Avatar and Empire

Two posts in two days!  I never guessed I’d have so much to say about Avatar.  I started this as an update to yesterday’s post, but it turned into something entirely new.

A friend pointed me to this NY Times Op-Ed by David Brooks (thanks Eric).  Brooks is a bit more down on the movie than I am in my post, and I see his point.  He’s concerned for what he calls the “White Messiah Complex,” a typified portrayal of helpless natives in need of a white, rational, technocratic, civilized, (and I might add male) hero.  A similar critique, which he implies but does not state explicitly, is the idealization of a rural life that demonizes technology and all things urban and paved.  I’m on board with all this criticism (and I admit feeling some unease during the movie), but I think in the meantime Brooks missed what draws moviegoers (of course, I generalize here based on my own experience) to this sort of plot: Who’s the one in this story who really gets saved?  If you ask me, the real “messiah”-type is the Omaticaya clan.  Sully gets reborn when he becomes a member of the clan and embraces a faith and way of life that provide a richness that was formerly absent.  He gets a new body with working limbs, literally ending his old life to embrace the new.  If the audience appeal here is a romanticized “escapism,” as Brooks puts it, then I’m willing to chalk it up to that God-shaped hole inside of us (excuse the cliche) — in this case a life deeply connected to God and others.

So I don’t think Brooks gets the whole picture.  But he does conclude by making a great point about the “White Messiah fable,” and here’s where the Empire part comes in:

“It also creates a sort of two-edged cultural imperialism. Natives can either have their history shaped by cruel imperialists or benevolent ones, but either way, they are going to be supporting actors in our journey to self-admiration.”

Yes!  If I’m idealistic about the movie’s theological overtones, here I want to be realistic about its historical accuracy.  Much of history (and current events) can be described as the story of indigenous peoples subject to the whims of imperial self-admiration.  But you’ll notice that, once again, I don’t exactly agree with Brooks: It’s not the movie that “creates a sort of two-edged cultural imperialism”; on the contrary, the movie reflects the reality of it!  And as citizens of this world’s current empire, I’m not so sure it’s detrimental to tell fables of benevolent imperialism.  As I see it, the sad truth is that imperialism in this world is inevitable.  The prophets know this — it’s the reason that Babylon can first be the instrument of Yahweh’s judgment and the next be the subject of it (only to be replaced by another empire).  The question for those who find themselves in the midst of the empire is not: “How do we stop being empire?”  That’s foolishness.  The question is: “What kind of empire are we going to be?”  I think the prophets’ answers are often quite simple: merciful, just, righteous, and so on.

I was going to end my reflections here, but suddenly realized how truly apropos was Brooks’ choice to use the word “messiah” to describe the empire’s self-aggrandizing self-perception.  Again I turn to the prophets.  After decades of unfaithfulness to Yahweh, Israel was victimized by the Babylonian Empire.  Land and Temple were ravaged, the royal Davidic line humiliated, and many of the people carried off to Babylon to serve the latest and greatest imperial overlord (Babylon, by the way, lacked mercy in its imperial dealings — see Jer. 6:23; 50:42 — that’s why God ultimately destroyed them).  The prophet speaks to Israel in this situation of exile: Yahweh the Redeemer will act swiftly as in the days of Moses to rescue them from their captors and recreate a people in the land of rest and peace.  And how will he do it?

“Thus says Yahweh to his anointed, to Cyrus, whose right hand I have grasped to subdue nations before him and strip kings of their robes…. I will go before you and level the mountains, I will break in pieces the doors of bronze and cut through the bars of iron…. For the sake of my servant Jacob, and Israel my chosen, I call you by your name, I surname you, though you do not know me.  I am Yahweh, and there is no other; besides me there is no god.  I arm you, though you do not know me.” (Isaiah 45:1-5)

Cyrus was a newcomer on the international scene, a rising star.  Of legendary character, he united the Medes and Persians and descended upon failing Babylon with ferocity.  When the dust settled, Cyrus was king of one of the largest empires ever assembled, and that included the people and lands of ancient Israel.  The Persian Empire would later allow Israelite exiles to return to their land and rebuild the city of Jerusalem (see the books of Ezra and Nehemiah).

