of the forest. Alright, look — I don’t have the answers yet, I’m just now starting to even frame the questions. What we think we know is that there’s some kind of electrochemical communication between the roots of the trees. Like the synapses between neurons. Each tree has ten to the fourth connections to the trees around it, and there are ten to the twelfth trees on Pandora. That’s more connections than the human brain. You get it? It’s a network—a global network. And the Na’vi can access it—they can upload and download data and memories—at sites like the one you destroyed.

You need to wake up. The wealth of this world isn’t in the ground—it’s all around us. The Na’vi know that, and they’re fighting to defend it.

With that, the theological narrative of “Avatar” comes full circle. Science and religion join in the proclamation of a pantheistic reality in which nature and its inhabitants are connected in a theological symbiosis.

Critical to remember at this point is that the content of Old and New Testament Scripture (which, to be perfectly clear, is the content that I embrace and preach) does not give support to the pantheistic worldview. According to the Biblical narrative (from Genesis to Revelation), there has always been a distinct and revelatory separation between Creator and Creation. This separation exists, not for the purpose of communicating antipathy between the created order and its Source, but for the purpose of clarifying the identity of the One who creates. God the Creator, according to Scripture, is intimately related to the Creation (labeling it as good and going so far as to become incarnationally present in it), while at the same time maintaining transcendent authority over it (thereby guarding the integrity of his sovereignty).

The difference between pantheism and Christian theism lies in the definition of God’s position in the scheme of things. In pantheism, God, in an important sense, IS nature, so much so that to revere nature is to revere God him/herself. By contrast, Christian theism maintains that the person and identity of God exists independently of the natural order, thereby enabling God to be powerfully and redemptively at work WITHIN the natural order for the purpose of bringing all of creation to its intended state.

This difference between pantheism and Christian theology may also be described as the difference between PANTHEISM and PANENTHEISM. Pantheism maintains that all of nature IS God. By contrast, panENtheism (literally, “all in God”) maintains that, while God is separate from nature, all of nature is embraced by God’s scope and activity.

To suggest that all of nature is IN God is a proclamation that resonates in the worldview of Christian theism. Such panENtheism helps us to make sense of a biblical narrative that tells us that we are to steward the natural order and that all of creation is “groaning” for the redemption that God has provided in Jesus Christ. However, to suggest that God IS nature represents a distortion of the relationship between Creator and Creation that sets up a dangerous idolatry in humankind’s relationship with the created order.

Christian theists, therefore, must be prepared to recognize and name the pantheistic narrative by which “Avatar” operates. It need not prevent them from enjoying a spectacular film. But it behooves an audience to understand the theological import of the story it’s being told.

On the other hand, some are so eager to react negatively to what they consider to be the “green agenda” of the political left that they hastily and thoughtlessly demonize anything that smacks of environmental sensitivity. Some of these folks have weighed in on “Avatar” already, dismissing it as yet another product of a tree-hugging Hollywood.

Personally, I do not find such dismissiveness to be particularly helpful—or, for that matter, particularly Christian. The church, after all, has a long history of exploiting the created order. Much of this tendency toward exploitation is resultant of the church’s willingness to interpret the “dominion theology” of Genesis 1 as a Biblical license for an irresponsible domination of that which God has entrusted to the care of humankind. The effects of this exploitive domination are becoming clearer to us every day.

Given this reality, Christ-followers can ill-afford to be dismissive or arrogant concerning “Avatar’s” call to a deeper environmental sensitivity. While we may not agree with the way in which “Avatar” defines the relationship between the Almighty and nature, and while we might be a bit squeamish about the tenets of the Na’vi, we can and must find a right and prophetic message in the film’s call to an ever-deepening attentiveness to the environment and its care.

No one will walk away from “Avatar” with a clearer understanding of the way in which a sovereign God becomes incarnate through Jesus Christ and immanent through the work of the Holy Spirit. That is a Gospel that James Cameron simply will not preach. But his pantheistic “Avatar,” when interpreted through the filter of Scripture, becomes a powerful and richly-textured reminder to the Church that God takes the treatment of the natural world very, very personally.

That, in and of itself, is a beautiful and unsettling idea.

I have been intrigued by existentialist thought ever since my college years when I was exposed to the writings of its proponents.

