Clarion: Journal of Spirituality and Justice

Story: Recapture the Mystery

(Steven James. Grand Rapids: Fleming H. Revell: 2005, 208 pages.)

Review by Kevin Miller

In a recent article[1], I criticized overzealous evangelicals for tripping over themselves to make the gospel relevant. Underlying this evangelistic fervor, I conjectured, is not so much a love of Christ as a fear that the gospel can’t stand its own. If we don’t do something to jazz it up or dumb it down, non-Christians won’t get it. Steven James’ new book Story: Recapturing the Mystery is a prime example of my hypothesis. Billed as “a postmodern retelling of the Christian story,” it is essentially a collection of brief personal essays, poetry, and black and white photographs that attempts to jazz up the gospel while at the same time dumbing it down. It’s the worst of both worlds.

It’s difficult to put my finger on exactly what rings false here. The best I can say is that James—like many other Christian authors commonly labeled as “postmodern” or “emergent”—sounds like the smart kid in class who knows the right answers but pretends he doesn’t so he’ll fit in. I’m all for making the Bible accessible to the masses. But if we’re going to do it, let’s do it honestly, and let’s do it well. Unfortunately, I think James blows his opportunity here on both counts. A good example is his opening essay on creation. Here’s a wonderful chance to hook readers with some probing questions about life’s origin and purpose, to give them a glimpse into the glory and wonder of God. Instead, James opts for passages like the following:

“God finally got tired of the cloak of darkness, so he told his first story. He spoke and light appeared.

'Let there be,' he said. And there was.

I’m not exactly sure why he did it. I don’t think anyone knows his precise motivation. Personally, I think he got sick of the darkness. I think since God is love, he couldn’t stand the thought of spending eternity alone in the dark without someone to love. He needed companionship, because love gives, shares, sacrifices, woos. It has to. Or else it isn’t love.”

Pay attention to the last paragraph. James begins by coming alongside the seeker and pretending like he has no idea why God created the universe. Then he rushes in with a trite, Sunday school level theory that burns like acid on the face of intellect. For starters, it’s obvious James has no idea what the term “eternity” (time without beginning or end) means. Otherwise he would never say that God couldn’t stand the thought of spending eternity alone in the dark, because if God truly is without beginning or end, he had just spent eternity doing just that! Furthermore, if you look at the Scriptural account of Creation, it wasn’t God who was in darkness; it was the earth (Genesis 1:2). And surely God was not in need of companionship, seeing as he exists in three persons—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—who are the epitome of community and selfless adoration. I’m sorry, but if I were a non-Christian, I would have put the book down right there, assuming James was nothing more than a poorly educated wolf in sheep’s clothing—an old school propositional apologist who figured the way to be postmodern was to phrase every statement as a question.

Theological quibbles aside, however, what is sorely lacking in this book is the one thing that would endear it to modern and postmodern readers alike: authenticity. Please don’t confuse this term with “sincerity.” I believe James is quite sincere, but his musings in this book are far too safe and trite to be authentic. What James and others seem unable to understand is that people of a postmodern bent don’t just respond to any narrative. They respond to narratives that ring with the genuine cry of human experience that logical, propositional arguments for God do not, narratives that recognize that life is often dirty, painful, messy, disappointing, and unpredictable, that we don’t have all of the answers and that it is unlikely we ever will. But amidst the muck and grime and grief, there is always a glimmer of hope, a reason for taking that next, boot-sucking step. That light is nothing less than Christ, the Light of the world (John 8:12).

James’s impulse is correct here: In our story-based culture, Christians need to develop fresh ways of telling and re-telling their stories. But such innovations should never be motivated by fear of the gospel’s irrelevance. The gospel is relevant today, tomorrow, and forever. We can rest in that fact. We don’t need to jazz it up, and we certainly don’t need to dumb it down. All that is required is an honest, authentic expression of our experience with Christ. Offer that up to the world, and trust God to take care of the rest.

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[1]“The Misguided Quest for Relevance,” Clarion: Journal of Spirituality and Justice, Easter 2005.

Holy Superheroes!

Review by Kevin Miller.

One of the great joys of searching for truth in unlikely places is that every once in a while you turn up a gem. Having already read and reviewed two “okay” books—Who Needs a Superhero? and Comic Book Character—that sought to extract spiritual insights from the world of comic books, I had pretty much given up on finding anything substantial on the topic. Then someone handed me a copy of Holy Superheroes! by Greg Garrett, co-author of The Gospel Reloaded.

The book sat on my desk for about a month before I finally picked it up, certain it was going to be “more of the same.” But twenty-six pages in, I began to suspect I had finally hit the jackpot. As it turns out, the world of books is not much different than the world of superheroes: Things are not always as they seem. Just as Lois Lane had no idea that behind Clark Kent’s mild-mannered visage lurked the greatest superhero of all time, I had no idea that Holy Superheroes! would turn out to be not just a great book about the spirituality of comic books. Strange as it may sound, Holy Superheroes! also turned out to be one of the most insightful books I have read on any topic in a long time.

Perhaps part of the appeal for me was that Holy Superheroes! also turned out to be the right book at the right time. The day before I read it, I had written a lengthy reflection on the film Kingdom of Heaven, wherein I discussed the futility of responding to violence with more violence. Seeing as taking such a stance has left me bruised and battered at the hands of my fellow believers in the past, I was feeling somewhat apprehensive, like a disobedient child waiting anxiously for his father to return home from work, not sure if he was going to be swatted or not. However, rather than upbraid me for my audacity, Holy Superheroes! actually affirmed and expanded upon what I had written—pretty surprising considering superhero comics are some of the most violent forms of entertainment around. Lest you think I only liked this book because it agrees with me though, let me share a few other things Holy Superheroes! has going for it.

What Garrett attempts in this book is a “philosophical reading” of comic books, a study of comics to see if they can offer wisdom on how to live our lives. Why comic books? Because they and the superheroes that populate them have become the primary mythology of our society, Garrett says. Even though not all of us read comics, we all know the stories and characters. Our society has chosen reason and empirical data as its primary source of truth, but the power of myth cannot be ignored. And if we do ignore it, it is to our peril. As Garrett says in the foreword, “We’ve gotten in the bad habit of thinking of myth as something false, or at best, untrue—like those old Greek gods and snake-headed monsters—rather than something that is supremely true; we’ve made the mistake of thinking that myth is untrue because it can’t be proven, rather than something that is supremely true because it’s a story that has to be accepted.”

Even though we have turned our back on myth, a part of us keeps reaching out for something to fill the gap that reason has left behind. Where this need used to be satisfied by reading the lives of saints, apostles, and other heroes of the faith, we now read about men and women who have secret identities and run around in skin-tight costumes doing battle with the forces of evil. These are the stories that move us, Garrett says, “the ones we most need to hear to be whole.” How and why these stories lead us closer to the sacred and inspire us in our own quest to do good is the main subject of this book.

