Because I Know You: Friendship and Tom Cruise

by Charity Erickson

The other day, I went to see Edge of Tomorrow, the newest addition to Tom Cruise’s rather extensive sci-fi repertoire. I entered the theater not knowing much about the film, and to my amusement, I found it follows the same basic plot of Groundhog Day--with an alien invasion as the backdrop. (Google confirms that I am approximately the 416,000th person to make this observation.)

The similarities are uncanny: in Groundhog Day, Bill Murray’s Phil Connors relives the same day over and over until he figures out how to love selflessly. In Edge of Tomorrow, Tom Cruise’s William Cage is a military propagandist who finds himself able to reset the same day over and over as he attempts to defeat the time-manipulating collective consciousness of an alien horde that besets humanity. Also, there is a woman!

Each day that Cage resets--which he does by dying--he must find this woman, a soldier wunderkind named Rita, and together they try (and fail) each time to defeat their indomitable foe. Upon failing, Cage kills himself. And then, *respawn*. However, Cage is the only one able to remember and learn from all of their failed attempts to save the world; for Rita, each day she meets Cage is the first.

While the film is pretty meh in the inventiveness of its hero’s arc (even with the whole time travel thing, the film’s action unfolds in a staid and predictable fashion,) the relationship between Rita and Cage saves this piece of science fiction. Really good science fiction, in the end, is not simply speculation about other worlds, realities, futures and pasts; it uses that which is fictive and far away to talk about things that are close: love, war, fear, family. In the case of Edge of Tomorrow, amidst exploding aircraft and vicious aliens, we find a rather poignant statement on what makes a friendship.

Toward the end of the film, Rita expresses frustration with Cage that he is unwilling to sacrifice her life in order to complete their mission and end the war. In her reality, they’ve only just met; yet in Cage’s reality, they have spent the equivalent of years together. She asks him why he cares whether she lives or dies, and he answers, as though it should be self-evident: “Because I know you.” Not “Because I love you,” or “Because I need you,” but simply because he knows her. There is something terribly beautiful about the simplicity of his statement: all it takes to deeply care about another person is to take the time to know her.*

Through the vast majority of the film, the relationship between Rita and Cage reads as a completely platonic, even one-sided friendship, and I find this fascinating as it is not a topic often explored in “serious” film; it is a topic most often relegated to comedy and chick flicks. (The only opposite-gender friendships I can think of in popular media are found in sitcoms--Liz Lemon and Jack Donaghy being the most touching example, obvs.) The “bromance” has made the topic of male friendship more common in film, but somewhat-problematically so. Not only does the term whiff of giggling, “no homo” douchebaggery, but it also demonstrates that we are still so ill at ease when speaking about deep friendship, we can’t even figure out a word to call it that doesn’t confusingly conflate it with eros.

That said, I am happy that films exploring the importance of friendship are being made. Anything that acknowledges and normalizes the role deep friendships play in our lives is a boon to the emotional life of our culture, a guide to better and healthier relationships. When we don’t take friendship seriously in art and media, when we leave it unacknowledged as a source both of joy and pain in life, we do a disservice to the richness to be found in meaningful relationships that are founded neither on kinship nor sexual attraction.

For just as we are interdependent with other people, we are interdependent with our media--we trust it to hold a mirror to humanity, and we inform it, just as it informs us. When media portrays the love among friends as trivial compared to, say, romantic love, that attitude leaches into our lived lives, and we find ourselves either confused by the powerful emotions of friendship or we deprive ourselves of those relationships from the start. Like Edge of Tomorrow, perhaps more films will think deeply about the sanctity of friendship and usher in a future where our definitions of love are bigger. Tom-Cruise-summer-blockbuster-sized, even. Amen.

*Spoiler/Caveat: the film hinted at romance at the VERY end, but I chose to ignore it. BECAUSE IT MADE NO SENSE. And apparently, no such romantic relationship exists in the graphic novel upon which the film is based--which must be why the intimation here seemed so out-of-place. 


Charity Erickson and her husband live and work together in the north woods of Minnesota. Check out her blog for more of her writing and follow her on Twitter @ecumystic.

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology. If you'd like to support what we do, you can donate via the button on the right of the screen.