Although it has found a variety of diverse expressions (which makes it difficult to define in succinct fashion), existentialism, as a system of thought, places the focus on the existence of the individual person as a free moral agent. Existentialism further maintains that one’s existence is essentially a personal journey of self-understanding and self-realization in which the individual person is called upon to respond to a wide variety of experiences, emotions, relationships, and circumstances. Such an emphasis upon individual and experiential existence places existentialism in stark contrast with rationalism (which locates all truth in the realm of the intellectual and deductive) and empiricism (which locates all truth in the realm of the tangibly discernable).

Existentialism stresses that one’s EXISTENCE precedes one’s ESSENCE, meaning that one’s essence is not a predetermined reality. Rather, according to existentialist thought, one’s essence is formed by the decisions, priorities, and actions of one’s individual pilgrimage (or existence).

My favorite existentialist thinker is Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855), who, as a Christ-follower, brought to existentialism a uniquely Christocentric focus. In his classic book, “Either/Or,” Kierkegaard offers an observation that has haunted me for years—one that captures the existential lostness from which, according to Kierkegaard, all of us are longing to be delivered:

This is what is sad when one contemplates human life, that so many live out their lives in quiet lostness…they live, as it were, away from themselves and vanish like shadows. Their immortal souls are blown away, and they are not disquieted by the question of its immortality, because they are already disintegrated before they die.
(from “Either/Or,” vol. 2, “Balance Between Esthetic and Ethical”)

Kierkegaard’s description of this existential lostness is inseparably connected to his soteriology (his doctrine of salvation). For Kierkegaard, as a Christian existentialist, being lost means being separated from our authentic selves in such a way that we “vanish like shadows.” Likewise, for Kierkegaard, being “saved” means making the decisions and engaging in the actions that will enable us to become authentically ourselves (authentically, in other words, who we were created to be).

Why am I raising the issue of existentialist thought in the middle of a mild-mannered blog post? Simply because I just watched what can only be described as an existentialist film, one that sheds important light upon one man’s existential crisis and subsequent search for meaning.

The film I am describing is “Up in the Air,” director and co-writer Jason Reitman’s clever and insightful cinematic treatment of one man’s discovery of his own lostness. The film features George Clooney portraying Ryan Bingham, a well-paid and well-traveled corporate hatchet man who has made a career out of informing people that they are fired.

The problem is that the difficult responsibilities of his career have forced Bingham into an isolated existence (one that he has protected for years with casual sex, alienated relationships, and an excessive pattern of traveling that prevents him from having to stay in one place for too long). Left unanswered is this compelling question: Did Bingham became a corporate hatchet man because of his proclivity to social isolation, or did he become socially isolated because of his career? The moviegoer is left to formulate his or her own conclusions concerning the order of this existential progression.

Three factors compel Bingham to question everything that his life has become. First, his company discovers that people can be fired much more cheaply via the medium of online conferencing, meaning that Bingham’s weekly traveling (a key component of his identity) is no longer a necessity. Second, Bingham develops a reluctant friendship with Natalie Keener (played by Anna Kendrick), an aspiring corporate climber whose cold-hearted ambition unsettles Bingham and compels him to reflect upon his own priorities and motivations. Third, much to his dismay, Bingham begins to experience an emotional connection (and subsequent vulnerability) in his relationship with the striking Alex Goran (brought to vibrant life by Vera Farmiga), another frequent traveler who awakens Bingham to the emotional depths that his life choices have prevented him from experiencing.

In the early portion of the film, Bingham’s favorite and foundational image is the image of an empty backpack, which serves as a metaphor for the unencumbered and emotionally streamlined life that he thinks he wants. As the film progresses, however, Bingham’s “empty backpack” becomes as oppressive as Jacob Marley’s chain. He begins to realize that the weight of emptiness is far more crippling and debilitating than the weight of authentic intimacy.

But can one make an existential change in the middle of one’s life? Will a backpack that has been shaped by its emptiness be able to accommodate the accumulation of unfamiliar baggage? Will the people and circumstances in one’s life permit such a conversion? And will it last? These are the important questions that “Up in the Air” addresses. As a title, “Up in the Air” describes, not only the extensive traveling of the main character, but the uncertain status of his existential pilgrimage.

After seeing the film, I find myself examining the content of my own backpack. What relationships are in there? What vocational decisions? What hopes and dreams and prayers? What regrets and failures? Which heavy items in the backpack are authentically mine to carry, and which items do I keep in there because of my stubborn refusal to throw them away? Is my backpack as meaningfully filled as it could be, or is it cluttered and poorly packed? Do I utilize my backpack for the purpose of traveling to redemptive places, or do I utilize it for the purpose of running away?

