Brehm Blog
Joy Moyal Sep 08, 2010
Recently I was inspired by two very different life stories. For my modern church history course, I wrote a research paper on the spirituality of William Wilberforce, celebrated social justice activist and a major player in the abolition of the British slave trade two hundred years ago. A few weeks ago, I went to see Eat, Pray, Love—the true story of “one woman’s search for everything across Italy, India, and Indonesia.” I read the book a couple of years ago, and knew what I was in for: main character Elizabeth Gilbert, played by the effervescent Julia Roberts, living many a woman’s dream of gallivanting around the world, eating fantastic food, seeing fabulous sights, and also doing a lot of what my parents’ generation might call “navel-gazing.”
Struck by the contrast between these two lives, I also thought of their similarities. The majority of our society would describe both as “meaningful.” But has the definition of a meaningful life changed?
Wilberforce and Gilbert were both working from some pretty intense assumptions that framed their respective journeys. Influenced by the Purtian and evangelical theology of his day, Wilberforce viewed life as a serious business and himself as a pilgrim and a soldier with the one task of furthering the purposes of God on earth. He kept meticulous diaries of his besetting sins and their pages are full of self-berating language and a striving for a greater holiness. His great goals in life were the abolition of slavery and the reformation of morality in Great Britain.
In Eat, Pray, Love, Gilbert spouts many ideas regarding what life is all about. Not surprisingly, she doesn’t refer to herself as a soldier in God’s army or a pilgrim on her way to the Celestial City. Rather, Gilbert says things like, “"You were given life; it is your duty (and also your entitlement as a human being) to find something beautiful within life, no matter how slight." And, more simply, “I deserve something beautiful.” She’s had a tough few years: she divorced a man because she didn’t want to be married anymore, then got together with another man and it didn’t work, and she wasn’t sure who she was anymore. She needed to feed herself, and find herself, and finally balance her life. I’m reminded of Thomas De Zengotita’s book Mediated, where he identifies a major trend in American culture as bringing up children to live in “Me-World”—a place of endless options, framed and defined by our unique characteristics and nuanced preferences.
"Happiness is the consequence of personal effort,” says Gilbert. “You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. And…you must never become lax about maintaining it. You must make a mighty effort to keep swimming upward into that happiness forever..." Sounds heroic, doesn’t it? Her diligent pursuit is reminiscent to Wilberforce’s relentless quest for justice and personal holiness. Except, it’s all about her.
It’s easy to judge, when seeing these two lives from a distance. But I can’t judge, because if I were honest, I would have to say that I would prefer to follow Gilbert’s globetrotting pursuit of happiness. I’d rather eat pasta in Italy and fall in love with a sensitive Brazilian man in Bali than trace Wilberforce’s path—working long hours and seeing almost no fruit of his labor for 20 years, exhausted and wrecked with poor health, constantly uncertain about the state of his salvation. I grew up in de Zengotita’s Me-World, and it’s hard to get out, even when I see the way Wilberforce’s sacrificial lifestyle benefitted millions.
In a RSA Animate lecture about the 21st century enlightenment, chief executive Matthew Taylor said that such a movement ought to “champion a more self-aware, socially embedded model of autonomy that recognizes our frailties and limitations.” Hearing that, I couldn’t help but wonder: Who was more “enlightened,” 21st- century style: Wilberforce or Gilbert? The answer seems obvious—Wilberforce, born in an era still reeling from the original Enlightenment, appears to be an excellent model of Taylor’s “enlightened” enlightened man. He was self-aware to the point of keeping diaries and journals of his thoughts and how he spent his time, as well as demonstrating full recognition of his own frailties and limitations.
According to Taylor, the 21st century enlightenment ought to be marked by an extension of our empathic reach. This requires questioning what we mean by “happiness” and whether we think that human welfare and happiness are the goal of progress—that beautiful idea that’s been passed down on a silver tray since the Enlightenment—or if perhaps progress and happiness are one and the same.
“The 21st century enlightenment calls for us to see past simplistic and inadequate ideas of freedom, justice, and progress,” stated Taylor. “Perhaps it’s time to stop chasing those myths, to stop being transfixed by abstractions and instead to reconnect to a concrete understanding of who we are as human beings, to political debates about who we need to be, and philosophical and even spiritual exploration of who we might aspire to be.”
Elizabeth Gilbert, chasing after happiness and fulfillment, paints giant abstract pictures of the great things in life—beauty is a word she often uses for this ineffable objective. But William Wilberforce’s life was laid out just as Taylor suggested: at 26 years old he was shaken to the core with the realization of how weak and frail he is as a sinful human being, he spent several decades as a Member of Parliament, debating and campaigning for who we need to be, and spent his precious solitary time exploring the joys of communion with his transcendent creator. While Gilbert appears to be more connected to herself, to the world, to others—I mean, she does yoga—it’s actually in a Puritan abolitionist from the early nineteenth century that we see an empathic, illuminated balance of justice and spirituality.
