The original Star Wars trilogy is far superior to the
more recent prequels that fleshed out the origins of Darth Vader and the
Skywalker family. My main contention has always been that the original films
were, for lack of a better word, more real, than the prequels. Perhaps “real-looking”
would be more accurate; Jedi, lightsabers, blasters and space ships are, sadly,
no more real than fairies and elves. But the appeal of the original movies (at
least, one element of the appeal, and a reason for their endurance as beloved
movies) is that the world seemed real. The places seemed real, the weapons and
spaceships had a quality of verisimilitude to them. They were grungy and
imperfect. And therefore more real.
It’s strange that we define reality by imperfection. The reason
why a formulaic romantic comedy is entertaining is that it isn’t real. The problems
are cute or easily solved, the endings too trite or convenient, and the
emotions too pure. Why else would we like to see them, if only to be distracted
from the mess that is reality?
And this is what’s interesting: we instinctively grasp when
something’s not real. Star Wars is a prime example, but even look at
animated films. As proficient and advanced as animation technology has become,
no digital image that is sustained on screen for more than a second or two
cannot fail to be recognized as the fakery it is. Again, I was impressed by the
aliens in the original Star Wars films because they were real aliens; that is,
actual costumes with makeup and prosthetics. The new movies relied on computer
animation to generate the aliens, and they lacked that sense of reality. It’s
one thing to make the logical leap into a world of the Force and interstellar
travel; it’s another thing to be constantly reminded that what you’re seeing
was created on a computer. Your brain automatically maintains that distance of
thinking, “Hmmm, that’s impressive bending an entire cityscape on top of itself
like Inception did, but I still know it’s just a dream. [Like that
irony?] Even as I’m in the dream I know it isn’t real.” As opposed to the
experiences where you forget you’re watching a contrived experience, carefully
crafted and manipulated, and just let yourself be caught up in the story and
characters.
Here’s a more recent example. I’d been eagerly looking
forward to Cowboys and Aliens all summer. A mash up of genres like cowboys
and aliens, with James Bond and Indiana Jones? Sign me up! On the other hand, I’d
never heard of the movie Crazy, Stupid Love until it came out and some
friends of mine recommended it. I left C&A feeling nothing. I’d made
no connection to the characters or their plight. Creating a realistic world was
less important than plodding through the plot and including cool special
effects while allowing posing opportunities for Craig and Ford. The bullets and
laser blasts never seemed real threats, and when the Indians captured our
heroes you knew that they would end up helping the ragtag bunch in driving off
the space invaders. No imperfections to be found.
Crazy Stupid Love, however, was chock full of
imperfections. No character in this film is perfect. That is, acts in an ideal
manner in relation to the plot’s twists and turns, with the possible exception
of the son who pines for the older girl who’s in love with his father. The two
male leads are far from ideal, and so their ultimate success and hope and
change feels earned, and allows the audience to walk away with a feeling of
validation, the sense that imperfection is not always doomed to produce failure
and despair. That’s all we really want, isn’t it? To know that imperfection,
while inevitable, can still produce laughter and joy and love?
And yet…and yet. We crave perfection, don’t we? We eagerly
valorize sports heroes like Michael Jordan and Tiger Woods who seem to be
perfect at their chosen profession. We flock to public figures like Barack
Obama who hold out the prospect of perfection in their hands and through their
speeches. How else did a little known senator from Illinois sweep aside
long-time public figures like Hilary Clinton and John McCain on the way to the
White House? Because he seemed too good to be true, and therefore too good to not
be true. We pant after celebrities and follow their every doing because they
appear to be perfect, to have the perfect life. They’re rich, famous,
good-looking, talented, funny, flawed (but only on screen) and they have
perfect teeth (except the Brits).
We are torn, in fact, between the two desires: a desire to
see life as it is and not as it should be, or a desire to see the imperfections
of life correctly expressed; but also to see the idealized version, to hope in
the possibility of perfection. That’s why we’re so eager to build up heroes,
and simultaneously delight to see them torn down. Tiger Woods was the ultimate
golfer, a brilliant competitor who demonstrated near perfection in a sport that
few ever truly master. He was everything to everybody: humble, good-natured
(except on the course), well-spoken, and a family man. Couple that with the
blending of blacks and Asians with the white sport of golf, and he seemed every
bit the unifier that Obama promised to be. Which is why when it came crashing
down we were mesmerized and appalled and fascinated. A string of mistresses? A
possible beating from his Swedish model wife? Half a billion dollar settlement
for divorce? We couldn’t get enough.
Of course, the only thing we like better than a success
story crumbling before our eyes is the redemption of that success story into
something greater. Witness the career of Robert Downey Jr., a brilliant and
talented actor from an early age who ran afoul of the law for narcotics and
whose career basically vanished for a time. He worked his way back and now is
one of the most bankable stars in Hollywood with two global movie franchise to
his credit. Or a sports analogy of Andre Agassi. Once the brash egocentric star
who ushered in the 90s era of flamboyant sports stars only to see his career
plummet to the point of being ranked in the 290s after being a top ranked
player. He worked his way back into prominence and won more tournaments,
becoming more beloved as a humbler, diligent, and driven competitor than the
young, selfish, hip star of his earlier days.