These are the existential questions in which I am living today. They are questions that pave the way from Kierkegaard to Clooney, from philosophical exploration to cinematic realism. Most importantly, they are questions that demand the attention of anyone who longs to be truly self-aware and self-actualized, which is the goal, not only of the existentialist, but the holistic Christ-follower.

November of 2009 marks the 36th anniversary of the release of “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.” I watched it every year during my childhood. These days (in my “adult childhood”) I still make it a point to watch it every November.

Last year, I offered a post that described my favorite details of this wonderfully entertaining and socially significant cartoon. What follows is a reprinting of that post, with a few additions.

Here are some of my favorite components of “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving:”

-SNOOPY’S BATTLE WITH THE ORNERY LAWN CHAIR—Tapping into the frustration that most of us have experienced with uncooperative folding lawn furniture, Snoopy’s passionate fight with the anthropomorphic chair ranks as one of the great moments in the history of animation. I think about that scene whenever I have difficulty opening up the folding chairs at church—which is often.

-FRANKLIN’S UNIQUE GREETING WHEN ENTERING THE HOME OF CHARLIE BROWN—When Peppermint Patty and Marcie come through the door, they greet Charlie Brown with simple hellos. But when Franklin, the only African-American boy in the story, comes into the house, he and Charlie Brown exchange a pronounced and audible slap of hands. In light of the fact that this was 1973, such a greeting was a slap heard round the world—one that signaled the arrival of a new age of race relations, even in the world of animation.

-SNOOPY’S PANICKED EXPRESSION WHEN HEARING THE INVITATION TO PRAY OVER DINNER—Peppermint Patty calls for someone to pray over the Thanksgiving meal. Snoopy, in a split-second response, looks suddenly panicked, as though he’s afraid that someone will look to him for the prayerful words. That split-second makes me laugh every year, if for no other reason than its illumination of a spiritually reluctant family pet.

-SNOOPY’S TOASTED EAR—While preparing for Thanksgiving Dinner, Woodstock the bird accidentally puts Snoopy’s ear in the toaster, then butters it. Such bold and risky physical comedy can only be described as Chaplin-esque!

-WOODSTOCK’S FONDNESS FOR POULTRY—It hit me in late elementary school that, in the closing scene, when Snoopy and Woodstock sit down for a turkey dinner, Woodstock was actually committing a form of cannibalism before my very eyes! I wonder if the turkey was accompanied by some fava beans and a nice chianti.

-AN ECLECTIC THANKSGIVING MEAL—The actual meal that Charlie Brown serves to his friends includes jellybeans, pretzels, popcorn, and toast—just like the pilgrims ate.

-LINUS’ PRAYER—When Linus quotes the prayer that was prayed by Elder William Brewster at the first Thanksgiving meal, it is the only moment in the entire animation that his security blanket is not visible. What a winsomely subtle way of making the point that, when Linus experiences the security of prayer, he doesn’t need the blanket.

-THE SPONTANEOUS REJOICING—When the children receive word that they are all invited to Charlie Brown’s grandmother’s house for a real Thanksgiving dinner, they erupt with a joyful fervency normally reserved for Steeler games and Pentecostal worship services. Even Snoopy is jubilant, and he’s not even invited.

-THE COMPLICATED FLIRTATION—Peppermint Patty’s aggressive crush on Charlie Brown, counterbalanced by her dysfunctional tendency to rely on Marcy as a communicational go-between, puts Charlie Brown in mysterious and often confusing territory in the matter of romance. And yet, when Patty utilizes a simple handshake as an opportunity to point out that “you’re holding my hand, Chuck, you sly dog,” I am always inspired to smile at the labyrinthine politics of romantic flirtation.

-THE REALISTIC SINGING—In the car, when the children sing “Over the River and Through the Woods,” they are neither unified in their tempo nor disciplined about their tonality—meaning that they sounded exactly like every group of singing children that I have ever heard (except for the Jackson 5 and that time that the Brady Bunch kids became the Silver Platters).

-THE EMPHASIS ON REMEMBERING OUR HISTORY—When Snoopy and Woodstock don their pilgrim outfits, and when Linus recites the Brewster prayer, these peculiar little animated characters make a compelling case for the urgency of remembered history.

-GREAT SPECIAL EFFECTS—Snoopy’s impressive game of ping pong against himself makes Forrest Gump look like a bumbling novice!

