Perceptions from a Pewboy

In recent days, I have been journaling a great deal about my own self-centeredness—my frustrating penchant for slipping into the condition of believing that my journey is somehow all about me, my preferences, my comfort, my fulfillment.

When I enter into the deepest portions of introspection, I find within myself clear evidence of such self-centeredness. I also find it in the church. I find it in the manner in which people often discuss worship, stewardship, and mission (matters that are often approached with a spirit of narcissism rather than a spirit of obedience). I also find it in a world that would have us to believe that it is a good and healthy thing to satisfy every one of our appetites the moment it demands to be satisfied.

My reflections on the issue of rampant self-centeredness has inspired me to write a new song (which is often my way of processing things that are bigger than I can handle). My fear is that this song is far too “preachy” to be meaningful, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take for the sake of giving expression to what I hope is an authentically prophetic and accurate message.

The song is called, quite simply “Get Over Yourself.” Its message is for me as much as it is for anybody else. Here are the lyrics, for what they’re worth. I pray that they fall meaningfully upon your heart.

A story’s being told that’s very old
It’s a story that we hear from birth
“The fulfillment of our needs,” (so the story reads)
“Is the essence of a walk on earth”

Chorus:
Get over yourself
It’s not about you anyway
Why don’t you look past yourself
To see the panorama in which your life appears

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.

I am thanking God in particular fashion for my Mom and Dad, who celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary today, September 16th, 2009.

Mom and Dad were married at the Homestead United Methodist Church on a warm afternoon in 1949. Wow. That sounds so strange to say. Nineteen forty-nine.

Mom and Dad have taught me much in and through their marriage.

They have taught me that laughter and playfulness are nothing short of sacramental in the marital covenant. In fact, even as I type these words, I am chuckling over the very specific memories I have of laughing heartily, even uncontrollably, with Mom and Dad over life’s various absurdities. Their beautiful silliness and vibrant playfulness have always been contagious.

They have taught me that there really doesn’t have to be a “head of the house.” Long before I knew how to name what I was seeing in their marriage, Mom and Dad modeled for me a matrimony of covenantal partnership rather than spousal hierarchy. When decisions are to be made, Mom and Dad make them together, prayerfully, relationally, and with mutual respect. I have never had the sense that either Mom or Dad is seeking the upper hand in their relationship.

They have taught me about the urgency of consistency in our Christian witness. Or, to put it in the way that I normally prefer, Mom and Dad have never allowed there to be any inconsistency between who they are at church and who they are at the dinner table, and the living room, and the grocery store. The Lordship of Jesus holds authority, not only over their church involvement, but over every segment of their living.

They have taught me that being a Steeler fan brings a dimension of passion to one’s living that is as enlivening as it is fun.

They have taught me that good parenting means loving one’s kids just for showing up.

They have taught me that a family demands investment, sacrifice, and attentive time. I confess that, over the years, I took for granted the fact that Mom and Dad rarely missed one of my football games or wrestling matches or concerts. I’m not taking that for granted any more.

They have taught me that it is very illegal to set off firecrackers on the sand of Myrtle Beach. (Let’s just say that we all learned this the hard way!)

They have taught me that prayer is not simply an isolated activity, but a way of life. I am grateful for all the memories I have of seeing Mom and Dad in prayer. I’m even more grateful for the times that we’ve experienced such prayer together.

They have taught me that the joy of singing together as a family is not reserved for Shirley Partridge and her children.

They have taught me what it looks like to incarnate the biblical principle of being subject to one another out of reverence for Christ. In fact, the only competition that Mom and Dad have consistently maintained with one another over the years is the competition of outdoing one another in servanthood.

They have taught me what the vow “in sickness and in health” really means. These days, when I see the way in which Mom cares for Dad in his Alzheimer’s journey, and when I see the way my Dad looks lovingly at my Mom (through eyes that are not always able to recognize the rest of us), I understand better than ever that the love God equipped them to share transcends the frailty and brokenness of the human condition.

They have taught me that tithing and growth beyond tithing is normative in discipleship. When I was a child, Mom allowed me to put the family’s check into the offering plate on Sunday morning. I remember thinking at one point, “Sheesh. Do you realize how many G.I. Joe’s and comic books this money could buy?!” Through the consistency and extravagance of their generosity, Mom and Dad helped me to understand at least two things: That the Church of Jesus Christ deserves our very best gifts; and that the discipline of giving is always somewhere very close to the heart of our discipleship.

They have taught me that whether or not I “feel” like going to church is a purely secondary consideration. That was made clear to me early on when I heard these words from my parents: “I don’t remember asking you if you FELT like going to church!” I got the point. I still do.

Perhaps most of all, Mom and Dad have taught me what it means to build a marriage that is replete with integrity, devotion, romance, and abundant joy.

If you have read this post, thank you for allowing me to celebrate my parents’ marriage on the occasion of their 60th wedding anniversary. I am grateful to God for the beautiful poetry that my parents’ lives have made in an often prose-filled world.

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.”