Isn’t this a curious dynamic? Bipolar are our desires in our
celebrities and idols. We want perfection and imperfection simultaneously. We
want reality and the ideal together. We want God and man in one package. We
want salvation and redemption to come through the thorough destruction and degradation
of a human being who, being perfection, assumed the imperfection of the world
so that God might be real to us. Don’t we?
No other story combines the dynamics of perfection with
imperfection like the Incarnation. Other myths and legends of gods and divines
are either too imperfect (the Greek gods come to mind; read over their exploits
and machinations sometime, it’s almost literally a soap opera!), or too perfect
(like the Buddhist conception of Nirvana, the ultimate unity that disregards
the notion of good and evil in favor of oneness and harmony. We either look at
the Greek gods and say, “How are they any more deserving of praise and
adoration than any human? The only thing that separates them from me is the amount
of power they possess” and write them off, or we view with askance the denial
of evil in the world, the lack of imperfection. Like the cantina in Coruscant
where Obi-Wan Kenobi visits the four-limbed alien Dex, the absence of
imperfection, other than an artificial imperfection that we immediately
identify as fakery, rings false to our minds. It strikes discord with our
experience of reality and we cannot believe it.
But the story of Jesus of Nazareth beautifully and perfectly
weaves the imperfection of reality as we experience it with the perfection that
all human hearts desire. The perfection of Jesus as he interacts with his
followers and the dregs of society pierces our hearts as we read about Him. Who
has ever shown such unconditional love and acceptance of the broken and needy?
Even modern skeptics who spend their entire lives denying the Gospel admit to
the lovely character of Jesus. Ghandi famously said of Christianity, “I love
their Christ, I don’t like their Christians.” He was a devout Buddhist who
still felt admiration and affection for the central figure in an entirely
foreign religion that contradicts much of his own. How powerful is that? Jesus
is perfect, the ideal portrayal of what humanity could and should be, and would
be if not for sin.
Which brings us to the imperfection that is our daily
experience. Cruelty, hate, privation, loneliness, pain, failure, fear, disgust,
envy, lust, pride. In short, Sin. We instinctively know that Sin is both real
and wrong. Wrong in the sense that it doesn’t belong; otherwise we wouldn’t
recoil from it quite so much. Certain experiences are universally agreed as
being wrong, and no one could ever read the Gospel account of Jesus and claim
that He deserved His execution, in one of the most sadistic, tortuous methods ever
devised by man. Bad things happen to good people, and nothing worse ever
happened to someone as good as Jesus, because no one has ever been as good as
Jesus. But the curious thing about the story of Christ is that Jesus seemed to
know it was going to happen before it did. He courted it, in fact, by
travelling to Jerusalem and striking at the heart of the religious authorities
who constituted His main adversaries during His earthly ministry: the clearing
of the Temple. He continually criticized the religious establishment, knowing
their possible response; it’s almost like He meant for it to happen, isn’t it?
Why? Who in their right mind would want to be tortured to
death for something they didn’t do? Not even for a noble reason like
sacrificing oneself to save someone else the same fate. At least, the same
physical fate. For that indeed is where this story diverges from anything else
in human history. The story doesn’t end in death, as all human stories do. The perfect
Man suffered the personification of imperfection that is this world; the worst
fate imaginable. Even worse than we can comprehend, because in addition to the
physical suffering, we’re told that God placed on Him the sins of all mankind.
Imagine perfection touching the epitome of imperfection, sin. And if that was where
the story ended, on that old rugged cross, then it would just be a terrible,
depressing story, one more example of this world’s imperfection.
Three days later.
Perfection comes back from the dead.
And we haven’t even gotten to the good news yet! Because if
the Resurrection was just for Jesus’ sake, we might leave the theatre with a
warm feeling but that wouldn’t last very long. The next instance of
imperfection pops up and we’re back to the drudgery of life, right? That’s if
all this was is a nice story to amuse and inspire us. If the story is true,
though, and moreover what Paul writes about is true, then the death of the Lord
Jesus for us was to put the Life of the Lord Jesus in us. He died a death like
ours so that we might enjoy a resurrection like His! We were nailed to that
cross along with Him, buried in the tomb, and we rose again on that third
morning. We are alive! Because He is alive! And our spiritual resurrection
mirrored His physical resurrection because through the mysteries of faith we
are now sharing the spiritual life of Jesus. Perfection has replaced
imperfection. And even though we still sin and struggle and die physically, we
have the capacity to live perfect lives as we bow in surrender to the life of
Jesus that lives in us. As the Father is in me, Jesus said, so shall I be in
you. God in man, and the perfection of God is greater than the imperfection of
man.
Now that’s good news.