Garrett starts by looking at the connection between comics and religion. In this chapter, he shows how comics are really the latest manifestation of the “American monomyth,” which goes something like this: “A community in a harmonious paradise is threatened by evil; normal institutions fail to contend with this thread; a selfless hero emerges to renounce temptations and carry out the redemptive task; aided by fate, his decisive victory restores the community to its paradisiacal condition; the superhero then recedes into obscurity.” He goes on to show how the American monomyth is actually a retelling of the Judeo-Christian story of redemption, a.k.a “the gospel.” Thus, Garrett argues, superhero comics are to be taken seriously, “as seriously as we ought to take every kind of storytelling,” because they can teach us about what it means to be human. Comic books can actually change our lives, for good or ill. Remember that the next time you’re tempted to poke fun at the comic store owner on The Simpsons. Perhaps those seemingly trivial distinctions between Captain Kirk and Captain Picard are more important than you think.

Garrett moves on to discuss our need for heroes and the archetypal shape of the hero’s journey, as it is replicated across time, culture, and religion. The ongoing appeal of superhero stories, Garrett says, is that they are merely the most recent manifestation of this archetype, which seems to be hardwired into our systems. At the same time, he warns that even though these stories may tap into archetypal figures—such as Christ—we should not mistake metaphor for reality. Thus, while we can notice correspondences between Christ and Superman, for example, we should not seek to equate the two. Instead, we should merely ask how these correspondences can instruct and inspire us.

After these introductory chapters, Garrett turns his attention to a number of topics that are front and center in the world of superheroes. First up is the relationship between power and responsibility, a link made clear through the life of Spiderman in particular. Garrett concludes his study by pointing out how even though we aren’t superheroes; we all have power—especially those of us wealthy enough to afford such luxury items as comic books. The question is, are we using our power responsibly?

Truth is the next topic of discussion. Why Garrett failed to bring in Wonder Woman’s magic lasso I’m not sure (her lasso forced whoever was caught in it to tell the truth), but his discussion still bears much fruit. Most notably, he talks about the danger of certainty. “Oftentimes surety can be more dangerous than any enemy you face,” says Garrett. Shocking words, no doubt, for those who still believe in such things as "evidence that demands a verdict." By way of example, he talks about the Nazis and the Japanese militarists of World War II. Both groups were certain that what they believed was right—and the entire world is still trying to recover from the outcome of those beliefs. He shows how certainty inevitably leads to fundamentalism, which, if not checked, leads to holy war in defense of one’s doctrine or beliefs. Truth is far more complex than fundamentalists of any stripe would have us believe, argues Garrett, and our world would be a much safer place if more of us woke up to that fact.

From truth, Garrett turns to justice. In this section, he seeks to expand our definition of justice beyond retribution. While retribution may bring a temporary halt to crime or some other social problem, it fails to deal with the root causes of evil, and it offers no vision of the just society. Using Batman as a model of retributive justice, Garrett describes the price of going down such a path: “Batman’s success as a crime-fighter has come at the expense of his success as a well-rounded human being.” Instead of conceptualizing justice as punishment, a response to a negative action, far better, says Garrett, to adopt the view of the ancient Hebrews, who saw justice as, “an ongoing movement toward equal opportunities for all people, and support for the less privileged, aged, or infirm.”

Garrett’s take on patriotism is perhaps the most subversive section of this book. He describes the concept of “benevolent fascism,” which dominates superhero stories, saying, “The traditional superhero myth suggests that power in one set of capable hands is the surest way to achieve justice, that democratic systems can’t be trusted to perform their tasks alone, that anyway, the hero would never take advantage of those he serves, and that that the world requires American superheroism.” Sounds like something you might see scrawled on the bathroom wall at CIA headquarters—or on the doorplate to the Oval Office. Garrett goes on to offer a critique of American foreign policy, chastising the government and the American people in general for being so narrow-minded as to believe that Americans have a monopoly on truth and justice, that America is not only the last of the superpowers, it is also the most heroic. “Unquestioning acceptance of a truth—any truth—is dangerous,” says Garrett. He urges people not to swallow everything they’re told by the government, even it if means they are branded as unpatriotic or disloyal.

From here, Garrett moves on to only slightly less controversial ground by confronting the problem of evil. He considers what role evil plays in God’s redemptive story, where evil comes from, and how all of us share responsibility for the “evil that men do.” But Garrett doesn’t abandon us to the Dark Side. He also offers a way out, showing that all religious faiths agree that the only way to overcome evil is through unselfishness, compassion, and love.

As an addendum to his discussion of benevolent or “pop fascism,” Garrett also weighs in on vigilantism. After all, virtually every superhero is a vigilante on some level, because they take the law into their own hands. In this sense, heroes are often seen as outlaws as well, as the Batman knows all too well. One of the main reasons for this blurring of lines, Garrett points out, is that vigilantism involves a blend of “extralegal violence and personal vengeance.” Thus, vigilante justice is rarely selfless and, hence, open to suspicion. After all, if the heroes are using the same methods as the villains and are motivated by the same feelings of anger and retribution, are they really all that different? As Garrett says in relation to an incident from Alan Moore's quintessential 1980s classic, The Watchmen, “If you have to stop being a hero to accomplish your ends, then maybe they’re not worth accomplishing.” Or, to put it in terms of Kingdom of Heaven, if you feel tempted to commit a little bit of evil for the sake of the greater good, perhaps you should reconsider whether that “good” really is all that great.

Delving deeper into the root cause of evil, Garrett turns to superheroes like the Incredible Hulk, Wolverine, and Batman to show how the war against evil may often be a symbolic war against the self. He also wonders about our tendency to fear those who are not like us. “Is it part of our nature to try to destroy people who are different from us?” Garrett wonders. “How can we be aware of these feelings and stop genocide from happening again on such a grand scale?” He believes the answers to these questions can be found in, you guessed it, comic books!

Next, Garrett looks at what comics have to say about the apocalypse and how we should live our lives in light of this reality. Despair is always a temptation, but Garrett argues in favor of hope, which is much more than a vague desire for things to turn out right. True hope gives birth to action. “How the world ends up is not up to us,” says Garrett. “But what we do while we’re in it? That part most certainly is.”

Garrett concludes the book with a lengthy discussion on how to bring an end to violence. Garrett argues that, “we love violence as much as we love hatred.” However, even though retribution feels good at the time, it only leads to more suffering. “Violence can shock and awe someone, but it will never change an opinion, right a wrong, or save a soul.” Fair enough, but how are we to respond to our enemies then? Compassion is the answer, says Garrett. “We have to… see even our enemies—maybe especially our enemies—as human beings.” Compassion destroys any false sense of dichotomy between our enemies and us, making it much more difficult for us to hate and destroy. Thus begins the long, hard road to healing and reconciliation. It also turns our attention toward those whom Christ sent us to serve: the victims. Using Alan Moore’s short story "This Is Information" to illustrate this fact, Garrett shows that “the choice between good and evil, between us and them, may be satisfying, but it’s a false choice. Our hands need to be extended to those who are suffering, whoever they may be. But that can be a hard lesson for us to hold.”