So what could Cyrus possibly have to do with Avatar?  Here’s the rub:  Cyrus, a foreign king and imperial overlord, is referred to as Yahweh’s “anointed.”  In Hebrew the word is משׁיח (mashiach = messiah).  Apparently God had no problem using an empire as the instrument of redemption, literally a messiah for his people.  The reality is that empire’s exist, and further that imperial discourse (whether through news, Internet, movies, or other media) exercises an enormous influence on empire and colony (or “post-colony”?) alike.  Avatar did not create this reality, it simply reflects it.  My point is that Brooks’ characterization of our “White Messiah Complex” is itself a complex rooted in a fear of post-colonial political incorrectness that paralyzes the ability of an otherwise benevolent narrative to shape an empire in its convictions about mercy, war, culture, the environment, faith, community, and so on.

I end with a qualification: Please do not think that my defense of imperial benevolence is in any way a denial of the thoroughly anti-imperial rhetoric of prophetic discourse.  If anything, I think Avatar’s narrative does a great job of holding this tension together — the Na’vi (prophets) are precisely those whose way of life critiques the dominant view of society.  I suppose a truly balanced critique of Avatar would point out how it fails because of its over-the-top extremes: an uncompromisingly negative view of the (American) marines, an overly optimistic portrayal of the “white messiah,” and an utopian picture of uncontaminated life on Pandora.  But that’s precisely what prophets do!  When all hope for Israel (or Pandora?) is lost, behold! The messiah of Yahweh (or Eywa?) appears as an imperial overlord (or depressed marine?).  When wealth and idolatry lull Israel into a neglect for Yahweh, society, and creation, behold! The judgment of Yahweh appears as an imperial overlord.  And when the imperial overlord rejects a rule of mercy and justice, forsakes its obligations to the poor, orphan, and widow, and neglects stewardship of God’s creation, behold! A prophet of Yahweh emerges.

America is an empire, and empire’s have a messiah complex.  The Emperor of ancient Rome declared himself the savior of the world, and the United States of America (regardless of partisan color) announces daily its intention to save other nations with its political and economic genius, its technological innovation.  In spite of its complex, America is not a messiah of Yahweh.  But lets not be so quick to dismiss tales of benevolent imperialism as meaningless propaganda.  If we have to be an empire, the least we can do is be a good one, and shaping our discourse with stories like Avatar may be a useful place to start.

*Update:  Wow!  This anthropologist’s work is remarkably relevant for this discussion.

שׁוב

Well, it happened.  A blogger’s worst nightmare.  Two posts in and my textual stream-of-consciousness broke off entirely.  I would offer excuses, if I had any, but the reality is that the “busy” holiday season left me with too much time on my hands — which somehow is never a boon for creativity or productivity.  Those of you who know a little bit of Hebrew will have already picked up on the significance of this post’s title: שׁוב means “to return.”

Yesterday I went with Abby to see Avatar (It was her idea to go to a movie, but I picked Avatar).  I had pretty low expectations, which I’ve found is the best way to watch a movie, since it rarely leaves me disappointed.  I thought it would be impossible not to get hung up on cheesy animation, an over-the-top epic storyline, and under-developed characters who are incapable of stringing together more than four words at once.  Turns out, I’m a sucker for all those things.  Seriously though, the movie was great.  The characters had (some) depth, the effects were unbelievable, and the story was imaginative and even poignant.  Sure, there were moments when recycled cliches from Hollywood’s overly simple pop-culture reared their ugly head — an over-zealous characterization of war-mongering marines or the unabashed parallels between Pandora’s trees (Pandora is the name of the fictional planet where the movie takes place) and our own rain forests.  (I don’t mean to decry the importance of these issues, only the way that Hollywood blockbusters tend to neglect their complexity).  But what intrigued me the most were the sociological and religious dynamics of the film.

