"If Jesus sent me to Hell, I would go."

 

I remember making this statement as a young Christian and being surprised by the reaction. One friend in particular was apoplectic. “But that doesn’t make any sense! He would never ask you to… I mean why would you…?” And he went on. I get that it’s a little oxymoronic. And you should know I make statements like that with a little more than a touch of irony, but I was stunned by the acute anxiety in his reaction. It was almost as though that were a real possibility. God might actually send him to the “bad place.”

But why would he be so unsettled by, so threatened by something that he knew would never happen? There is no reason, justification, or theology behind the notion of sending believers to Hell. I think that the first problem for him is just that; it didn’t make any sense. However, his level of angst revealed a deeper confusion. My best guess is that my statement was antithetical to his personal theology.

You see, in his theology, the ultimate goal is to get to heaven. That was the promise. “If I believe, then when I die, I get to go to heaven. So, I am believing. I’m doing what I’m told and for that I expect a reward.” This transactional relationship with God is at the heart of many Christian’s relationship with God. It is a danger that inherently limits one’s relationship with God.

As Paul tells Timothy, there are those who “have a form of godliness, but deny it’s power” (2 Timothy 3:5). I think too many of us are powerless to change our lives because our entire “faith” revolves around getting to heaven. In that sense, we are in it for ourselves. Even when we “do” Christianity, it is because we are supposed to. Intuitively we know that it can’t be as simple as saying a little prayer and then getting on with our own lives, having secured our golden ticket. So, we go to church, maybe open a Bible once in awhile, or whatever list of things to do we have been given.

We practice this form of godliness, but it doesn’t add up to much.

As we’ve seen in the past, my friends initial emotional reaction caused him to miss the point entirely. However inartfully put, I was talking about something entirely other to his experience. His anxiety came from a statement that he could never make, and was so far outside of his experience that his reaction was a kind of hostility. I was clearly being heretical.

What I was trying to suggest is that I was not interested in some future destination, the “pie in the sky, by and by.” I wasn’t interested in the promise, so much as the one who promises. John wrote, “And this is eternal life, that they may know you, the only true God and Jesus Christ, whom you have sent” (John 17:3). This IS eternal life - knowing God. That’s it. That’s the whole thing and it’s NOW. There is nothing to wait for.

Know God - know life. No God - no life.

There is nothing to wait for. Nowhere to go. You already have eternal life. There is only the relationship with God, and that is NOW. “Heaven,” will only be a continuation and an intensification of what you have now.

So, why would I go to Hell? My point was that I would go where He goes. If He’s in Hell, I want to be there. I wouldn’t go to heaven if He wasn’t there. It kind of reminds of my dog, Chewie, part Chow, part German Shepherd, who follows me everywhere. If I get up to go to the bathroom, he gets up and follows me. If I close the door to the bathroom, he waits outside the door and then follows me back into the living room. No questions asked. I’ll go where He goes. There is no better place to be.

I wasted a lot of time as a young believer ruminating on the question of salvation. Was I really saved? Could I lose my salvation? I went round and round in my own head and in conversation with other young, not very well grounded, Christians. It was exhausting.

Ultimately, I didn’t so much finally answer the question as I gave up trying to find an answer. I reached a place where my eternal security no longer became an important question. I lost interest in the question. Others became more important; Jesus became more important.

I have said that my definition of sin is selfishness. After that realization, it came to me that the amount of time that I spent worrying about my salvation and trying to secure my salvation was selfish and therefore sinful. That is the problem of a Christianity whose goal is heaven, eternal life, or salvation. You’re in it for you. How is that not sinful? This is why you haven’t changed, why you haven’t been transformed. As long as on any level it is ultimately about you, you will not change. You will be a religious person trying to earn justification.

I finally came to the place where I stopped caring about my eternal destination. I just decided to follow Jesus, whatever that meant. Hell, the ends of the Earth, staying right here, my idea is to go where he goes.

It is true that I can write this knowing that my eternity is secure and the gives me confidence. If in anyway my ultimate destination was in doubt, that would upset the applecart. But my assurance comes from having a relationship with God, which leads to good. Fundamentally, I don’t expect that to change but to continue on forever, which would be heaven.

Rogue One is not a “Star Wars” Movie

SPOILER ALERT: This post assumes you have seen the movie!

Joseph Campbell, as they say, would roll over in his grave. Not that I hated the movie. I found it entertaining, but this movie breaks with the monomyth, the “hero’s journey,” in a way that is totally out of step with the Star Wars mythology. Another oddity is that the Force is ineffectual, something unusual for a series that generally elevates it to a starring role. Beyond that, I was mildly disturbed by what message might be communicated by the fact that everyone dies ending, whether that is the right message for today. The bottom line is that Rogue One just doesn’t fit the “Star Wars” mythology.