Matthew Taylor, meet William Wilberforce: the first enlightened man of the 21st century.
- Joy Moyal
To watch the RSA Animate lecture on the 21st Century Enlightenment, click here.
Aaron Raymond Sep 08, 2010
It was a sunny afternoon, like it always was, when the Metro Goldline pulled out from Memorial Park station. I awkwardly found a seat near the front, pulling a black carry-on with a blue shoe string tied to the handle. My school bag slung round my back now fell to my side as I crammed the carry-on into the tiny space between each seat. I took in the general white-noise of the various Angelino dialects that were foreign to my ear while I closed my eyes and recollected upon my last two weeks of Seminary, of Pasadena, and of Southern California. The train made its way through South Pas. and onwards from the edge of Los Angeles into its heart, until we passed China Town and Dodger’s Stadium sitting on the hill, then Union Station. From there I took the Flyaway Shuttle that hurried jet-setting hopefuls, TSA inspectors, and Starbucks baristas to their intended terminals. As the shuttle turned onto the 105 I looked back for the first time. I hadn’t looked back since I left the gate at Koinonia. But I was looking back now.
“You’re taking the Metro?” A bewildered friend asked just hours before. “No one volunteered to give you a ride?”
“I like it.” I replied rather unconvincingly. “It’s not that bad.” But it was.
Sitting on the Metro and then the Shuttle as they both meandered their way to their fated destinations, I was left with not only time to think about my future but time to remember the past, watching as all of the moments and instances from my last two years stretched out into memories before me like taffy being pulled and reshaped. The memories, stretched and merged, came back in one large gestalted emotion as I now sat on a bus looking at the downtown skyline with her San Gabriel Mountains in the distance. I had seen postcards where they were covered in snow, though the last time I saw them from this viewpoint they were covered in flames.
Traveling is fun when you have a place to call home. Like a baby sparrow that ventures out from its nest, we are comforted to know that our mothers are right there watching over us. How perfect we feel. But this didn’t feel perfect. This felt like the numerous times of a youth who with a saddened expression listened as a father tried once again to explain why the child was losing his home, his school, and his friends.
Travel, like so much in life, can be what we make it. But it can be so much more than that, if we allow ourselves to be acted upon.
When I was still a child my father took me on a trip. He called it a “Pilgrimage.” I felt more like a tourist than a pilgrim, except that tourists don’t come to worship. I sat on a boat and listened to the stillness as the sea gently rocked us towards the shore. I read aloud from my father’s old beat-up leather book ancient words that were spoken not three feet from where I stood. I listened again as I watched an old man, a WWII vet, sit down on the banks of the river and weep from pure joy. And I strolled the narrow winding streets of an ancient city through the quarters that eventually lead down to the wall. We did much more than this but every occasion, every bus stop, was a cause for celebration and for worship.
There are millions of reasons why we travel. Can you guess what is the world’s fastest long distance animal? I’ll tell you. It’s you! Humans are bred to cover long distances over a long period of time – a lifetime. Our collective history is one of perpetual unending migration. We may seek to create borders and confine our own nature, but we’ve seen the recurring folly of civilization’s efforts for permanence.
When Abram left Ur, he stepped out in faith. The thoughts that ran through his head must have been akin to the Guatemalan mother who rides atop the Mexican freight trains with her child with fear and apprehension, nevertheless trusting in the compulsion of her heart which whispered to her in the night, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.”
Our affluent idea of travel today is more akin to entertainment where, like the theater, a person can forget herself and get lost in the thrill and novelty of the moment. Ultimately for whatever reason we travel, whether it is because of a vacation, a pilgrimage, or a migration, what we are searching for is to see the world through new eyes, through eyes of faith.
The reality of travel is that when we do so we are emersed in another language. Even if as an American one travels to the UK, they still experience a shift in meaning. As language changes with each new place, so does the meaning of things change in their relationship to the world.
J.R.R. Tolkien, the legendary mythopoeic sub-creator of Middle-earth, constantly reminds us in his epic fairy-story The Lord of the Rings of the inextricable nature of language, myth, and imagination. He does this through the travel story. And in a sense, as Joseph Campbell would suggest, all narratives, like the Hero’s Journey, are in fact travel stories. The protagonist necessarily moves from point A to point Z in order to grow and mature. The most immediate tool the writer employs is place, or setting. Setting is important for so many aspects of a story, and most important for establishing the mood. It is from this mood that the protagonist must venture forth. The physical move often times represents the character’s existential move from that mood.