First, the less-explicit ecclesiological ones: When Sully was preparing for his re-birth as a member of the Omaticaya clan, I leaned over to Abby and said, “He’s gonna be baptized!”  You might laugh (and you’re right to do so), but think about it: After learning the ways of a community rooted (quite literally) in their faith, Sully was about to become one of them.  Doing so meant forsaking his own people, to the extent that he received a new body, a new family, an entirely new race.  St. Paul might have written the script: “In Christ there is no Jew or Gentile…”  At the risk of propping up a Christian sub-culture that is often devoid of social awareness, what does it mean to be welcomed into the Body?  To have a new family?  To be part of an alternative society (the Church) that often has different rules and vastly different convictions?  I’m not talking about your usual “counter-cultural worldview,” but a place with different social and political conventions — ones that align themselves with the will of the Creator of the universe.

Speaking of the Creator… Pandora’s god is named Eywa.  Her existence is deeply engrained in life on Pandora, and the scientist in the story even claims that the connection is “biological,” “quantifiable.”  Some may be turned off by this pantheistic (or, perhaps more accurately, panentheistic) deity, but I’m reminded of theologian Sallie McFague, who employs the metaphor of “God’s body” to speak of creation.  Since this is, after all, an Old Testament blog, what about the God who appeared in a burning bush or the pillar of fire or the cloud of glory?  The God whose very movements shake the foundations of the earth and topple the mountains?  The God whose Spirit animates our very existence (this might come closest to the sort of god that Eywa is)?  I’m not asking you to accept Avatar’s characterization of Eywa without reserve, only to discover a rich parallel there for what it might mean to speak of Creator and created, with all its implications for how one created being ought to live in relation to other created beings.  I do not simply want to affirm that all of creation is valued by its Creator — this is no doubt true — but more importantly, every created thing in some respect expresses something about the Creator.

Genesis 1 speaks of the “image of God” that characterizes the people whom God creates: “So God created the man in his image; in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.”  Traditionally, theology has taken this passage in a restrictive fashion: the image of God is uniquely human.  But I don’t see it that way.  Without entering the enormous debate over precisely what is the image of God (perhaps the problem with this debate is that the Bible never intended to be quite so precise about it), look at how the major characteristics of human beings in Gen 1-2 are the things they do like God — rule over and care for creation, (pro)create, live.  But some of these things aren’t uniquely human!  The image of God is expressed in all of creation — especially in living things and even more especially in human beings.

So, back to Eywa.  Is it really so far-fetched to think that a God so invested in creation as Yahweh is might unite Godself inexplicably and remarkably (or even biologically and quantifiably, I suppose) to each and every created thing?  And that through God’s unity with all of creation we might find ourselves inexplicably and remarkably united to each and every created thing?  I understand the theological challenges presented by pan(en)theism, but surely we can all agree that whether God “is” or “is not” a part of creation, God has in some respect united Godself to creation.  The Incarnation says as much.

Oh, by the way, did you notice what happens when you unscramble Eywa?  “Ya(h)we(h)!”  And the people of Pandora?  They’re called the na’vi, which is the Hebrew word for prophet.  Whatever else one might say about prophets, they certainly have some kind of special connection to God (like the people of Pandora).  These metaphors are deliberate, and worth more thought than I can give them here.  I think someday I’ll watch this movie again…

Update: After writing this post, I did some googling.  I found this blog by Rabbi Arthur Waskow of The Shalom Center (a progressive Jewish organization that I know very little about) fascinating.  He connects Avatar to a Jewish festival: “We are just now approaching the ecological-mystical festival of Tu B’Shvat. It intertwines celebration of the midwinter rebirth of trees and the rebirth of the Great Tree of Life Itself, God, Whose roots are in heaven and whose fruit is our world.“  He invites others to watch Avatar and then participate in the Jewish festival of Tu B’Shvat.  I just may take him up on his invitation.  Anyone else interested?

Learning to Lament

There may come a time when my first post needs a bit more clarification, but for now I’ll leave it be.  In case you are worried, I still love Jesus… very much  (as my pending affair with the Mennonites may yet prove).