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Simba is Probably the Antichrist

by Kyle Baughman 

To preface, let it be known that I absolutely love Disney movies. I carry so many fond memories of my sister and I sitting on our family’s brown 70’s pullout sofa watching hours and hours of the timeless classics put out by the "Juggernaut of Nostalgia^TM". In fact, I can bestow upon The Fox and the Hound the superlative “Most Likely to make Kyle Weep Openly in Front of the Cute Girl in School” for having made me weep openly in front of the cute girl in school. Nevertheless, I now find myself revisiting the titans of childhood cinema with a new perspective. I spent my undergrad and graduate level courses exploring politics, theology and philosophy (screw off Oxford comma!) with the result that, upon returning to enjoy so many Disney classics, I found myself conflicted between the ideologies I had gleaned and the cute stories that had always brought me wonder. And now, I get to shatter your childhood too, since the nice folks at OPT have invited me to share my theo-political reflections on one of my favorites.

This post will reveal why Simba is probably the Anti-Christ, who seeks to redirect your fears about the throne he occupies toward vague, external threats instead, and to convince you to devote yourself to the wellbeing of a system that wants to eat your kids.

Probably.

Let’s begin with the scary threat of modernity! Years ago, a bunch of white dudes with money figured everything out, sooooo, modernity. The modern age was ushered in when we began to take seriously the idea that we could figure out every intricacy of how the world works. And while some used this as a means of connecting with the divine (through a rationalist approach to testimony about God and what not), others began to reflect on how this knowledge did not necessitate a god at all. They proposed rather that we were the agents of destiny whose mastery of knowledge made us the modern prophets for a coming eschaton of pure material humanism. We saw the forging of new social theories like survival of the fittest, wherein the organisms best adapted for strength become the kings of the age, and the organisms that “fit best” achieve survival during this age and possible entrance to the age to come. 

What does this have to do with The Lion King? Ask this man:

And to clarify, the lyrics to the opening of “Circle of Life” are as follows:

Ingonyama nengw' enamabala

I know you’re singing it now; feel free to continue with the lyrics you do know and reflect for a moment on what those lyrics are proposing. The song, as beautiful as we all agree it is, paints a picture that is as equally cocky and hubristic as the modernist aspirations. We all are brought into this world and are working through the processes of growth in the hopes that we may, one day, find our place in the circle of life. And so, we shall join the grand triumphal march of a world advancing day by day.

At this point it may be pertinent to remind ourselves of the storyline to The Lion King. The story begins with a lion named Mufasa who rules a kingdom of non-lions and who has just had a son, the heir to the throne. Mufasa’s brother, Scar, is pissed over being knocked back in the line of succession and therefore proceeds to kill his brother and guilt his nephew into fleeing the kingdom (thereby forsaking his birthright) while he establishes a new dynasty with his hyena henchmen.

What we haven’t mentioned thus far is the fact that lions eat other animals (Google it), which ought not surprise us, but nevertheless does when we consider that the story presumes the rightness, not of a specific lion king, but of an enduring throne whose subjects constitute the king’s menu. Mufasa was not a one-and-done agreement; rather, Mufasa as king was simply the expression of an existing arrangement that validates a form of rule established on violence. We are made to understand that the throne exists and continues to exist whether it is Mufasa or Scar that sits upon it.

Scar certainly represents the fearful chaos that would result from a deviation from the established order, but such chaos is simply the unmasking of the violence inherent in the system; the throne, the underlying arrangement of power that preys upon its subjects, continues whether masked or not. With this in mind, we return to the opening scene of the film: Rafiki (court shaman/false prophet) is presenting Simba to his humble subjects who excitedly stamp their feet and squawk and whinny at the sight of the very prince to whom they will one day have to feed their children.

Here we have the full ramifications of the “Circle of Life” lyrics. The subjects of the kingdom are prey to the kingdom; this is their role, after all. The lowly herbivores have found their proper place in the system, and so long as the circle of life is the predominant ideology underpinning the kingdom, they will continue to praise the throne that demands their young as tithe.

[As an aside I am fully aware that lions have to eat meat and that gazelles are meat and bringing the two sides to peaceful coexistence is a fool’s errand.]

Obviously, this is reminiscent of monarchical rule and the ideology that underlies it. Citizens have found their place in the circle of life and are protected by the throne as long as they operate and obey the ideological superstructure that permits the king to rule. War and industry becomes the means whereby the citizens, like the lowly herbivores, offer up their children to be consumed by the state. So long as the monarch is fed and the system perpetuates itself, the lowly continue to offer themselves for partial consumption in trade for the throne’s protection.