The biggest problem with the movies is that the hero can’t die. That Joseph Campbell’s ideas on mythology and the “hero’s journey” (monomyth) inspirational to George Lucas and the makers of the early Star Wars movies is well-documented. A simple internet search will yield plenty of charts detailing how Star Wars follows that classic pattern. A key element of the monomyth is that the values of the  culture are transmitted in the changes the hero goes through on the journey. Over the years, as I have taught about the monomyth in my Film Analysis class, one thing has become clear: the transformation of the hero is bound up in self-sacrifice. The journey must ultimately produce a change in the character in which he let’s go of his self-interest and dedicates himself to the greater good. This seems to be a key characteristic of the hero in our culture.

While the cultural message of the Star Wars mythology is that to be a hero one must sacrifice themselves for the greater good, this does not include dying. The end of the hero’s journey is to take come back home having been changed by the experience. The cultural value communicated in more a of living sacrifice. In some way, shape, or form, the hero is supposed to bring back a “magic elixir” that will heal the land. In it’s simplest form, the journey is about fixing whatever is wrong with his home, but not for himself, for his people.

Now, one could argue that Rogue One fulfills that. Jyn finds a kind of redemption, sacrifices herself, and transmits the plans, which could be viewed as the “elixir.” The plans certainly are the boon that allows the rebels to blow up the Death Star. The difference is that she, as the hero, is limited to one sacrifice on behalf of others. While it may seem very noble to make that sacrifice, it also limits our heros. All of us take the cathartic journey along with the hero toward self-sacrifice. So, all of us internalize the message of self-sacrifice. But we all can’t die for our cause, or there would be nothing left. Star Wars heros have a greater value in creating living sacrifices because if we were all to internalize that message, the end result would be a better society. Dying for your cause is either limited to a few or an exercise in futility. In any case, it is not consistent with the kind of hero consistently presented in the Star Wars mythology.

Having all the main characters die, makes the Rogue One essentially humanistic. Thematically, this means that goals are to be attained by human effort, and human effort alone. The movie pulls us out of the world of the underlying connection between all beings and into the humanistic realm. It is people doing what people need to do to survive on their own without the ultimate power of the universe. The Force is ineffectual. There is only one practitioner and the Force is not enough to save him. It is as though the movie franchise is now in the hands of unbelievers.

Jyn’s arc fits the monomyth in some ways; it is almost impossible not to. It’s just not the Star Wars monomyth. Star Wars is about the Force; it is about faith. Their goals are attained by trusting the Force, and it’s a power takes them beyond what human effort alone can do. Even when Obi-Wan Kenobi dies in the original, he returns to the Force to continue to aid Luke. In fact, he is present in spirit at the end of episode 6, so he isn’t “dead” in the same way as the characters in Rogue One. Luke only destroys the  Death Star by trusting the  Force. But that greater spiritual message is lost in Rogue One.

The Star Wars myth, because of the foregrounding of the Force, is more about inner transformation. It is about Luke becoming a Jedi. It is about Anakin losing his way and finding redemption. It is about that thing below the surface that can connect all of humanity for better or worse. As a cultural artifact, the Star Wars series argues for living a life of sacrifice, not making a sacrifice. The “ultimate boon” for the hero is the discipline that makes him of continual value to his people. I would argue, then, that the “message” for the viewer is that this is all of us. We all can go on an adventure and come back changed and more valuable to our people, however we define them.

Instead, Rogue One, is war propaganda about dying for a cause. This is not the hero’s job in the Star Wars myth. Not that people don’t die in the earlier Star Wars movies, just not the heros. Even Obi-Wan’s death, as I said, takes him into the Force to be of further use to Luke. He makes a conscious sacrifice that makes him of more value because of the Force. As I mentioned, since his consciousness continues, he still qualifies as a living sacrifice. Jyn, on the other hand, fails as a Star Wars hero because she does not choose to make the sacrifice. She intends to live, but circumstances converge to take that choice away from her. Her death and the plans she transmitted do not resonate beyond the human realm. But Obi-Wan and Anakin, because of the Force, are able to join in the celebration in Return of the Jedi. Will we see the spirit of Jyn raised in a future episode?

I must confess that the reason the self-sacrifice of the all of the characters in Rogue One did not sit well with me has to do with the times we live in. The world seems to be too extremist, too fundamentalist, and too willing too for the rightness of our causes. Everything is a battle. While the idea of dying for one’s country, or a good and worthy causes is laudable, the people who disagree with you may be getting the same message from the same movie. Throw a bunch of people together who are willing to die for what they believe and someone is going to die. I am all for messages of self-sacrifice, as the monomyth promotes, but I’m not sure this is the right time promote the ultimate sacrifice.

Wouldn’t we be better off with the old Star Wars mythology, people living lives of sacrifice for the common good, rather than dying?