In college, Abby (the smarter part of our “one flesh”) studied Human Needs and Global Resources (HNGR for short).  After a few years of courses in everything from theology to anthropology to economics, the program sends college seniors to 6-month internships in poor parts of the world.  Abby worked with street girls in Cochabamba, Bolivia.  Among the reading requirements for the HNGR program is a book by Denise Ackermann titled After the Locusts.  Dr. Ackermann is a South African theologian who has largely been shaped by her experience as a white woman in the midst of Apartheid and its aftermath.  She self-identifies as a feminist, an Anglican, and a narrative theologian, but you can decide for yourself whether those are adequate labels.

I tell you about Dr. Ackermann because, on Saturday, we were given the privilege to hear from her face-to-face.  The HNGR program hosted a workshop for alumni (and their tag-along spouses).  In typical HNGR fashion, it was low-key and full of the Holy Spirit.  Before I launch into a description of our time together, I want to tell you about the enormous love and respect I feel for Dr. Ackermann.  She is humble beyond words, thoughtful, articulate, poetic, and even motherly.  I watched her, a complete stranger to almost everyone in the room, win the trust of a bunch of college students (and former college students) and then guide us on the path of healing, deliverance, and wisdom.  She is truly a reflection of our Lord, and would be utterly embarrassed to hear me put it like that!

Here are a few of the gems I jotted down:

• “Vulnerability is a pre-condition to doing God’s work.”  This was how she opened her time with us.
• “The oldest transnational in the world is faith.”  Here she spoke of the experience of many refugees in South Africa, whose first task upon arriving is often to seek out a place of worship.
• “I can never be right.”
• “God is robust!”
• “I’ve had enough violence, but I don’t want to give up protest.”
• “Public lament is a political-social event.”

Of the many subjects covered during the 7-hour workshop, I was especially impressed by two of these: fundamentalism and lament.

Our discussion of fundamentalism arose out of Dr. Ackermann’s questions about the evangelical sub-culture that marks much of American Christianity, and is certainly the characteristic brand represented at Wheaton.  She made what I believe is a very accurate connection between fundamentalism and fear.  Fundamentalism, regardless of its religious manifestation, is fundamentally (ha!) a fear of losing control.  It is a particular response to the problems associated with newness and change, an inability to reckon theologically with a world that is different now than it once was, especially if it looks like that world will not grant me the power or privilege I have in the current one.  Dr. Ackermann’s bold yet gentle response to the perils of fundamentalist thinking: “I can never be right.”  Amen.

Now, since I don’t want you to think you’ve been deceived by expecting an Old Testament blog, we need to talk about suffering and lament.  I was struck, above all, by the role lament played in Dr. Ackermann’s political and theological journey.  As someone who has witnessed and experienced a great deal of suffering in her life, it is powerful indeed to hear her speak of the value of lament in our world.  In her book, she recalls the psalmist:

How long, O Lord?  Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I bear my pain in my soul
and have sorrow in my heart all day long?
How long shall my enemy be exalted over me? (Ps 13)

The “How long?” of the Old Testament (a frequent cry of poets and prophets alike) is the biblical way of stating what today’s philosophers call the problem of evil.  But Ackermann’s take is illuminating.  Unlike philosophical attempts to find the “solution” to such a problem, she notices that the biblical “solution” is simply to continue asking the question!  To put it rather boldly, the answer to the problem of evil is to question the very God who is capable of solving it.  Job knew this when he stood firm in his claim to righteousness in spite of his suffering.  Habakkuk knew it when he cried “How long?” on behalf of the people of God who had been delivered from the Assyrians (as God had promised) only to find themselves oppressed by the Babylonians (that was tricky of you God)!

And, in spite of all its philosophical implications (which I expect some of you love and others balk at), the most profound implications are practical–or, more precisely: cultural, social, political, economic.  Dr. Ackermann’s journey was impacted by the Old Testament theologian Walter Brueggemann, who writes of “The Costly Loss of Lament”:

In regularly using the lament form, Israel kept the justice question visible and legitimate.  It is this justice question in the form of lament that energizes the Exodus narrative.  Indeed, it is the cry of Israel (Exod. 2:23-25) which mobilizes Yahweh to action that begins the history of Israel.  The cry initiates history….  When the lament is absent, the normal mode of the theodicy question [that's the problem of evil question] is forfeited.  When the lament form is censured, justice questions cannot be asked and eventually become invisible and illegitimate.