What protection can the throne offer them that is worth such a fearsome trade? Why haven’t the gazelle or zebra rebelled and left the lions to their own devices? Because as legitimate as the fear of the king’s appetite may be, the fear of what lurks beyond the kingdom’s borders is greater. As Mufasa warns Simba, do not venture into the “shadowy place.” Instead of dealing with the dangers at hand in the excesses of the throne, the subjects have sublimated their fear to the shadowy unknown, and convinced themselves of the necessity, even the virtue of the state, and thus nationalism is born.

The fear is no longer that a hyena will show up at your door; the fear is that the king who eats your family will be dethroned, and that in the ensuing chaos, a hyena will show up at your door. Yet, with Scar’s ascension to the throne, this very fear is actualized; his hyenas terrorize the citizenry and the predation of the system is no longer easy to ignore. And instead of undermining the premise of the system, the kingdom continues to exist! The subjects simply long for a king who will restore the old deception, who will return to the contrivance that the throne offers absolute protection rather than enabling despotism. Even so, they cling to the throne; the throne permits the rule, because the throne is the ideology that has defined the subjects’ place in the circle of life.

Hope for revolution comes in the least likely of places: the prince is expelled. Simba, emptied of his power, goes and lives among the lowly where he learns to eat bugs (the case for bug liberation will have to be reserved for another post) and participate in a new understanding of the world, living not as ruler but as subject. He feels extraordinary guilt over the death of his father, a return to the throne would be meaningless, because for him, the throne is now emptied of its power. (That Simba internalized his guilt and was changed by it is evidenced by his new life among the herbivores as he renounces the desire to rule or re-create his kingdom.) As Paul Tillich would note, he has acceptance in accepting himself as unacceptable, and so has the courage to be.

And in the absence of Simba’s kingdom, we are tempted to see the birthing of an order; reminiscent of Hebrews 13: a suffering prince who suffers outside the gates of the kingdom that rejected him. But just as we want to start our Jesus comparisons, we meet Nala, Simba’s childhood bestie and Rafiki, false prophet extraordinaire. Nala’s privilege within the system is exemplified when she must be dissuaded from eating Simba’s new mates, Timon and Pumbaa (you know, because she is a lion and lions eat meat). She tells Simba of the regrettable state of affairs in the kingdom as ruled by Scar, and tries to persuade him to seek the throne. After her plea, Simba next encounters the unemployed court shaman Rafiki who makes the same request, and even conjures up the ghost of Mufasa who awakens Simba’s aspirations to the throne. He sets out to reclaim his power, but he is not alone.

Simba, who had learned a new way of life with Timon and Pumbaa that existed apart from the power offered by the throne, now recruits their aid in his quest to attain the very throne that would oppress them. The very throne that vindicates the circle of life ideology which undermines the dignity and worth of the ruled, and subjects them to a violent reality that destroys lives for the sake of perpetuating the system, a system that functions by insisting that the ultimate terror would be the undoing of itself.

The rest of the film shakes out pretty much the way you would expect it to. Simba wins, regains the throne, marries Nala, happily ever after, etc. But in the closing scene, we find that the circle of life ideology and the throne it supports, continues unchallenged as Rafiki lifts high the next heir to the throne and the subjects clamor their approbation.

The ideology of empire is just as strong today as it was in the age of Rome or Victorian England or on the African plains of The Lion King. We are presented a cure for our existential fears by a government that offers to teach us our meaning. We are told that our meaning is admittedly in a system that propagates death, but assured that this is certainly the better end of the bargain, and that the system is noble and good to offer it to us in the first place. Modernity tells us that this is the place where we “fit-best.”

Yet fitting best has, up through the present day, involved maintaining the enterprise of bloodshed and war, and service to masters who survive only so long as we can be convinced that the boogieman (the terrorists, the communists, the savages) lurk just around every corner. Yet should the terrorist(s) occupy the throne, the system into which we have invested so much, we will continue to submit rather than call the whole ideology into question.

And so, the example offered by Simba is one in which the language of the weak becomes co-opted by the throne, and in the end, the kingdom grows stronger than ever with its illusion of a servant-king.

The servant-king, one who descends to walk among the least of these, to humbly serve them and minister to their needs. The concept is thousands of years old. In fact, the Caesars were often called Princeps, meaning ‘first citizens’ and the propaganda intended to depict them as the foremost citizen in word and deed, serving the citizenry as one of its own. It is this very concept that Jesus critiques in chapter 10 of the book of Mark, saying that those who would be great among his followers must truly be the servant of all, unlike the gentile rulers who appropriated the word but had no intention of embodying it.