Hard indeed, but this is the path that all of us must walk if we hope to be heroes in our world.

Adventures In Missing the Point: How the Culture-controlled Church Neutered the Gospel

(Brian D. McLaren & Tony Campolo. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2003.). Review by Kevin Miller.

Have evangelicals missed the point? That’s certainly how I assessed the situation as I walked into Borders bookstore recently. I’d even been kicking around ideas for a cultural history of evangelicalism called Too Much Church? How Evangelicals Set Out to Reach a Culture But Wound Up Creating One Instead. I’d done my time in church, in Bible college, on the mission field, in Christian publishing, in seminary, and as an employee of two large para-church organizations. During that time, I had rubbed shoulders with Mennonites, Pentecostals, Anglicans, Baptists, “Vineyardians,” charismatic Catholics, and evangelicals who were leery of declaring any denominational affiliation. I had also spent a few years purposely living outside the bounds of evangelicalism, sick to death of “evidence that demanded a verdict,” three-chord choruses, and the Four Spiritual Laws. Like many people, I had simply had too much church. So I felt reasonably qualified to offer a critical assessment of this movement that had defined and consumed so much of my life.

My basic thesis for Too Much Church is that in their efforts to reach the wider culture, evangelicals have been unwittingly co-opted by that culture. The result is, rather than penetrating and countering the culture, they have formed our own shadow version of the wider culture, complete with its own radio and television stations, entertainment industry, celebrities, and cults of personality. The ironic thing is, despite this tremendous outpouring of Christian media, evangelicals have been largely ineffective when it comes winning the wider culture over to their message.

I believe the main reason for this is that most people think evangelicals have sold out. In short, they have failed to address the defining characteristic of our culture today—consumerism. Rather than counter this self-centered, profit-driven philosophy, evangelicals have embraced it wholesale, turning it into the central tool by which they disseminate the gospel. No matter what spiritual, moral or emotional problem people may have, the solution always seems to be “more church.” Read this book. Listen to this speaker. Pray this prayer. Watch this show. Go to this church (God’s really moving there.) Seven steps to success. Ten steps to happiness. For men, for women, for children, for couples, for seniors. Consume, my brother/sister, and thou shalt be healed. Like any good multi-level marketing organization, evangelicals have made sure that the solution to any problem points back to the products they are selling.

Unfortunately, this drive to consume Christian content has created a sense of cynicism amongst Christians and non-Christians alike, who have come to see the evangelical marketing machine as just another push for brand superiority in the marketplace of ideas.[1] People who are truly seeking a mystical encounter with the Almighty are turned off of this movement, because so much of it reeks of cheap hucksterism, pablum that has been watered down for the masses. As a good friend of mine says, evangelicalism is like the McDonald’s of religion, all fat, sugar, and salt but only a sprinkling of substance.

The solution to this situation, in my opinion, is not more church but less. Just like a gourmet restaurant, evangelicals should focus on stimulating and satisfying people’s appetite for God on all levels, not just making sure they go away feeling stuffed. Like a good host, we need to make the appropriate introductions and then get out of the way rather than dominate the conversation and make people dependent on us for their next quick fix.

Back to Borders: With such semi-heretical thoughts swirling in my head, imagine my surprise when I came across Adventures In Missing the Point just sitting there on the shelf. As soon as I read the subtitle, I quickly found a chair and made myself comfortable. I knew that I had found two new soul mates in Campolo and McLaren when I read the following words:

“We pastors and preachers listen to our own sermons, see the frantic pace of programs and meetings we’ve created, and shivers run up our spines: are we somehow missing the point?

“Are our churches and broadcasts and books and organizations merely creating religious consumers of religious products and programs? Are we creating a self-isolating, self-serving, self-perpetuating, self-centered subculture instead of a world-penetrating (like salt and light), world-serving (focused on ‘the least and the lost,’ those Jesus came to seek and save), world-transforming (like yeast in bread), God-centered (sharing God’s love for the whole world) counterculture? If so, even if we proudly carry the name evangelical (which means, ‘having to do with the gospel’), we’re not behaving as friends to the gospel we seek to live and proclaim. This book is our attempt, flawed and faltering to be sure, to get us thinking about the frightening possibility of unintentional betrayal of the gospel by those entrusted with it.”

Wow. So I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. Ironic that the authors had to create yet another evangelical artifact to get their point across, but point well taken all the same.[2]

I was particularly intrigued by the way the book was structured. It is divided into three sections: God, World, and Soul. Under each heading, the authors tackle various areas where they feel evangelicals have missed the point, including salvation, evangelism, social action, sin, worship, doubt, and being postmodern, among others. McLaren and Campolo take turns writing chapters and then having the other author respond. It is a true dialogue between two very different and capable thinkers. Campolo is the old warhorse, having spent the greater part of his career pushing evangelicals’ buttons. McLaren, even though he had written several books previous to this one, was still somewhat of a new kid on the block to me. So I was eager to taste this new flavor that was creating so much buzz. I only hoped the body of the book lived up to the prophetic impulse of its introduction.

While I can’t exactly call Adventures In Missing the Point a “must-read,” it certainly serves as a useful point of departure when it comes to questions about evangelical culture and the relationship between evangelicals and the culture at large. Standout chapters include Campolo’s take on homosexuality and social action and McLaren’s discourses on culture and leadership. Throughout the book, the authors challenge all sorts of evangelical conventions while rarely resorting to a finger-pointing posture. (Surprising considering the indictment suggested by the book’s title.) That doesn’t mean the authors’ opinions are not stated strongly at times, particularly by Campolo. Actually, of the two writers, I was surprised to see Campolo come off as the conservative, seeing as he is commonly considered quite liberal according to evangelical standards. But whenever he felt McLaren might be conceding too much ground in the name of postmodern dialogue, Campolo was quick to jump in and affirm the “true evangelical faith.” That said, I think the average pew-warmer will be challenged if not incensed at much of what Campolo says in this book, if they bother to pick it up at all that is.

As for McLaren, while I appreciated many of his insights, the way he communicated them was a bit too polished and self-consciously post-modern for my liking. He also seems to have an affinity for labels, such as “emerging culture” and “emerging church,” and he tends to use them too often. While he denies being the spokesperson for the emerging church—whatever that is—he never refrains from speaking on its behalf. After reading a carefully crafted chapter by McLaren, it was always refreshing to see Campolo swoop in with some “from the hip” comments that revealed how even McLaren could miss the point on occasion. I think I would appreciate McLaren a whole lot more if he would stop trying to be so conciliatory and point the finger a little more. His presentation was far too affected, like someone who had learned how to be postmodern from reading a book and was now trying to “pass for normal” amongst those for whom postmodern thinking comes as natural as breathing.