-THE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF THE MOVEMENT TO SUBURBIA—“There’s only one problem with that song,” Charlie Brown says about the bucolic “Over the River and Through the Woods.”

“What’s that, Charlie Brown?”

“My grandmother lives in a condominium!”

By uttering those six words, Charlie Brown concludes the production with a bold and prophetic acknowledgement of the frightening implications of suburban sprawl—implications that still carry substantive weight, even thirty-six years later.

OK, from the “just for giggles” department…

If you know me well, then you are aware of my peculiar fondness for the experience of being frightened. Those who harbor a similar fondness will understand the dynamic to which I am making reference. We are the people who gravitate toward literature, television, and cinema that take us beneath the surface level of life in order to explore unsettling mysteries and horrifying scenarios—hauntings, hobgoblins, and things that go bump in the night.

Some of my Christ-following sisters and brothers have had a difficult time making sense of this particular proclivity. One of my friends, for example, recently invoked Philippians 4:8: “I thought that we were supposed to be thinking about whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable! How do you square that with your fascination with the macabre?” Of course, I should point out that the friend who asked me this question is practically addicted to televised vacuousness (better known as “Dancing with the Stars” and “The Bachelor”), thereby helping us to remember that “pure and lovely” always reside in the eye of the beholder.

Truth be told, it is not my intention to justify or defend my proclivity. It is what it is. I seem to have come into this world with an innate predilection for exploring narratives that are unsettling and stories that venture into dark places. I will trust you to understand that this does not mean that I am glorifying evil, celebrating wickedness, or even magnifying the monstrous. In fact, I feel free to explore such stories and narratives without any real (or at least lasting) fear precisely because of my conviction that the Lordship of Jesus Christ holds perfect authority over every evil that this world might place before us. With that blessed assurance securely in place, a frightening film becomes for me a playful, imaginative, and cathartic journey into the land of (macabre) make-believe.

So, having offered that Christocentric disclaimer, allow me to ask you a question that seems to resonate with appropriateness on this October 31st:

What have been the films that have frightened you most over the years–the films that have brought to into an exhilarating and enlivening sense of cinematic anxiety?

Although it has been a couple of years, I have shared my personal list of such films in previous blog posts. I offer my list once again (updated and augmented) in the hope that it will inspire some playfully scary memories, not to mention some light conversation.

Here are the films that have scared my proverbial socks off, in no particular order:

“The Exorcist” (1973)
This film is replete with some of the most horrifying cinematic moments that I have ever experienced. Though certainly a bona fide horror film, the film’s pacing, dialogue, and acting are far more reflective of a well-crafted drama. The coldly manipulative and dreadfully eloquent phrases offered by “the devil” create a sense of palpable spiritual tension, especially since they are starkly juxtaposed with the vulnerability and brokenness of the people to whom the phrases are offered. Lastly, Linda Blair’s bold performance forever changed the way I think about both the human spinal column and pea soup.

“The Changeling” (1980)
A memorable haunted house film starring George C. Scott. It is a film that compels the viewer to understand that, in the right setting, even old wheelchairs and rubber balls can become something terrifying.

“Halloween” (1978)
This is a small but effective film that wisely resists the temptation to say too much about its villain or his motives (a fact that has escaped Rob Zombie in his recent remakes). The film simply puts a mysterious and, apparently, motive-less villain in front of us, throws an old Captain Kirk mask on him, and compels us to be terrified.

“Psycho” (1960)
I still have to keep an eye on the door when I shower! Enough said.

“Seven” (1995)
Although more of a frightening crime drama than a horror film, “Seven” nevertheless provides several occasions of true cinematic horror. Personally, I find it to be a better film than “Silence of the Lambs,” to which it is often compared.

“Alien” and “Aliens” (1979 and 1986)
I place these two films together because they work in much they same way. By creating a powerful sense of claustrophobia, a dreadful network of circumstances, a number of interesting characters, and a way cool monster, the films stand as a couple of the finest “monster movies” ever made. Along with…

“Jaws” (1975)
Years ago, when we first purchased a DVD player, my wife Tara asked me if I wanted her to buy our very first DVD on her way home from work. I said yes. She asked me which one to buy. I told her to buy a gripping classic that would be both fun and exciting to watch. She came home with “Jaws,” thereby proving once again that she’s the coolest woman on the planet. Put simply, “Jaws” rocks. Speaking of which, did you about the woman from “Jaws” who had a dandruff problem?…………. They found her head and shoulders on the beach! (I’ve been using that joke since 1975!)