Chapters before Jesus critiques the propaganda of the servant-king, Jesus was tempted with power over the kingdoms of the world. And according to John the crowds wished once to forcibly crown him king. In both instances, Jesus refused, and he winds up dying on a cross outside the gates that promised him a throne. His rejection of the throne and the presence of his body outside the gates does violence, not to the ones on the throne, but to the throne itself, to the self-perpetuating system of power and violence.

To follow Christ beyond the walls will certainly mean internalizing our guilt and complicity in systems of violence; it will entail a loss of meaning that existed before, when we knew where we fit best in the ideology of the throne. It will require resisting the alluring voices that call us to enter the gates. Nevertheless, when the fanfare erupts as the next prince of death is raised up before the whinnying crowds, we will be among those outside the gate where the true servant-king still dwells.

Kyle Baughman is a human. He studied theology at Fuller Seminary and enjoys the attention he receives from flirting with several different theo-camps. He hits things with sticks as the drummer for Coyotes in Boxes. You can find him on Twitter @truekyleb.

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology. If you'd like to support what we do here, you can donate via the button on the right of the screen.

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No Honest Song Besides These Blues

by Hannah Paasch

1961. New York City. The scene opens on an ill-lit, smoky bar, crowded with mesmerized listeners huddled around cafe tables and bottles of beer. 

Our protagonist sags back in his seat, shoulders slumped and leaning to the right, a mess of black curls falling from his forehead. He’s played the same little spotlight the night before, and as he watches some square with a guitar finger-pick some chords and breathily eek out something akin to a folk song, Llewyn looks askance at this self-pronounced artist, his drooping gaze heavy with world-weariness and a certain amused disdain. 

The chords are the same as his, and the lyrics, though virtually indecipherable might be as well - but the soul is just not there. It’s a mere shell, a discarded exoskeleton of a folk song clinging to a springtime tree; a smiling Stepford archetype of the real thing. It is a fraud – admittedly a harmless, airy sort of fraud - and no one but Llewyn seems to notice.

He turns to his friend, a bright-eyed, over-eager Justin Timberlake (you think I’m kidding; I’m not), whose eyes are glued to the stage, grinning and stupefied. “What do you think of this guy?” he asks.

“An incredible performer,” JT replies without hesitation.

“Is he?” Llewyn asks, incredulous, throwing a hard look at his friend as if to make sure they’re both seeing the same thing. “Does he... have higher functions?”

I knew then that I’d met my on-screen soul mate. Llewyn’s circumstances spiral from bad to ever-so-much-worse, and he yells a lot and throws a couple things and gets in a lot of trains and cars and more trains in search of someone who will GET it; who will hear him and realize there’s no honest song to sing besides these blues. He plays all the right songs to all the wrong people and is an absolute marketing - and otherwise - disaster. Nobody sees him; nobody listens; nobody gets it.

Inside Llewyn Davis may be set in the ’60s, but oh, how it still sings true. Too many of the songs about life and faith these days just try too hard to convince us that life is clean, that trust is easy, that happiness is the measure of our faith. It leaves no room for grieving; it leaves no room for pain. I want to hear a song where our pain still has meaning, where happy endings are not required.

A song that maybe we could all just marinate in with our pain for a bit until our thawed-out nerves begin to wake us up.

Truth is, once we let ourselves listen, everybody likes a sad song. We like them because we know they are true. We can swim around in them and we feel ourselves met; heard; understood. They put melody to our pain and lend a peaceful charm to our wounds. They turn abscesses into scars; they help us heal.

But we’ve forgotten how to grieve.

The other night, over late-night sausage and eggs in a Nashville diner, I sat down a friend of mine who’s devoted his life to the Gospel and the blues and asked him what the point of it all was.

"There’s no escapism in the blues,” he responded, after a moment of consideration. “Every song is a reminder that we are aliens. We are strangers...” 

He paused a moment, twirling his fork through a pile of omelet.

“... Don’t get too comfortable.”

We are tired of the platitudes presented as an opiate to soothe the masses, trying daily, hourly to convince us that all is as it should be. We are tired of the optimist telling us, that all will be well, if we can only have enough faith. We are tired of the pessimist, whose singular intelligence somehow always leads him to a hopelessness about our nows that extends to our tomorrows. They are all paths to despair, in their own way.