No book can be all things to all people. However, seeing as this book aimed to cast its net wide rather than deep, some topics I would have liked to see included are consumerism, the arts, politics, war, abortion, and the creation vs. evolution debate—all areas where I feel evangelicals are missing the point badly. Even so, the fact that this book exists at all is a major service to the church, because it forces us to consider seldom asked questions about what a healthy Christian culture looks like and how that culture should relate to the culture at large.

So, after reading this critique of evangelicalism, do I still feel the need to write one of my own? Definitely. But if Too Much Church? ever does see the light of day, it will only have been made richer—and more diplomatic—through my reading of McLaren and Campolo’s work.

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[1] Check out this article, for example: http://www.klife.com/resources/staff/media/GQ-WWJD.html

[2] The conundrum of critiquing consumerism by asking people to “Buy my book!” is one of the main reasons I have been hesitant to embark on such a project. Thus, Clarion serves as the ideal venue to air my thoughts, seeing as I don’t make a dime from this effort.

Generation Kill

(Evan Wright. New York: G. Putnam’s Sons, 2004). Review by Kevin Miller.

“I’ll say one thing about these guys: When we take fire, not one of them hesitates to shoot back. In World War Two, when Marines hit the beaches, a surprisingly high percentage of them didn’t fire their weapons, even when faced with direct enemy contact. They hesitated.[1] Not these guys…. These guys have no problem with killing.”

That’s how Lieutenant Nathaniel Fick describes his fellow Marines in First Recon, the elite unit that spearheaded the invasion of Iraq in May 2003. If you ever worried that perhaps this war and the men who fight it are less than virtuous, Evan Wright’s gripping firsthand account of the early days of battle will definitely put a chill in your bones.

p>An Ivy League graduate who joined the Marines in “a fit of idealism,” Fick is the most grounded individual you will meet in this book. It only goes downhill from there. There’s Sgt. Brad Colbert, “the Iceman” who can spout a litany against country music one moment, lean out the window and shoot somebody, and then resume his tirade without missing a beat; Cpl. Harold James Trombley, who gets excited when he sees his bullets rip into an Iraqi man’s legs, cutting him in half; “Captain America,” Fick’s commanding officer who shoots or stabs anything that moves; Cpl. Josh Ray Person, who thinks everyone and everything in Iraq is a “retard”; and Sgt. Eric Kocher who likes to draw smiley faces on his 40mm grenade rounds before he goes into battle. A far cry from the “Greatest Generation” who stormed the beaches in World War II. If that war was characterized by idealism, you could say the new face of war is ambivalence, a “Who gives a *censored*? Let’s frag this town!” attitude. But what else would you expect from a group of guys who, as author Wright says, “represent what is more or less America’s first generation of disposable children”?

Not that every Marine profiled comes from a dysfunctional background. Many, like Fick, are Ivy Leaguers looking for more adventure than corporate American could offer. But just as many come from broken homes and criminal or at least deviant backgrounds. Raised on hip-hop, Marilyn Manson, and Jerry Springer, these guys “are on more intimate terms with video games, reality TV shows and Internet porn than they are with their own parents.” Just imagine them rolling into your town, kicking in your door, and announcing that your liberators had arrived. Would you like Freedom Fries with that?

And yet, as much as these men are products of their culture, the very fact that they have joined the Marines can be seen as a rejection of that culture. Says Wright, “They’ve chosen asceticism over consumption. Instead of celebrating their individualism, they’ve subjugated theirs to the collective will of an institution. Their highest aspiration is self-sacrifice over self-preservation.”

So maybe these men are more idealistic than they seem at first blush, more human, too. As much as some of them get off on the killing, for others it is merely a job, the zinging bullets an annoyance. For still others, war is a traumatizing experience that will likely scar them until they bite their own “smiley faced” bullet. Take the Marine who fired on a civilian vehicle that didn’t stop at a military checkpoint. After confirming that the two men in the front seat were dead, he opened the back door and saw a three-year-old girl apparently cowering in the back seat. When he went to pick her up though, the top of her head slid off, spilling her brains out onto the ground. He was silent for days afterwards while everyone wondered if he would finally crack. I was traumatized just reading about it.

The frightening thing is, the majority of the casualties recorded in this book are civilians. Mistaken identity, misguided bombs, overzealous recruits… I can tell you one thing: This book made me more skeptical than ever when I hear the words “smart” and “surgical” used in reference to American military strikes. Time to come up with some new terms, boys. How about “wanton killing,” “total devastation” and “blitzkrieg” for starters?

The bloodshed isn’t just breeding cynics like me back at home either. Even the guys lighting up the Iraqi countryside are ambivalent about what they’re doing and why. Consider these words from Captain Bryan Patterson, Commander of Alpha Company: “There is not one good thing that comes out of war. I’m not going to pretend I’m this great American savior in Iraq. We didn’t come here to liberate. We came to look out for our interests. That we are here is good. But if to liberate means putting a Starbucks and a McDonald’s on every street corner, is that liberation? But I have to justify this to myself. It’s Saddam’s fault… Still, the protestors have a lot of valid points. War sucks.”

“The *censored*ed thing,” adds Sgt. “Doc” Bryan, “is the men we’ve been fighting probably came here for the same reasons we did, to test themselves, to feel what war is like. In my view it doesn’t matter if you oppose or support war. The machine goes on.”

Not the most hopeful point of view, but one born of experience serving on the frontlines of American foreign policy as it has taken shape in Somalia, Afghanistan, and now Iraq. Kind of takes the sheen off words like “freedom” and “liberation” that seem to flow so easily from the Bush Administration. My question is, if the guys who are on the frontlines of America’s War On Terror don’t believe what Bush and co. are selling, why should we?

If you want to know what America is really exporting to Iraq, I urge you to turn off your television and read this book. Hats off to author Evan Wright for having the courage to step inside the machine and the integrity to describe the machine as it really is.

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[1] This fact is well documented by Lieutenant Dave Grossman in “The Problem: A Resistance to Killing,” http://www.killology.com/art_beh_problem.htm.

Peter Jackson In Perspective: The Power Behind Cinema's "The Lord of the Rings"

(By Greg Wright, Burien, WA: Hollywood Jesus Books, 2004). Review by Kevin Miller.

Anyone who has visited www.hollywoodjesus.com over the last several years will be more than familiar with the name and smiling visage of Greg Wright. Not only does he serve as Senior Editor for Hollywood Jesus, for the past several years he has also facilitated an extremely popular section of the site devoted to The Lord of the Rings, particularly to Peter Jackson’s film adaptations of J.R.R. Tolkien’s classic fantasy tale. Last year, Wright, who is also an instructor of English literature, parlayed a number of his online articles about Tolkien’s work into a book entitled Tolkien In Perspective: Sifting the Gold from the Glitter. With the theatrical release of The Return of the King nearly a year behind us, and the release of the Special Extended DVD edition about to commence, Wright has seen fit to release a second collection of material that aims to get at the heart of Jackson’s films.