The Lord of the Rings begins in a place where the importance of Story is quickly fading away, becoming, like the ring-bearers over time, a shade of its former self. Yet Bilbo is an avid storyteller and writes the tales of his adventure journeys down in a book, which will encourage Frodo in his fateful decision to embark upon his own journey and story. These stories which Frodo and his fellow travelers share with one another act to strengthen their nerve, adding to their knowledge and wisdom of the world and consequently of themselves.
In the Gospel of Mark we read of a ragged and hurried man of action whose eyes burn with an intensity of compassion, who, like Tolkien’s character Aragorn, wanders but is not lost. He is the ultimate transgressor who crosses over not just physical boundaries into foreign lands amongst a foreign and unclean people, but the boundaries of social norms as well. He is the consummate traveling companion who offers endless stories and parables, meanwhile offering his own outstretched hand, declaring “Attraversiamo!”
When Sam returns to the Shire he is charged by Frodo to continue the story where it has been left. These stories will themselves over time be transformed as they in turn will continue to transform both those who tell them and those who hear them.
But take care and watch yourself closely, so as neither to forget the things that your eyes have seen nor to let them slip from your mind all the days of your life…
Two men were walking down a road and talking with one another about everything that had happened over the weekend. A third man came alongside them and joined in their discussion… well you know how the story goes. “Were not out hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?” They said to one another.
Aaron Raymond is a graduate of Fuller Theological Seminary - 2010, with a Master of Arts in Theology.
Brehm Blog
Elijah Davidson Sep 07, 2010
Have you ever heard of a "McGuffin?" Don't Google it. I'll tell you what it is, I promise. Just give me a minute.
"McGuffin" is a movie term of disputed origin. Some say Hitchcock coined it, and that story is as good as any, as Hitchcock was the master of the McGuffin. McGuffins pre-date Hitchcock considerably though and appear in storytelling mediums other than film. What is a "McGuffin," you may be asking? Well, in asking the question, you kind of already have your answer.
Get Low is a story built upon a McGuffin, and that McGuffin is a story, a story Robert Duvall's crotchety old mountain man wants told. The film opens with a shot of a burning house from which a person on fire emerges. The story then switches to another time, and Robert Duvall's character decides to throw his own funeral and give everyone a chance to tell whatever stories they've ever heard about him.
In this movie, the story that Duvall's character wants told is the "McGuffin." A "McGuffin" is simply the thing that drives the story forward. InCasablanca, the letters of transit are the McGuffin. In Citizen Kane, it's "rosebud." In Star Wars, Death Star schematic-laden R2D2 is the McGuffin. Rarely is a story really about the McGuffin. The McGuffin simply creates a realm for the greater conflict. When a McGuffin works well, you either don't notice it, or by film's end, you don't care.
Get Low is consumed by the McGuffin. The audience is given the mystery of why Duvall's character is doing all he is doing to hold our interest. We get glimpses here and there of the guilt that haunts him, the forgiveness he is reticent to receive, and the destruction that whatever happened caused in the lives of Duvall's character and others. If we already knew the story, would we care to watch the movie? I don't think so. Much like my discussion of McGuffins acted as an entryway into this review, the mystery draws us into Get Low and carries us through.
Rest assured, there is payoff. We do eventually hear the story-driving story in a brilliantly performed monologue near the end of the film (I'm not saying who performs this monologue). In the middle though, between the McGuffin establishing opening and the McGuffin satisfying ending, the film just moves steadily along, carried by the acting skill of Robert Duvall, Bill Murray, and Sissy Spacek.
I enjoyed the film. It is concerned with matters of guilt and forgiveness. Robert Duvall's character wants forgiveness for something he's done, though he does not see any reason to seek that forgiveness from God. In his view, he has done God no wrong. He bristles whenever either of the film's two preachers suggest that he yield to God's authority and supplicate himself before God.
Final authority is, of course, God's. Receiving forgiveness for wrongdoing, and especially for wrongdoing that ended in the death of another, is dependent on yielding to Christ. Duvall's character is right in saying that he cannot receive forgiveness from God for his sins, because he has not put himself under God's authority. Eternal forgiveness necessitates an eternal forgiver.
Lordship is at the heart of the matter. Duvall's character is and always has been his own lord. To receive true forgiveness, he must be willing to call another Lord.
-- Elijah Davidson, Co-Director of the Institute for Reel Spirituality at the Brehm Center for Worship, Theology, and the Arts. More reviews like this one can be found at www.brehmcenter.com/institutes/reel-spirituality.
Elijah Davidson Sep 07, 2010
There is a scene in The Switch that takes place at a party thrown to celebrate Jennifer Aniston's conception of her child. The conception is actually going to take place during the party. No, no one will be having sex. The proposed father of the to-be-conceived child is to go into a room alone and deposit his half of the equation. Then, Aniston's character will go into the room alone and accept what he has deposited.
Just before the deed is done, those gathered for the party, and in particular the women present, raise their glasses toasting what Aniston's character is about to do. They exclaim, "We did it! We finally did it!" They are celebrating their almost complete liberation from dependence on men.