In other words, the lament constantly reminds us and our world that justice has been violated.  To forget to lament is often to forget this violation.  Complacency is the opposite of lament.  Dr. Ackermann told of her participation in the Black Sash, a group of about 1500 women in South Africa who regularly organized public protests against government officials who refused to stand up against Apartheid.  Unique to their protest was its style–they wore black sashes, lined up in public, and stood solemnly and silently with heads bowed.  They showed up at court cases, in sessions of parliament, and followed around public officials.  Imagine the contrast between a group of women dressed as in mourning and standing next to a member of the South African parliament.  Their very presence signaled that something was very wrong.  They understood what ancient Israel knew in their poetic laments, and what Brueggemann describes in his article.  He goes on to say:

A community of faith which negates laments soon concludes that the hard issues of justice are improper questions to pose at the throne [of God], because the throne seems to be only a place of praise…. The order of the day comes to seem absolute, beyond question, and we are left only with grim obedience and eventually despair.  The point of access for serious change has been forfeited when the propriety of this speech form is denied.

I doubt any of you will disagree that there is a great deal that is seriously wrong with our world.  Few days go by that I am not sick inwardly at the thought of starving children (or the death of unborn ones), gang wars, killing in the name of peace, and the list goes on.  Just last week a young, unarmed African-American man in Champaign was shot by a couple of white police officers.  He was caught breaking-and-entering — into his own home.  He had locked himself out.  I know that something is seriously wrong.  The point of lament is to make that knowledge public, to voice it.  As Christians, I think we ought to do so in our churches.  So I close with questions to which I hope any readers of this blog will respond:  How do you lament what you know to be seriously wrong?  How can our churches be creative with our worship, so that “the throne” is not only a place of praise, but a place where, without fear (see how I tied all that together!), we might question even God who seems unwilling to act?  How can we be sure our laments are public?  What is seriously wrong; what needs lamenting?

If you made it this far, thanks for reading.  I promise not to make all my blog posts so long.  For those who know me well, you know that’s an empty promise.  If I said something you don’t like, make sure you raise it in the comments.  I won’t be offended, I promise–and that’s not an empty one.

Peace

Origins

The first of first things first!  Oh, the possibilities…

While Dietrich Bonhoeffer was imprisoned by the Nazis for collaborating to assassinate Hitler (the plan was to blow him up with a suitcase bomb!), DB sent and received a lot of letters from friends and family.  His closest friend, Eberhard Bethge, later collected these letters and published them in a collection of Letters & Papers from Prison.  During the Advent season of 1943, he wrote to Eberhard:

My thoughts and feelings seem to be getting more and more like those of the Old Testament, and in recent months I have been reading the Old Testament much more than the New.  It is only when one knows the unutterability of the name of God that one can utter the name of Jesus Christ; it is only when one loves life and the earth so much that without them everything seems to be over that one may believe in the resurrection and a new world….  In my opinion it is not Christian to want to take our thoughts and feelings too quickly and too directly from the New Testament…. One cannot and must not speak the last word before the last but one.  We live in the last but one and believe the last, don’t we?  …the logical conclusions are far-reaching for the concept of ministry, for the use of the Bible, etc., and above all for ethics.

More than 60 years later, Bonhoeffer’s words continue to ring true.  A mentor of mine puts it like this: “Only when people have learned to take the Old Testament really seriously can they be entrusted with the story of Jesus.”  I love John Goldingay’s choice of language–we have been “entrusted” with the story of Jesus.  To fail in our understanding of that story’s roots (the Old Testament) is to violate that trust.

first things first is an attempt to make sure I get my interpretive priorities straight.  I want to re-learn how to tell the story of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob so that I don’t leave out Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob and somehow miss God in the process.  God bound himself to them in covenant; why shouldn’t I?  Bonhoeffer thought that careful attention to the Old Testament would provide “above all” a rich source for Christian ethics.  What happens, then, if we place the stories, songs, memories, and categories of the Old Testament alongside our own stories, songs, and memories?  I suppose our own world might look a little different.  And I imagine that God may look different too–but that’s because we’re painting with a full palette.