Wright makes it clear from the outset that his goal is not to be “right” about Tolkien or Jackson or to make himself look good in the eyes of his readers. Rather, his intention is to provide “responsible, sober analysis in order to stimulate deeper and more serious thinking on the part of the moviegoing public.” Why? Because “the unexamined film is not worth viewing—further… the unexamined film represents an abdication of living, and its attendant responsibilities.”

Although not stated explicitly, a secondary and perhaps derivative goal is to parse out the spiritual themes, symbols, parallels, parables, and archetypes contained in both the cinematic and literary versions of The Lord of the Rings. Crucial to this investigation is examining how these elements were shifted, distorted, enhanced or eliminated in the transition from page to screen. Perhaps a more general question in this regard is, can you translate an author’s work from script to screen while retaining the essence or spirit of his or her story? And, more precisely, do Jackson’s adaptations do exactly that?

Wright sets the stage for his answer with some previously unpublished lecture-based articles on the challenges inherent in adapting any literary work—especially one as unwieldy as Tolkien’s behemoth—to the screen. Acknowledging the substantial differences between the original text and Jackson’s films, one of the central subjects of this section (and the book as a whole) is the all-important question of “Why?” Why was Tom Bombadil eliminated entirely? Why were the roles of Arwen and Elrond magnified disproportionately? Why was Aragorn transformed from a confident king in waiting to a conflicted, reluctant hero? And why was Tolkien’s “neatly ordered and sensible universe ground into hamburger”? (One of my main pet peeves about the films, especially when it comes to the compressed timeline.)

While admitting that the well-read Tolkien buff will find much to squirm about in Jackson’s films—especially The Two Towers—Wright gives Jackson the benefit of the doubt when it comes to such deviations, stating,

Clearly, when one elects to depart from Tolkien’s meticulously crafted storyline… one does so for very deliberate reasons, knowing that the choices will be critiqued (and even howled at) by Tolkien’s very loyal and demanding fans…. The answer is not, presumably, that Jackson has no respect for Tolkien. Nor is Jackson incompetent.

So what’s the deal then? Why all the changes? Wright’s answer is simple “narrative effectiveness.” Like it or not, obviously Jackson had to make some tough calls when it came to reducing Tolkien’s 1,000-page manuscript down to 900 pages of screenplay. He wasn’t being lazy or disrespectful. He was just trying to make three good movies. And, as anyone who is even remotely familiar with that process knows, conciseness and efficiency are two core virtues. You just don’t have time for guys in big yellow boots who are extremely likeable but who do nothing to advance the plot (at least from a surface point of view).

Even though Wright does not agree with every decision Jackson made—far from it—he seeks to help readers understand Jackson’s choices and what they tell us about Jackson and his audience (or at least Jackson’s perception of his audience). Some of Wright’s explanations are based on interviews with Jackson and his primary co-writers, Fran Walsh (Jackson’s wife) and Philippa Boyens. Others are outright speculation or conjecture based on Wright’s reading of the films. Nevertheless, Wright’s commentary is consistently insightful and illuminating in this regard.

Once the stage is set, Wright moves on to briefly analyze previous attempts to bring The Lord of the Rings to the screen and why they failed. Then he begins a chronological analysis of all three films, focusing on a number of issues raised by each. Each chapter contains a mixture of film and literary criticism and—not surprisingly, considering Wright’s connection with Hollywood Jesus—a number of questions, insights, and applications drawn from the spiritual themes and symbolism found in Tolkien’s tale. While some of these spiritual applications seem to be tacked on, for the most part they are organic to Wright’s observations and serve to enhance his commentary while deepening the reader’s understanding of Tolkien’s intentions as well as the power of fiction to convey such spiritual truths. Standout chapters in this section include “Visions of Justice in the Two Towers,” which ponders the issue of redemption, “Our Own Private Tower of Cirith Ungol,” which offers some compelling insights into the nature of good and evil, and “Destroying Tolkien’s Ring,” a brief albeit moving chapter that shows how the making of Jackson’s cinematic trilogy took on the character of Frodo’s struggle to destroy Sauron’s ring.

Interestingly, throughout the book we get Wright’s commentary in “real time.”Each chapter is dated according to when it originally appeared on Hollywood Jesus and, as Wright states in his introduction, no attempt was made to smooth over inconsistencies or seeming contradictions in his early readings of Jackson’s films. Nor has he attempted to correct himself where he was outright wrong. At some points, this mode of presentation proves to be as interesting as the content it expresses, because it allows us to see Wright’s thoughts and reflections unfold over time, particularly in regard to Jackson’s artistic decisions.

At first, Wright is uniformly affirming, even exuberant about Jackson’s work. But once he sees The Two Towers for the first time, he begins to hold Jackson a bit more at arm’s length. By the end of the book, he almost seems to wonder if Jackson, Walsh, and Boyens have missed the point of Tolkien’s work entirely, at least on a spiritual level. This becomes painfully clear in Wright’s recollection of an interview he did with Jackson, in which he asked Jackson if Tolkien’s theory of eucatastrophe (“the joy of the unlooked-for happy ending, a joy that catches a glimpse of the biblical resurrection story—the triumph of God over sin, death, and the grave”) had ever been broached in story conferences, to which Jackson replied, “No, what is it?” Also infuriating for this self-confessed Tolkien purist was Walsh and Boyens’ admission that they had not bothered to consult with experts on Catholicism prior to working on the script, even though Tolkien was a devout Catholic who admitted his faith had a profound impact on his writing. How could these people claim to be keepers of the “Spirit of Tolkien,” Wright wondered, if they had no knowledge of the foundational issues behind Tolkien’s fiction? Judging by the photo on the book’s back cover, Wright does not have a lot of hair left on his head, and I get the sense he started pulling the remaining strands out during such moments.

Despite such misgivings, Wright concedes that even though fans and critics may be disappointed to discover that the filmmakers were not as serious about Tolkien’s work as they may consider themselves to be, in the great scheme of things, Jackson’s shortcomings have not proved to be disastrous. “These [Jackson, Walsh, and Boyens] are good people, who have good, solid moral and spiritual values, and who believe in the value of human life. We could have done a lot worse than Jackson (and company) as the guiding force behind the cinema’s The Lord of the Rings.”

That said, I have no misgivings about recommending this book to anyone who would like to deepen their understanding of the spiritual nature of Tolkien’s writings, Jackson’s films, and the relationship between the two. Non-Christians will likely be surprised—and possibly even delighted—by the spiritual insights Wright manages to draw out of the literary and cinematic versions of Tolkien’s work. This book also serves as a good caution for Christians who would rush out and embrace Jackson’s films as “Christian” just because the source material upon which they are based was written by someone who claimed Jesus as Lord. While the films definitely retain much of Tolkien’s original themes, such as faith, hope, love, faithfulness, sacrifice, and redemption, the way these themes are altered from page to screen definitely bears closer examination—something that Wright offers in spades.