The prophet mourns over us before we even know how to put words or feet to our sorrow. She shakes our shoulders and begs us to see - really SEE - the dire straits we are in. The bluesman, too, chants our troubles over us, his melodies making them just palatable enough to sneak out of our subconscious and, suddenly, to the forefront of our hearts. Walter Brueggemann calls them ‘voices from elsewhere’ - breaking the silence of a settled order with life-giving dialogue. We cry out to a God who hears and we ask, not that He would rid us of our pain, but that He would be ever present with us in its midst.

Let the heaviness sink in a moment, friends. It’s ok to rest in it a bit. Because before we can re-learn how to hope, we must first re-learn how to grieve;

Before we can sing, “Victory, sweet victory…”

first, my friend...

we’ve gotta learn to sing the blues. 
 
Say you wouldn’t know the blues if they slapped you in the face? (They very well might!) Say you want me to stop talking and listen in for yourself? Good! I like you. More people need to tell me to shut up. For such a sort as you I have prepared a Spotify playlist that just BEGINS to scratch the surface of good prophetic, grieving blues tunes. Search “Hannah Paasch” on Spotify and listen to my playlist, entitled “I Wish I Was in Heaven, Sittin’ Down”.

Hannah Paasch was raised on Jesus and adventure. She is a self-styled storyteller, aspiring songwriter, bridge-builder, and bridge-destroyer, as the situation at hand would dictate. You can follow her on Twitter @thesettingsun07 and read more of her writing at her blog.

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology. If you'd like to support what we do, you can donate via the button on the right of the screen.

Image Credits:
Image #1 via ZaraWhoa
Image #2 via ArtCrusade
Image #3 via Number Six 
  
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Your Favorite Movie Needs More Pandas

Image by J. Patrick Fischer

by Lane Severson

What would make every movie from Citizen Kane to China Town better? Pandas.

Have all of the main characters be played by Pandas. Keep everything else exactly the same.

Remember Beverly Hills Ninja with Chris Farley? Now, remember when they redid it with a Panda and called it Kung Fu Panda? Yeah, exactly.  BHN is a depressing display of Chris Farley jumping the shark. KFP redefined children's animated martial arts comedy.

The appeal of the panda is hard to quantify. But by using some advanced BS technology we've recently developed, we now estimate that any film remade with a Panda would gain an instant "Two Decomposed Thumbs Up" from Siskel and Ebert. Here are some potential reviews:

1. No Country for Old Pandas

The original film raised questions about the depth of evil and cruelty that exists in the world, personified by Anton Chigurh, a killer with no respect for persons, a murderer of the innocent. But we also feel, deep inside, that no person is truly innocent, which tempers our outrage at the acts. Yet, once the film was updated to show Chigurh mercilessly hunting and brutally murdering the upright and adorable Llewelyn Panda, we saw what true evil really looked like. The Coen brothers couldn't even bring themselves to show Panda's murder, or his dead body. And for that, we are certainly thankful.

*This reviewer thought Tommy Lee Jones had been replaced with a bloodhound. But after consulting with his wife, he was told that “Jones just looks like that.”

2. The Panda Wears Prada

A young Panda graduates from journalism school and scores a job working for Cruella de Vil, who has seemingly given up on the whole killing puppies thing, and now spends all her time trying to ruin Panda's life.  Panda attempts to make the best of the situation and, to be honest, I have no idea how this ends because, I just can't...

Image by Jeff Kubina

3. Broke Back Panda

Once Pandas were cast in the remake of Broke Back Mountain, it became apparent to everyone that they were just making a documentary about Pandas. (Seriously. Pandas are gay. Ask Robert P. Golouski)

4. Citizen Panda

This film opens on a dying Howard Panda, alone in his baller mansion. With his final breath he gasps, "Sugar Cane." Flashback follows flashback after flashback, until we realize that all Howard Panda ever really wanted was a piece of sugar cane he was deprived of. But he also treats every other panda in his life like they are worthless. I don't know that there is any real excuse for that. Is there anything more depraved than a selfish panda? But the poetry of the tale strikes a deeper chord as well; if sweet and cuddly Howard Panda can become a monster, what chance do we mere humans have at living a carefree life chewing sugar cane? By the conclusion of the film, we are beating our chests with a our fists and yelling, "Give it up, Mr. Panda! Run back to the mountains and eat sugar cane. What is you panda innocence worth?"

*The only weird part of this film was the choice to have Howard Panda wear a mask of a really old Orson Welles. This reviewer thought that was tacky.