“The Ring” (2002)
I know, I know. “It’s not as good as the original Japanese film, ‘Ringu.’” But, having seen both, I just don’t buy that. I’ll take “The Ring” over “Ringu” any day. During my first viewing of the film, when Samara actually crawled out of the television set, I yelped like a crazy man and whispered to Tara, “That’s one of the scariest things that I have ever seen!”

“The Shining” (1980)
This, by the way, is also one of my favorite Stephen King novels. As a film—and, more specifically, as a film brought to life by a visionary director like Stanley Kubrick—it grabbed my attention and never let go. I find it to be a brilliant story about ghosts, family dynamics, and one man’s rapid descent into madness. Plus, it is some of Scatman Crothers’ best work since Hong Kong Phooey.

“Rosemary’s Baby” (1968)
Ostensibly a story about the spawn of Satan, this film also creates a portrait of social alienation among Manhattan’s elite. Quite frankly, I’m not sure which storyline is more terrifying!

“Fright Night” and “The Lost Boys” (1985 and 1987)
These are not stellar films. But it didn’t feel right to create a list like this without putting a couple of vampire films on it. These two films contain a wonderful combination of campy fun and genuine jolts. That’s the tooth, and nothing but the tooth.

“American Werewolf in London” (1981)
Humor and horror, in my opinion, are never far away from one another. Do you need proof? Look no further than “American Werewolf in London.” Throughout the film, I found myself simultaneously giggling and covering my eyes. Plus, this film offers the best “transformation into a werewolf” scene that you will ever see.

“Exorcist III” (1990)
Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. This clever film is a well-crafted piece of work that captures some of the depth and dread of “The Exorcist” while at the same time exploring some new territory. Unfortunately, its final segment betrays the film’s earlier integrity. But this does not change the fact that the film is genuinely and creatively terrifying.

“The Orphanage” (2007)
This is a smart and cleverly-written ghost story that brilliantly juxtaposes the security of a mother’s love and the spiritual unsettledness of a memory-laden (and, by the way, genuinely haunted) home for children.

“The Sixth Sense” (1999)
Is this film really a frightening drama or a dramatic horror film? Who cares?! All I know is that, when I saw it a second time, the scary scenes still gave me goosebumps, even though I knew they were coming. That’s the mark of a truly haunting film.

“When a Stranger Calls” (1979)
When the innocent babysitter hears that ominous question from the mysterious caller—”Have you checked the children?”—I am always pulled into the depths of her fear and helpless vulnerability. Later, when she discovers that the calls are coming from inside the house, I normally lose control of my bodily functions.

“Paranormal Activity” and “Paranormal Activity 2″ (2009 and 2010)
Nicely structured and cheaply made films in which young couples attempt to capture evidence of a haunting in their house through the use of a video camera. Since most of the manifestations of the haunting occur at night while the couples are asleep, the film succeeds in taking one of our most comfortable and vulnerable conditions—sleep—and transforming it into something utterly dreadful.

“1408″ (2007)
A creepy hotel room with a ghostly history, coupled with an exceptional performance from John Cusack, make this a refreshing and haunting treatment of the haunted house genre. Let’s just say that, after a night in room 1408, bedbugs don’t seem like so much of a threat anymore.

Thanks for taking the time to read through my list. I hope that it was a fun trip for you. Perhaps you would like to add to it.

Enjoy your Halloween–-and have a couple of good scares while you’re at it.

Back in 1981, I read William Golding’s novel “Lord of the Flies” (published in 1954) for the very first time. A harrowing story about a group of children and youth stranded on an uninhabited island following a plane crash, “Lord of the Flies” posits the viewpoint that, without societal structures and adult supervision, most young people will succumb to their savage proclivities. As a 9th grader, I remember being deeply but meaningfully unsettled by Golding’s literary exploration of the possibility that human beings, at their core, are not inevitably moral (as Enlightenment thought consistently maintained). Rather, according to “Lord of the Flies,” human beings are only a few laws removed from bloodthirsty savagery.

On Monday afternoon, Tara and I saw a film that reminded me of “Lord of the Flies” in its anthropological implications. That film was “District 9,” directed and co-written by South African filmmaker, Neill Blomkamp.