No Other Gods Before Me by J. Stackhouse - Review by K. Miller

John G. Stackhouse, Jr., Editor (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2001)

When an editor begins an anthology by saying he doesn’t agree with much of what is written in the essays that follow his preface, readers immediately suspect that they are in for a rough ride. But such is not the case with No Other Gods Before Me?, a book that takes an initial stab at some of the primary issues facing those who would formulate an evangelical theology of religions.

Although the essays contained therein do express a wide divergence of views and approaches to the topic, Stackhouse’s admission of discord between himself and the other contributors—and between the contributors themselves—is less a comment on the quality of the essays than on the embryonic state of evangelical thinking in this area.

According to Stackhouse, evangelical academic theology has long enjoyed a “splendid isolation,” allowing it to avoid direct confrontations with people of other faiths. But this isolation is becoming increasingly difficult to sustain as other religions continue to flourish, both around the world and on our own doorstep. Thus, there is a pressing need for evangelicals to determine what we think about our new neighbours’ religions so we are able to “represent the gospel helpfully to them” and “love and serve them best in Christ’s name.”

As Stackhouse makes clear, this book’s intention is not so much to put forward a systematic theology of religions as it is to take a sounding of current evangelical thinking in this area in order to stimulate others to undertake the “larger project.” And there is much in this book to both stimulate and challenge readers, no matter what part of the evangelical spectrum you come from. From questions about the possibility of revelation in other religions to ruminations on the purposes of other faiths in God’s economy, this book cuts a broad swath.

However, it is also a spotty one. Although this book purposely avoids a systematic approach to the study, one can’t help but wish it had veered more in that direction. That way, instead of simply offering a potpourri of thoughts and opinions, the contributors could have moved evangelicals even further towards realization of the larger, comprehensive project of which Stackhouse speaks. Nevertheless, this book—particularly Stackhouse’s afterword—still provides theologians and others working in this area with much stimulus in the way of future research topics.

War of the Worlds by Kevin Miller

How do we respond to evil? How should we respond to evil? Those are the main questions raised by War of the Worlds, Steven Spielberg’s take on H. G. Wells’ classic tale of invaders from outer space. And nothing could be more evil than the creatures represented in this film: alien life forms who have plotted the annihilation of the human race for centuries, even going so far as to bury their machines of extermination deep under the earth long before humans ever arrived on the scene. Pre-meditated killing at its best.

And yet, for all their technology, these aliens seem surprisingly inefficient, choosing to mow down human beings, buildings, and neighborhoods one at a time rather than taking them out in one, big “schebang.” If humans really are bugs in the aliens’ eyes—as the opening narrative of this film suggests—obviously no one on their planet has ever heard of “Raid.” Mere humans have come up with vastly superior means to wipe out bugs, never mind their fellow human beings. Perhaps these extra-terrestrial killers are as sporting as they are vicious. Eventually, however, it is revealed that the aliens have something more in mind than a simple holocaust—even though holocaust imagery is used throughout the film. Don’t worry: I won’t tell you what that ulterior motive is; because, frankly, I don’t think I really understand it myself!

And that, essentially, is where this film breaks down: when it comes to offering explanations. For example, apart from a few comments in the opening narrative about how the aliens have watched our world with envy over the centuries, we have no idea why these aliens attack. Has their home world gone sour? Did they have a bad encounter with humans in the past? No, it appears they are just plain evil. At least that is what we must assume, seeing as virtually no attempt is made to personify the enemy. Add this to the series of increasingly preposterous coincidences that allow the heroes to survive the onslaught, and this film veers dangerously close to a one-way trip to the remainder bin. The porous script is redeemed somewhat by excellent direction, sound design, acting, and special effects. But when the foundation of the structure is bad, it isn’t long before the entire thing comes crashing down—and it doesn’t take a death ray from outer space to do it.

As I reflected on the spiritual aspect of this film, two things struck me: First, as I have already mentioned, is the depiction of the alien invaders. David Bruce (www.hollywoodjesus.com) points out in his excellent commentary on this film (located elsewhere on this site) that the characterization of the aliens in War of the Worlds is a clear reflection of the times. Back in the 1980s, Stephen Spielberg brought us E.T., a film about an ugly albeit friendly alien who was more bent on exploration than destruction. According to Bruce, this represented our desire to end the Cold War before nuclear proliferation killed us all. What a contrast to the nameless and nearly faceless invaders Spielberg brings us in War of the Worlds. And yet, how appropriate, seeing as that is how our enemies are often portrayed today, especially by propagators of the so-called “War on Terror.” Perhaps Spielberg sees this film as a way to help us expunge some of the fear we experience every time we turn on the evening news.

Unfortunately, rather than serve the film (and the viewer) I think Spielberg’s anonymous depiction of the enemy actually dooms the film instead by essentially confining the action along two dimensions: fight or flight. Both of these responses to evil may be valid under certain circumstances, but they are also instinctive and, therefore, highly uncreative. Even the lowest form of animal—take bugs, for example—will choose one of these two strategies when faced with a threat. But contrary to what the aliens in this film think, we are much more than bugs, aren’t we? If so, doesn’t that demand a more creative, more human response to evil? 

Don’t get me wrong: Fleeing from evil may be effective and necessary for a time, but eventually, as this film demonstrates, we will run out of places to hide. And then what? History contains countless examples of the barbarity humans are reduced to under such circumstances. (Read Josephus’ account of the sack of Jerusalem in ad 70 for example.) Taking a vengeful, “eye for an eye” response to evil is also doomed to failure, because it leads inevitably to escalation—either mutually assured destruction or desperate acts of terror in the face of overwhelming force. This fact is also demonstrated in War of the Worlds as well as in our own War on Terror. So the question remains: What would a more human, more three-dimensional response to evil look like? What would it look like in terms of this film? In terms of real life?

War of the Worlds gives us a partial answer when, at a critical juncture, hero Ray Ferrier stops running from the aliens and actually allows them to capture him instead. For perhaps the first time in this film, mere survival is no longer Ray’s primary motive. Finally, he has found something more important than his own life, and he is willing to risk everything to attain it. Not coincidentally, this is the precise moment when the tide begins to turn against the aliens.

So, we can see that part of the answer to our question is self-sacrifice. Taken either physically or literally, a self-sacrificial response to evil goes beyond an instinctive flight or fight response and asks, “How might we ensure that we not only defeat evil but, in defeating it, not become the evil thing we are trying to overcome?”