5. The Passion of the Panda

Mel Gibson has gone too effing far this time. I understand that Panda-monium is sweeping the country, but did we really need a three-hour film about the brutal torture and crucifixion of a panda? I couldn't even watch it; the entire idea is abhorrent. Still, this movie is better than the original since, by making it, Mel Gibson went a step too far and was finally excommunicated. I'm not saying that anything justifies this kind of anti-pandite film, but if a panda did have to die a horrible death on a cross, at least Mel Gibson was damned to hell as a result.

6. The Panda's Bride

With classic lines like, "My name is Pandito Panda; you killed my father; prepare to die." And "You keep saying panda; I do not think it means what you think it means."

This film also contains some mild Panda torture. But it is done in such a tasteful and magical way that it improves the romance of the story. Even so, you might want to look away.

7. The Panda, The Witch and The Wardrobe

Hey Mel Gibson, you sick freak, this is how you make a movie showing that comparing a Pandas are like to Jesus Christ. You make them it the protector of young children and hero of a magical land; you don't beat the crap out of one it until everyone in the audience has puked their guts out. I still get goosebumps every time I hear, "Panda is on the move."

Image by Raphael Labbe

8. Reservoir Pandas

Quentin Tarantino maintains his position as the master of style. Heis decision to replace only Joe Cabot and Nice Guy Eddie with pandas is both tasteful and genius. The brutal, ugly, violent nature of the film is reserved only for the human characters.  Panda Cabot flips through his address book muttering, “Toby? Toby Chow?”  And the wrestling match between Nice Guy Panda and Michael Madsen is so heartwarming, this reviewer wept for a solid five minutes afterwards.

9. A Panda Runs Through It

This is one where the movie’s plot was radically changed (and for the better) by introducing a panda. Instead of watching Kevin Bacon be a total frickin’ creeper, you get to watch a panda just run through different things. My favorite scene was either when the panda ran through a waterfall only to roll onto the set of the David Letterman show, or when Panda ran through the airport to catch a late flight.

10. Panda's Inc.

The only change to the movie that this reviewer could discern was that Sully is now white and black, instead of blue and purple. Four stars.

Lane Severson blogs at On Pop Theology and Out of Ur. He likes charismatic liturgy and listening to Kanye West or Jay Z with his wife and five children. Lane can be found at about.me/lseverson or on Twitter @_lxnx.

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology. If you'd like to support what we do, you can donate via the button on the right of the screen.
  

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The Spirituality of Horror

by Charity Erickson

Scott Derrickson, writer and director of such films as The Exorcism of Emily Rose and last year’s Sinister, says this about the horror genre:

“In my opinion, the horror genre is a perfect genre for Christians to be involved with. I think the more compelling question is, ‘Why do so many Christians find it odd that a Christian would be working in this genre?’ To me, this genre deals more overtly with the supernatural than any other genre, it tackles issues of good and evil more than any other genre, it distinguishes and articulates the essence of good and evil better than any other genre, and my feeling is that a lot of Christians are wary of this genre simply because it's unpleasant. The genre is not about making you feel good, it is about making you face your fears. And in my experience, that's something that a lot of Christians don't want to do."

"To me, the horror genre is the genre of non-denial. It's about admitting that there is evil in the world, and recognizing that there is evil within us, and that we're not in control, and that the things that we are afraid of must be confronted in order for us to relinquish that fear.” (Full interview here.)

I first encountered Derrickson in a book called Behind the Screen: Hollywood Insiders on Faith, Film and Culture. I was just out of high school, and still very sheltered; I had not seen many true horror films. (Or does Left Behind II: Tribulation Force count?)  After reading Derrickson’s contribution to the book, I decided to educate myself in horror.

After a very brief foray into the genre, I realized that while I did not love horror, I could appreciate Derrickson’s thesis: horror is a gateway to the spiritual. I found the films I watched to be intensely affecting, preoccupying me for days—especially films that invoked the name of Jesus, such as 1931’s Dracula and Derrickson’s The Exorcism of Emily Rose. Hellraiser made me ill. Donnie Darko…I did not get Donnie Darko.

Years later, however, my interest in horror was again piqued by the Netflix series Hemlock Grove and its depiction of a Christian werewolf-hunter (see my On Pop Theology review here). This past fall’s The Conjuring also concerns Christians grappling with dark spiritual forces—an especially fascinating example as it is based on the real-life characters Ed and Lorraine Warren, self-proclaimed demonologists and curators (wardens?) of an “occult museum” filled with creepy dolls, statues, mirrors and other miscellanea said to be connected with demonic manifestations.