On its surface, “District 9” is a science fictional story of refugee aliens who come to earth searching for a new beginning on a new planet. As the film unfolds, the spectacle of the science fiction gives way to unsettling social commentary as the human community, resentful and fearful of the otherworldly outsiders, begins to force the aliens into a barbaric and militarized refugee slum called “District 9.”

Enforcing the boundaries of “District 9” in often brutal fashion is a munitions corporation called “Multi-National United” (MNU). MNU’s management of aliens is overseen by Wikus van der Merwe, a mild-mannered operative and the film’s protagonist. At the heart of the film is Wikus’ personal and reluctant transformation (the specifics of which I will refrain from describing) that enables him to see things from the perspective of a hunted and enslaved alien.

The fact that the action in “District 9” takes place, not in New York or Washington, D.C., but in Johannesburg, South Africa gives to the film a contextual freshness normally absent in the cultural myopia of most American-made science fiction. The South African setting, with the horrific injustice of apartheid still fresh in the memory of the global community, brings an historical heaviness to the matter of social unrest between species (instead of races).

In fact, in one of its most subtle but powerful artistic devices, “District 9,” which is shot in the style of a documentary, regularly introduces its audience to people who experienced firsthand the injustices of apartheid and yet do not hesitate to perpetuate the same kind of injustice against the aliens.

I can only conclude that, in creating such a cinematic scenario, “District 9” is suggesting what Golding’s “Lord of the Flies” suggested way back in the year 1954—specifically, that the experience of evil will not make human beings more prone to resisting the evil when it comes around again. Quite the contrary, according to the author and filmmaker in question, the “lord of the flies” (which is a naming of the evil that Golding perceived in all human hearts) will find expression whenever people give to this “lord” the opportunity to flourish without boundaries. This evil can find a comfortable home on an island populated by children surviving a plane crash. It can also find a comfortable home in the dynamics surrounding an alien refugee camp called “District 9.”

The only way out of the dark oppression of the human proclivity to apartheid, suggests “District 9,” is to become (in some fashion) the ones we are endeavoring to oppress. The film brings tangibility to this process of “oppressor BECOMING the oppressed” in a way that I will not reveal in this post. But the lingering questions for the moviegoer are more spiritual in nature: “How can I experience this ‘becoming’ on a personal level? How can I experience the kind of personal oneness with those who are marginalized and oppressed that would enable me to see things from their perspective and thereby resist the temptation to participate in the perpetuation of their oppression?”

Interestingly, I have always believed that such “becoming” is what Jesus references when he tells us in Matthew 25 that “what we do to the least of these we do to [him].” He is telling us, in order to be fully invested in the kingdom he came to inaugurate, we must resist the temptation to treat the marginalized as “other.” Instead, we must be perpetually aware of the oneness that Christ experiences even with the least soul (because of his intimacy with every portion of the created order). In turn, our recognition of Christ’s solidarity with the marginalized equips us with the spiritual wherewithal to “become” marginalized ourselves, at least in the sense of standing with the marginalized on the sacred ground of their journey. When we do so, we are standing, not only with other souls, but with Christ himself.

In “District 9,” people are not willing to see the face of Jesus (or, for that matter, the face of anyone) in the “prawns” (which is the derogatory name given to the aliens because of their crustacean appearance). The fact that the film rings so true in its depiction of the human community reminds me that we have a long way to go.

Allow me to set the scene:

It was April of 1971. I can place the scene that specifically because, at the time, I was busy playing with the new G.I. Joe that I had just gotten as a gift for my fifth birthday (April 2, 1971).

The television was on in the living room, but I wasn’t really paying attention to it. I was far more interested in figuring out how to get the machete to stay in G.I. Joe’s hard plastic hand—no small task, given the fact that this was pre-kung fu grip.

Suddenly, words that I had never heard before began to permeate the ambience of our comfortable living room: “Space. The final frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise…” With G.I. Joe and his machete in my hands, I stared at the television screen, attempting to make sense of this unfamiliar show about spacemen and starships.

“Mom,” I said, “what show is this?” She came into the living room from the kitchen and looked at the screen. “Oh,” she said, “your brother and sister used to watch this show. I think it’s called ‘Star Track’ or something like that. But they cancelled it a couple years back, so you probably won’t be seeing reruns like this for very long.”

My mother was right about this much: The show had indeed been cancelled in 1969 after only three seasons. It had already found its way to syndication by 1971, much to the delight of a certain child in Grove City, Pennsylvania.