Beyond self-sacrificial love for those near and dear to us, however, a second factor must be present if we are to take a truly three-dimensional response to evil, and that is this: self-sacrificial love of enemy. I’ll admit: It’s difficult to love—much less be willing to die for—a nameless, faceless enemy, especially one that is trying to wipe you off the face of the planet. But isn’t that exactly what Christ did on the cross? As the Apostle Paul says in Romans 5:8, “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Elsewhere Paul says, “For if, when we were God's enemies, we were reconciled to him through the death of his Son, how much more, having been reconciled, shall we be saved through his life!” (Romans 5:10) Anyone who claims to be a follower of Christ must follow this example. And anyone who is not a follower of Christ should give it serious consideration—as did people like Gandhi, with resounding success.

War of the Worlds teeters on the brink of such a three-dimensional response to evil, and that is one of the few times this movie threatens to break out of the two-dimensional prison in which it has confined itself. If we want to break out of the same prison—to respond to evil as human beings, not as mere bugs—then we must be willing to fully embrace this third dimension as well. I’m not saying it will be easy. I love my life and the life of my family and friends as much as anyone. But, like the Apostle Paul, I have also glimpsed the greater good. I realize that whether I live or die is not the most important thing. It’s what I live or die for that really matters.

Constantine by Kevin Miller

Perhaps I was reading too much into the symbolic language of this film, but when the opening shot featured two squatters scrabbling around in the dusty ruins of a Mexican church, I had a feeling institutional Christianity was in for a rough ride. That feeling intensified when one of the squatters broke through the church’s rotting floor and discovered a religious relic wrapped in a Nazi flag, no less. And instead of bringing about healing or redemption, this relic—the so-called “Spear of Destiny” used to pierce Jesus’ side following his crucifixion—brought only death and destruction. In less than 60 seconds, the filmmakers had depicted the church as irrelevant, fascist, superstitious, and lethal. Where were they going to go from here?

As the film progressed, however, I was surprised to discover that Constantine wasn’t as interested in attacking the church as it was in appropriating various aspects of Christian theology and mythology for its own purposes. Using a mixture of Catholic and Protestant tradition as raw material, the filmmakers created their own rather fascinating cosmology, one that posits—not unlike the book of Job—that God and Satan have made a wager with no less than the souls of humankind hanging in the balance. The rules? No interference allowed, just influence. The cosmic super being with the most souls in the end wins. Thrown into the mix is a race of half-breeds—half-human/half-angel or demon. These are the “influence peddlers,” as John Constantine calls them. With full-blooded demons and angels restricted to their respectively hellish and heavenly realms, the half-breeds are the only non-human participants in this celestial game.

Every so often, one of these half-breeds breaks the rules, moving from influence to interference. When this happens, Constantine steps in and “deports” them back to hell. To do so, he employs a combination of pagan and Catholic artifacts and rituals, a fact that is sure to incite those who hold allegiance to the Vatican. How did John Constantine—a mere human—inherit such a role? Since he was a child, the spiritual beings that haunt this world were plainly visible to him, and he to them. Eventually, this “gift” of seeing became so overwhelming that Constantine tried to commit suicide as a way of escape. But rather than offer an escape from hell, his actions delivered him to that place of fire and brimstone instead—them’s the breaks, according to Catholicism’s rules about such matters. Two minutes later, his soul was yanked back to the land of the living. But for Constantine, it felt like he had been gone for an eternity.

Forever altered by his sojourn into hell but knowing he was doomed to return as a consequence for his sin, Constantine has dedicated his life to deporting as many demons as possible in the hope that eventually God will relent and grant him admission to heaven. The point that Constantine keeps overlooking though—as a half-breed angel named Gabriel reminds him—is that you can’t earn your way into God’s good graces. It takes faith and self-sacrifice.

Even before his stint in hell, faith was not something with which John Constantine struggled. Who needs faith when the things hoped for, the things unseen—and the things most feared—are all around you (cf. Hebrews 11:1)? It’s self-sacrifice that poses the real problem to Constantine, but not because he is inherently self-centered. He just doesn’t see the point of it. And who can blame him? With a God who merely toys with the beings he has created, how could anyone take his ethical requirements seriously? God’s apparent indifference to the affairs of Men puts him not only in the same league as the devil but also on the same team. Such a God could not be anything but evil. But not all hope is lost for Constantine. Despite appearances to the contrary, eventually even he comes to believe that God might have a plan for his life, one that doesn’t involve relegating him to eternal damnation.

No doubt, many Christians will be upset that this film takes such license with orthodox theology. This might be a valid criticism if Constantine actually tried to portray its version of the spiritual world as true—the same way author Dan Brown tried to portray The Da Vinci Code’s version of church history as correct. However, the people behind this film make no bones about the fact that they are constructing a fantasy, period. That they treat the church as basically inconsequential in the spiritual battles that rage on this planet is not to be taken lightly. But once again, I do not think it is something to get angry about. If some people feel this way about the church, it is incumbent on Christians to find out why and then address such issues accordingly, not simply lash out because someone dared to criticize our record.

While the theology of this film is far from orthodox, the themes and questions it raises are a different story. Few Christian films have done a better job of depicting the difference between works and grace. And few mainstream films offer such a strong affirmation of the spiritual dimension of life, showing it to be every bit as real and consequential as the physical. Constantine also addresses a number of spiritual questions that seem particularly pressing at this point in time, questions like “Is God good?” “Does he have a plan for me?” “Is he out to get me?” “Is he even there?” and “What must I do to be saved?” 

While I hope viewers won’t blindly accept the deistic, dualistic portrayal of good and evil in this film, I do hope it inspires them to think more seriously about the above questions and the spiritual dimension of life as a whole. Constantine certainly had that effect on me. And for those of you who feel the filmmakers’ depiction of the church in the opening sequence of this film was pretty much dead on, I urge you to give Christianity a second chance. The church’s record is far from unblemished. But it is not nearly the inconsequential, fascist, spiritually bankrupt institution this film makes it out to be.

Not quite The Matrix but infinitely better than Van Helsing, Constantine is that rare supernatural thriller that isn’t afraid to make you think. I’m already looking forward to the sequel.

Million Dollar Baby by Kevin Miller

“Some choices you don’t want to make,” says Scrap, the one-time heavyweight contender who narrates this film. Unfortunately, his boss, boxing trainer Frankie Dunn, is about to be presented with a real doozie.

It doesn’t appear that way at first. In fact, had I not been aware of all the controversy surrounding this film, I would have been disappointed that a brilliant director like Clint Eastwood had devoted one of his few remaining years to craft what was turning out to be a compelling but not quite innovative boxing movie. And then, right when the formula called for a “Rocky-like” character to start shouting “Adrian! Adrian!” with his/her eyes swollen shut and arms raised in victory, Eastwood pulled the old “one-two” and knocked us face-first onto the canvas.

When the world finally came back into focus, we found ourselves in a completely different moral landscape. Up to that point, the film had revolved around a traditional win/lose axis. Now we were in life and death territory, and it didn’t look like there was any escape—at least none that would cost Frankie anything less than his soul.