The "switch" of the film's title refers to Jason Bateman's character's switching of Aniston's donor's sperm with his own making him the father of her child. He is very drunk and drugged at the time and does not realize what he has done until she shows back up 6 years later with her son who displays many of his quirks. Complications ensue.
The Switch is a romantic comedy light on the romance, a bit heavier on the comedy, and heavier still on the social implications of the modern science of fertility. I don't mean to suggest that the film is heady and un-fun. On the contrary, it's pretty entertaining, but it also ruminates some profound questions in the process.
The little boy is growing up without a father and without the suggestion of a father. He knows that his mother decided to bring him into the world on her own. The little boy is missing half of his identity. It may be that his mother chose to be a single parent, but the boy is still fatherless, a loss the boy expresses by collecting picture frames with the stock photos intact, pictures of complete families, a semblance of normalcy he has never known.
How is this little boy's experience different than the millions of kids who grow up with absent fathers? The movie suggests that it is not different at all. Though the mother may be "liberated," her son is bound by a sense of loss. "Children need two parents," the movie says, "A mother and a father."
We live in an exciting time. There are advances being made constantly in the realm of fertility science. With these advances come moral issues we must be mindful of. A life is a life no matter how it is conceived, and that life is prone to all the joy and pain common to everyone else.
We may be liberated, but we are still bound to things beyond all our scientific and social "advances."
-- Elijah Davidson, Co-Director of the Institute for Reel Spirituality at the Brehm Center for Worship, Theology, and the Arts. More reviews like this one can be found atwww.brehmcenter.com/institutes/reel-spirituality.
Elijah Davidson Sep 04, 2010
Going the Distance, the new romantic comedy starring Drew Barrymore and Justin Long, explores the ins and outs of a long distance relationship. He lives in New York, she lives in San Francisco, and never betwixt the two shall meet (because in movies no places exist outside New York and California).
This is your standard romantic comedy, and all of the requisite parts are included - the goofy friends, the concerned siblings, the meet-cute, the breakup(s), the get-back-together(s), and the inevitable happy ending. Going the Distance is a movie you have seen before. Even the jokes seem recycled.
That being said, it is in no way a bad film. The jokes may be old, but they're still funny. The characters are stock, but they're also well embodied. The plot may be well-practiced, but it is also well-performed. Though predictable, Going the Distance is still fun.
Honestly, I don't think we go to see romantic comedies for something new. We're not looking to be challenged. The story of falling in love is about as old a story as exists, and the idea that someone is going to suddenly find some new vein to mine is foolish. The story also doesn't get tiresome, because, I think, falling in love is forever mysterious and forever worthy of exploring again.
Where Going the Distance is new, however, is in its timeliness. Never before has humanity had the ability to communicate as rapidly across vast distances as we do today. Drew and Justin's characters make full use of many of the technologies available to them to foster their relationship. The talk, text, and video chat incessantly, both because they genuinely like each other, and because they are doing everything they can to stay connected.
This causes them problems though, as they reach the limitations of these technologies, and these limits have to do with presence.
Constantly communicating with one another causes them to be disconnected from the people with whom they share physical space. One of Justin's character's friends even goes to drastic lengths to get his attention. Humans are capable of being intently present, but we cannot be all-present as Justin and Drew's characters learn.
They are also unable to console and celebrate with one another as they would like. Though our touchscreens may be intuitive and sensitive and responsive, they cannot (yet) mimic the intuition, sensitivity, and responsiveness of a well-timed hug of either consolation or celebration.
Ecclesiastically, in the West, as we continue to move into a world of satellite campuses, virtual communities, and text-based prayer requests, may we continue to wrestle with new definitions of what it means to be in community with others. Let us be cognizant of the limitations of these technologies.
Now, in questioning the viability of such technology-based interactions, I don't mean to denigrate them. I benefit daily by some of these methods of communication, and I think it is a exciting world we are moving into. We need to remember though that some things can never be simulated by a simulacrum.
Our faith is founded on an incarnation, or a "physicalization," if you will, of what was otherwise unhindered by space and time. Christ dwelt among us, and so we must dwell with those we deem to be Christ for.
In Going the Distance, the lovers are drawn to be together in the physical presence of one another out of love for one another. We might say Christ was following a similar urge when He came to be with us. Love longs to be fully present with the beloved, and physical presence is almost as present as one can be.
Almost...
(Going the Distance is rated R. it very much deserves that rating. It is a crude film, full of sexually explicit dialogue.)
-- Elijah Davidson, Co-Director of the Institute for Reel Spirituality at the Brehm Center for Worship, Theology, and the Arts. Many more film reviews like this one can be found on the Institute's web page at http://www.brehmcenter.com/institutes/reel-spirituality.