I grew up believing that, as a Christian, I would have to contend with demonic forces, and despite the promise of victory, the thought of encountering demons was petrifying; so stories like these conjure a very real fear within me.

And it makes me wonder just what is happening when we watch a horror film or show; is it stirring the realm of the spirit that is around us and beyond us, or is it just the spirit of fear within us that is moved?  If it is the former, if the fear that horror films elicit is based on a real threat, on spiritual powers at work in the world, does it evidence a sort of charismaticism universal to us all, an unconscious link to hidden realities of spiritual-warfare?  And if so, can (or should) this phenomenon be used in the cause of apologetics, as Derrickson seems to suggest?

What do you think?  And what examples drawn from the genre of horror have caused you to contemplate the spiritual realm? 

Charity Erickson and her husband live and work together in the north woods of Minnesota. Check out her blog for more of her writing and follow her on Twitter @CharityJill.

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The Church of Sharknado

by Ben Howard

Let me be clear up front, Sharknado is arguably the greatest achievement in cinematic history. In fact, there's a good chance it ranks in the Top 100 in the annals of human existence, right up there with The Great Wall of China and videos of panda bears sneezing. Certainly, Sharknado's creators did not aspire to such lofty heights, but they attained them nonetheless through grit, guile and ravenous sharks hurtling through the air.

Since you're on the internet reading this, I can safely assume that you've at least heard of Sharknado, but to be safe I'll let IMDB give you a quick synopsis: "When a freak hurricane swamps Los Angeles, nature's deadliest killer rules sea, land, and air as thousands of sharks terrorize the waterlogged populace." Exactly. Of course, this summary forgets to mention that our star is none other than Ian Ziering (aka Steve Sanders from 90210) and that he's flanked by the great Tara Reid.

Over the course of 86 minutes we follow Ian and Tara on their adventures through the greater Los Angeles area. We mourn for them at the loss of their friend George (aka The Dad from Home Alone), we rejoice with them when they finally utter the word Sharknado (it's a tornado with sharks, get it?), and we stare at them quizzically when they somehow extinguish a tornado with a bomb (I...I don't even...).

However, the most enjoyable part of watching the movie had nothing to do with the movie itself. My friend Lauren recorded the movie and organized a watch party for about 15 of us. We had snacks and told jokes and drank sangria. I was able to catch up with people I hadn't seen in months and connect with entirely new friends. It was an amazing night. And all of this happened around a poorly acted, bizarrely written made-for-TV movie about sharks that get sucked into tornadoes.

And this is church. This is church, sort of.

We did all the things you do at church. We ate the food (crackers included), drank the wine (muddled with fruit and sugar) and enjoyed spending time together. We even heard a bloody tale of redemption (with 100% more sharks). We had conversation and community and laughter.

And this was, in some sense, holy. It wasn't time-honored traditions and incense, nor were there prayers and benedictions, but it was holy in the sense that people who cared for one another gathered together to celebrate their friendship and this kind of act is holy.

But even so, this is not church. Not quite.

Though there was community (and as any first year Greek student will tell you the word for church means community), this gathering lacked the necessary components of a church. A church requires a center and regrettably that center is not Sharknado.

Not to be trite, but the center of the church is Christ. I don't mean that in the sense that would make you imagine fake smiles and metaphorical bunnies, but in the deeper, more rooted incarnational meaning of the term. Church is rooted in the physical reality of a God who walked among us, who chose to come to us, and who remains with us still. This is the God we commune around, commune with, and worship.

Yet it is restrictive to say that this communion can only take place within a building or within the bounds of an institution expressly designed for the purpose. Many have realized the limitations of this conception of holiness and sought to deconstruct the boundaries of what it means to be a church, of what it means to commune together.

In many ways this deconstructed vision of church and communal life is a beautiful one. It recognizes that Christ, who is with us during a worship service, does not abandon us as we go about the rest of our lives. It allows holiness to seep into the mundane.

However, it often allows for a subtle replacement wherein the ideal of community focused on Christ is subsumed by the idea of community period. This is holy, but this is not church.

This move is understandable when church has too often been relegated to that which happens within four walls on a Sunday morning, when it has forgotten its roots as a community focused on Christ. As a response many of us have grasped for community wherever it can be found and we have named this community "church" for this is what we desire church to be. But giving something a name does not make it so.

And this is why watching Sharknado is not church. Though I still hold that the night was holy, Ian Ziering is not Christ and chainsawing your way out a shark is not resurrection (technically). There was laughter, there was love, there was community. Community is essential to a church, but it is not a substitute for all that church is.