If it seems like I’m dancing around this film’s subject matter, that’s because I am. To do any differently would be to ruin the viewing experience for those who don’t yet know the story. At the same time, it is difficult to address the compelling questions this film raises without giving away the big plot twist. So if you haven’t seen the movie yet, perhaps you should save the rest of this review for later. If you have seen the film and you’re eager to dig deeper into its themes, read on.

Let me start by saying that, sadly, the response of many Christian critics to this film has been as predictable as a thunderstorm in Saskatchewan. You could see it coming for miles, and it was all dark clouds and thunder. The fact that Eastwood dared to even broach the topic of euthanasia seems to have offended them as much as it offended the priest Frankie consults in this film. And, like the priest, rather than take a thoughtful, compassionate approach to the issue and the people involved, these reviewers simply remind us of the consequences—the rules, as it were—and then leave us to our own devices. However, I think these Christian reviewers are reading this movie all wrong. Even though Frankie turns compassionate executioner in the end, I do not see Million Dollar Baby as an endorsement of euthanasia by any stretch. In fact, I have yet to see a film that does such an effective job of raising an ethical question and then allowing us to form our own conclusions about it rather than hitting us over the head with an opinion. With this film, I do not believe Eastwood is saying assisted suicide is right. He is saying that it is a complicated subject that raises more questions than answers; that it looks a lot different when you are face-to-face with someone begging to die than it does on paper.

Some of the questions Million Dollar Baby raised in my mind are: Is there a pain so great that it negates the reason for living? Can the Angel of Mercy ever look like the Angel of Death? Can the face of the executioner ever be the face of God? Did Frankie deliver Maggie from hell or deliver her (and himself) to it? When do the hands of Man become the hands of God? When do they become the hands of the devil? And how can we know the difference? The priest in this film said that sometimes we need to step out of the way and let God do his work. But aren’t we God’s agents on earth? As Scrap says several times in this film, “In boxing, everything is backwards.” What about life? Perhaps instead of stepping out of the way in such circumstances God is waiting for us to step in and do his work. After all, God has given us the power of life and death over our fellow human beings. Isn’t it possible that there are some instances in which exercising this power is not a sin but a blessing? Many people think so when it comes to war, capital punishment, and abortion. Why not euthanasia?

Lest anyone think that Iam endorsing euthanasia in this review, I am not. I’m not advocating against it either though because, frankly, I don’t think I have answered the above questions well enough for myself yet. However, I do know that as I watched Frankie bend over and kiss Maggie one last time, he had no motive other than love in his heart. I also realized that no matter how miserable she was, there was no way I could have brought myself to reduce this beautiful, spirited girl to nothing but a cold lump of flesh. It just goes to show that when it comes to life and death choices like this, sometimes emotions can cloud your judgment. At other times, though, I think they make things perfectly clear.

Scrap is correct. No one wants to face a choice like this. But with the “right to die” movement growing in strength, I am thankful that Clint Eastwood used this film to give the question of assisted suicide the moral gravity and attention it deserves.

Coach Carter by Kevin Miller

The majority of films are forgettable. A slim minority are entertaining. A precious few are insightful. And then, every so often, a film comes along that is truly significant. Hotel Rwanda is one such film.

Hotel Rwanda is a significant film primarily because it documents an era in history when the system broke down. It was a time when people around the world glanced up at their television sets during dinner, saw images of carnage and genocide, and then calmly resumed their meals. Over a period of 100 days in 1994, nearly one million people were massacred in Rwanda—many of them women and children, and most of them hacked to death by their neighbors with machetes. But, apart from a few NGO’s and religious groups, the world didn’t lift a finger to stop the killing.

Outsiders did not intervene, this film argues, because to most people, Rwandans were not even “niggers,” they were Africans. While racism likely had something to do with our hesitance to intervene, I am certain that bureaucratic squabbling and incompetence were just as significant. But no matter why the world failed to step forward, the fact remains that nearly one million people died, and millions more were injured and/or traumatized by the violence. If there is one message that comes through loud and clear in this film, it is this: Never again. As difficult as it is to imagine, we would be naïve to think that such atrocities will not happen again somewhere in the world. I just pray that we have learned enough from our indifference and incompetence in this situation to respond more appropriately in the future.

Hotel Rwanda is also significant because it shows us that in the midst of the carnage (which the film mostly suggests rather than depicts), there were also people who did care. One of these people was Paul Rusesabagina, manager of the Hotel Des Milles Collines, a four star establishment in Kigali. Paul’s intentions are far from selfless at the beginning of the film. He is more focused on currying favor with the power elite than helping his fellow man. But when the killing begins, he does not hesitate to use his connections to protect Tutsi and Hutu refugees, eventually sheltering 1,286 of them in his hotel. As this film portrays, this was an extraordinary feat, made possible mainly by Rusesabagina’s influence, intelligence, bravery, and wit. Other heroic figures in this film include the embittered UN colonel tasked with watching the massacre but not intervening, a young news cameraman who lays his life on the line to get the story to the world, a Red Cross worker who is forced to witness the execution of the children she is trying to rescue, and numerous unnamed Catholic priests and nuns. With so many films, TV shows, and politicians suggesting revenge as the only appropriate response to evil, it is refreshing to see a film that demonstrates characters who embrace an alternate point of view. While the Hutus and Tutsis were slaughtering each other as a way to settle old scores—trying to overcome evil with evil—Rusesabagina and company were trying to overcome evil with good. And, miracle of miracles, it worked! For those who wonder whether there really is anything good in the midst of all the horror they witness on CNN each week, this film answers with a resounding “Yes!” There is reason for hope. All it takes is for good men and women to act boldly in the face of tragedy.

Finally, this film is significant because it reminds us that no matter how comfortable our lives are over here, there are always people living over there for whom comfort is but a vague thought at the bottom of a long list of primary needs. With the death toll from the South Asian tsunami still rising, this is hardly a new thought. But I am certain it will not be long before we, too, look up from our dinner at the scenes of horror caused by this natural disaster, and then resume our meal. As any aid agency will tell you, people have a tendency to respond generously to such situations out of emotion over the short term. But that response quickly fizzles out as we become immune to the images and resume our normal lives. Hence, we need films like Hotel Rwanda to help us fend off indifference and remind us that giving is not a one-time event. If we truly want to make a difference, if we truly want to prevent tragedies like Rwanda from happening again, generosity must become a lifestyle.

When it comes time for the Oscars this February, I hope Hotel Rwanda is nominated for Best Picture, if only because that means more people will see it. That said; I am doubtful it will win, mainly because from an artistic point of view, it is not exactly a spectacular film. The acting is first-rate, especially by star Don Cheadle, and the script is solid. But director Terry George has chosen dramatic realism over flash and style, which may not impress some voters. I guess it all comes down to what Academy members base their votes on: style or significance. If it is the latter, Hotel Rwanda will definitely go home with the gold.