As a five-year-old, my fondness for all things frightening had already manifested itself as a portion of my personality, which made that evening’s episode of “Star Trek” all the more appealing to me. Entitled “Who Mourns for Adonais,” the episode begins with a rather terrifying scene in which a giant hand in space—or, more specifically, a concentrated energy field in the form of a giant hand—grips the hull of the Enterprise and holds the starship captive.

I was instantaneously transfixed. I mean, think about it: A cool space ship. Adventurous space travelers. And a giant scary hand. What more does a five-year-old imagination need?!

As the episode unfolded, there was much more that captured my attention. There was mind-boggling technology (including the “beaming down” of a landing party):

There was impressive gadgetry (including the liberal usage of the way-cool type 2 phaser):

There was a powerful and intimidating alien named Apollo who claimed to be a deity (which, of course, led Captain Kirk to theorize that aliens like Apollo had perhaps once visited ancient Greek culture, thereby initiating what we now know as Greek mythology):

There were some heavy-duty action scenes, including a moment in which Apollo blasts an impetuous Scotty with an energy beam that sends him sprawling in dramatic fashion:

And, of course, there was the ingenuity of Captain James Tiberius Kirk, which, in the end, always seems to win the day:

To say that my experience that night with “Star Trek” was love at first sight would be a gross understatement. Throughout the 1970’s I saw every episode at least five times (since reruns were televised two or three times a day). I had every model, every toy, every action figure. I would regularly convert my family’s living room into the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. The television would be the main screen. The stereo would be Mr. Spock’s station. The coffee table would be the helm. And my Dad’s lazy boy would be the captain’s chair. It all seemed perfectly reasonable to me!

“Star Trek” figured prominently in the formation of my imagination, my sensibilities, and even my conceptualization of the human pilgrimage. The multi-racial (and even multi-planetary) crew on the bridge of the Enterprise introduced me to an environment in which people really are judged “not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” The storylines compelled my young mind to ponder everything from nuclear proliferation to overpopulation—everything from the merits of non-interference to the question of what to do with rapidly-multiplying Tribbles. Best of all, the relationships between the main characters (particularly Kirk, Spock, and McCoy) deepened my appreciation for the creative nexus of nobility, duty, wit, sarcasm, and passion.

To put it as simply as I can put it, I cannot think of my childhood without also thinking about the “Star Trek” narrative.

And now, here I am, decades later, a United Methodist pastor in 2009. And what did I do on Friday night? I went with my beautiful wife to see “Star Trek” in a local movie theater. We spent the evening with some familiar friends: Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Scotty, Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, and the Starship Enterprise.

And we loved every minute of it.

The new “Star Trek” film is a cleverly-crafted and brilliantly-filmed retooling of the “Star Trek” universe that dynamically throws open (wide open, in fact) the door to much more storytelling about the famous starship and her brave crew. As a prequel that explores the youth and young adulthood of the main characters, the film strikes an effective balance between poignancy and playfulness; between reverence for the existing narrative and willingness to explore new territory; and between science fiction and sociological probing.

If you are already a fan of the Trek, the film will feel like a much-needed cinematic homecoming. And if the appeal of Trek has eluded you in the past, the film may very well be good enough to convince you to reconsider your relationship to Starfleet.

The film made me feel like a kid again, and that means a great deal to this humble old pewboy (who’s been feeling way too adult in recent days). Over the next several days or weeks, if I accidentally refer to my iPhone as a tricorder and my vehicle as the Galileo Shuttlecraft, I hope that you will understand.

In the early 1980’s, something significant happened in my life: I drifted away from the practice of reading comic books. I describe this as something significant because I am someone who learned to read with a Bible in one hand and a comic book in the other. Throughout the 1970’s, comic books were instrumental in the development of my imagination, my fondness for well-constructed narrative, and my love for mythic archetypes.

But in the 1980’s, other things demanded my creative energy. I had to navigate my way through the complexities of adolescent angst, the passion of teenage romance, and the intensity of being a football player and wrestler in western Pennsylvania. Comic books didn’t fit easily into the world that I had created for myself. And so, without any clear and conscious decision on my part, Spider-Man, Superman, Batman, Iron Fist, and the X-Men were unceremoniously pushed into the margins of my personal milieu. I had created a social realm that left little room for the superheroes of my childhood.