Peace,
Ben

Ben Howard is an accidental iconoclast and generally curious individual living in Nashville, Tennessee. He is also the editor-in-chief of On Pop Theology and an avid fan of waving at strangers for no reason. You can follow him on Twitter @BenHoward87. 

 

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The Power of Sacrilege (or, God Said Haha)

by Charity Erickson

One cool fall evening in 2006, I resolved to do something horribly naughty. My curiosity had gotten the better of me. I snuck a bottle of Jamison into the Christian community house where I was living and locked myself in my bedroom. I was going to do the nasty deed.

I was going to watch The 40 Year Old Virgin.

I feared hellfire and judgment—at least, from my roommates. I laughed quiet, like this:

Oh, and then this happened:

 

And finally, this:

I loved it. I LOVED it. And the thing I couldn’t get over—the biggest joke of all—was that this R-rated comedy ultimately affirmed abstinence as a life choice. Sure, it also introduced the term “f--- buddy” to the public lexicon, but in the end, the film portrayed a “virgin’s” wedding night in the same way a True Love Waits rally might—as a time of transcendent ecstasy, as something of value. (Though TLW would certainly not approve of that pagan music from Hair.)

I’d never heard of “purity culture” or any critique thereof, so at that time I was pretty excited about all things “virgin.” In The 40 Year Old Virgin I saw for the first time something I valued depicted on-screen in a way that didn’t make me want to excuse myself from normal society and slink away to die a pariah’s death outside the city walls, moldering in a puddle of embarrassment. I began a rather promiscuous love affair with entertainment media, and my views about what constituted “positive” entertainment started to change.

I was fascinated by the way Judd Apatow managed to weave themes of love, fidelity, responsibility, kindness and finding life’s meaning into his films while at the same time infusing his work with genuine humor. I had read some books about “Christian” filmmaking, all of which promoted the use of grand metaphors and symbolism as the means for presenting positive values—serious stuff. Where was the laughter, the joy?

In so much of “Christianized culture,” there is an absence of genuine humor. I submit this as the reason: Christians do not appreciate the power of sacrilege.

Duh, right? But really, it’s a travesty. Because it’s important that we get a little irreverent once and awhile—profane, even, if the situation calls for it—if we are to experience the fullness of life we are promised by Christ. Here’s what I mean:

Humor is about subverting social laws, and so is faith—but more on that later. When we sense a social law is being broken, it creates psychic tension—and laughter is one way in which humans respond to this tension. We laugh, because we feel free from social laws which are absurd and oppressive. I believe that truly satisfying humor goes further than subverting social norms—its presses us to reconsider our values, for the sake of affirming life, or revealing difficult truths.

Humor that creates tension without a release into a new perspective might make you chuckle for a time, but can leave you feeling like you just waded through a slough of oppressive yuck. Alternately, humor that “does something” is life-giving. Take Louis CK. Even when he is tearing into religious folks, he doesn’t do it simply to mock and denigrate. That would be cruel; the only person who would laugh at cruelty is a sociopath. No, Louis CK pushes back against the social laws guarding religious identities in order to expose hypocrisy and theologically-justified violence.

 

Exposing sources of oppression promotes the cause of love in the world. This is why we feel like we can laugh along with Louis CK’s jokes even when they are at our expense. We recognize and identify with his goal: to see people freed from oppressive systems, so that somehow in this dark world, they might experience joy.

I have this fantasy of how the disciples responded whenever Jesus undermines the authority of the religious gatekeepers of his day. Like when the Pharisees question whether it is right for Jesus healing on the Sabbath, and he says, “Oh really?” And heals the guy anyway—in their synagogue, no less. I can see Jesus’ friends busting up behind him, shocked, but thrilled.

As you can see, in Jesus, we find sacrilege—stealing back what the religious law says we are not to have—to be a cornerstone of the Christian faith. He “subverts the norm,” paving the way for us to experience freedom from the laws that bind us and the joy that freedom brings.

When Jesus died on the cross, the temple curtains were torn in two—we recognize this as a symbolic dissolution of the barriers between us and what was once kept off-limits by religious social institutions. Our freedom to subvert the law is woven into the fabric of our faith, that we might achieve love, joy, and laughter. What a beautiful faith we have, and what a wonderful God, who would set us free from our own social laws—so that we could laugh. 

Charity Erickson and her husband Lance live and work together in the suburbs of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Check out her blog for more of her writing and follow her on Twitter @CharityJill. 

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