I lived that way for four or maybe even five years. Then, in 1986, (during the first semester of my junior year of college), a friend of mine asked me if I had been reading the “Watchmen” series. “The what,” I asked. (Up to this point, the only “Watchmen” with which I was familiar was a group of Christian musicians out of Clymer, PA. I was pretty certain that this was not what he had in mind.)

My friend went on to explain to me that “Watchmen” was a 12-issue comic book limited series written by Alan Moore and brought to the page visually by artist Dave Gibbons.

“You have to read this series,” he said, “because it is one of the most creative and provocative comics that I have ever read.”

“But I haven’t read comics for years,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter,” he responded. “This doesn’t even read like a comic book. It reads like a novel that happens to be accompanied and embellished by some really cool illustrations. It will make you feel like you are reading something important.”

At his urging, I read it.

I liked it.

I really liked it.

In short, “Watchmen” made me believe in the power and potential of comic books again.

As a 42-year-old, I now collect 14 different monthly comic book titles. Every three months, I pay a visit to a small comic book store in Bridgeville, Pennsylvania where I purchase my “gems” and shoot the proverbial breeze with Lou (the proprietor and my official comic book guy) about matters of theology, culture, and superhero lore. I have come to understand that comic books are not throwaway literature designed simply to placate the imagination of children. Rather, as M. Night Shyamalan suggested in his film “Unbreakable,” comic books are the hieroglyphics of postmodern culture and the storytelling mechanism for an age that is desperately searching for an adequate mythos. Comic books, in other words, represent nothing less than a sophisticated art form that is both literary and visual in its expression.

Part of what makes “Watchmen” so unique is that it boldly and consistently rejects heroism in favor of anti-heroism. Instead of a noble Superman (modernism’s quintessential expression of the purely heroic), “Watchmen” gives us Dr. Manhattan, whose immense power is counterbalanced by his misanthropy and his inability to care about the very world in which he lives. Instead of a virtuous Batman, “Watchmen” gives us The Comedian (who is not above attempted rape) and, my personal favorite, Rorschach, (whose penchant for fighting crime is accompanied by an equally strong penchant for thuggery, violence, and rejection of authority). Instead of a regally pure Wonder Woman, “Watchmen” gives us “Silk Spectre,” an emotionally needy soul with severe daddy issues.

By favoring the anti-heroic over the purely heroic, “Watchmen” is the perfect comic book narrative for a postmodern generation that has come to question every one of its institutions (including the church, the government, marriage, and the Justice League of America). As such, “Watchmen” is an artistic doorway into a creative exploration of the skepticism and paranoia that currently saturate the ethos of American culture. In “Watchmen,” after all, most of the “heroes” have been outlawed by the government—a component of its plot that calls to mind a world in which heroes are just another institution not to trust.

In an era like ours in which the concept of heroism finds itself having to bear the strain of broken political promises, paparazzi-captured public meltdowns, and steroid investigations, “Watchmen” still plays like a well-crafted cautionary tale. “There is hope for this world,” proclaims the “Watchmen’s” narrative, “but it won’t come through a blind reliance upon your heroes.”

When seen through the lens of “Watchmen,” last year’s “The Dark Knight” film makes much more sense. We are no longer living in a world that can accommodate the unadulterated nobility of Adam West’s Batman. Rather, as “Watchmen” makes clear, it is time for the anti-heroism of Christian Bale’s Batman—a darkly-hued vigilante crimefighter that the police and public fear more than they celebrate.

“Watchmen” is a deconstruction of sorts. It tears down the archetype that had been embraced since the late 1930’s—the archetype of a righteous “super man” who serves as the defender of “truth, justice, and the American way”—and replaces it with a meta-narrative in which the protagonists are much less jingoistic, much less motivationally pure, and much less…well…heroic.

The characters in “Watchmen” are as complex as they are interesting. Its plotline is multi-layered in its themes and multi-textured in its tones. It never becomes so otherworldly that it loses its sense of realism, and it never takes itself so seriously that it jettisons its sense of whimsy.

The cultural and artistic significance of “Watchmen” is difficult to measure. At the very least, its story stands as a noteworthy signpost on the journey in which we continue to find ourselves—the journey from modernity into postmodernity. It was a compelling enough signpost to lead me back to comic books. For that I am grateful.

Artistically, “Watchmen” demands a great deal of anyone who wishes to relate to it, but, in the opinion of this humble pewboy, it is well worth the investment. Tonight, Tara and I will go to the movie with high hopes, believing that “the comic book that could never be made into a movie” has somehow found a way.