Christian Themes and Symbols in the Shawshank Redemption

This month, we are going to take a look at the movie The Shawshank Redemption. Again, we are doing this from a certain interpretive perspective: how can we isolate questions and elements from the movie to create a Christian conversation? The movie is full of possible Christian themes and symbols, but we want to move beyond an "interpretive gymnastics" to find questions that confront us about life and death. And, in the end, seek to respond with the resources of our Christian faith--theology, tradition, scripture, experience. So, while below we have some ways to think through the movie Christianly, I would encourage you to think about questions that might map onto our Christian faith.

From the Journal of Religion and Film, article "Scripture on the Silver Screen"

Yet another Jesus-figure is Andy Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption. Andy is an
innocent man who is baptized into the bleak world of Shawshank prison with a
cold shower and a dose of lice powder. With the patience of Job and spurred by
hope for a better future, Andy takes twenty years to chisel his way through the
prison wall and escapes Shawshank through the sewer system. After the sewer
spews him into the river outside the prison compound, Andy strips off his shirt,
stretches out his arms, and gazes upwards, to the accompaniment of a magnificent
rainstorm and a majestic soundtrack. After his departure, Andy’s prison friends,
like Jesus’ disciples, reminisce about him and draw comfort from his memory.
Andy’s best buddy and most faithful disciple, Red, follows in his footsteps
after he is finally paroled. Although Andy is not physically present, he saves
Red from despair and poverty by providing him with money, a destination, and a
purpose. The final scene, in which Red strides across the sandy shores of the
Pacific to meet Andy who is hard at work sanding down an old fishing boat, is an
eschatological vision. The images of water, boats, white clothing, and the
simple life recall the visual representations, in art and film, of Jesus and his
disciples at the Sea of Galilee.

From the Journal for the Renewal of Religion and Theology

In the American prison film, The Shawshank Redemption , corrupt Warden
Norton (Bob Gunton) was an obnoxious Bible-thumping Christian who distributed
Bibles to new prisoners and claimed: “I believe in two things: discipline and
the Bible. Here you'll receive both. Put your trust in the Lord. Your ass
belongs to me.” The Warden referred to the Bible throughout the film to justify
his sadistic brutality of the prisoners and to add an air of pious authority to
underpin his ruthlessness. In effect, the Warden had turned the holy word of God
into a symbol of oppression and hypocrisy, whilst highlighting his corrupt
Christian fundamentalism hidden behind the guise of church-going righteousness.
However, at films end, the Warden's pretentious piousness, moral hypocrisy, and
secret financial corruptions were revealed by the long-suffering, innocent
inmate, Andy Dufresne (Tim Robbins), who successfully escaped prison by digging
a hole through his cell wall using a rock hammer cunningly hidden inside his own
hollowed-out Bible. Andy had thus turned his copy of sacred Scripture into a
postmodern symbol of liberation, if somewhat unconventionally packaged and
deployed.

Indeed, even deeper theological meaning can be extracted from this Bible
scene because the “top page of the carved-out space for the rock hammer is
clearly visible to the observant film viewer: it is the title page of the book
of Exodus, the biblical story of escape from bondage” (Jewett 1999: 181).
Previously, Andy almost lost his Bible-cum-escape tool when Warden Norton
accidentally walked off with it before turning around and giving it back saying:
“I'd hate to deprive you of this. Salvation lies within.” That statement was
biblically, theologically and literally true, which Andy deliciously
acknowledged within his own escape note: “Dear Warden, you were right. Salvation
lay within.” Similarly, the American prison film, Escape from Alcatraz ,
employed a Bible to hide Frank Morris' (Clint Eastwood's) material means of
escape, thus proffering another de facto symbol of hope and freedom packaged
inside Holy Writ.

February Newsletter Article

This winter quarter I am enrolled in a structured reflection and discussion class on my student internship. This class, called “practicum,” has taken up a conversation about the meaning of some pretty basic elements of Christian faith: God, Jesus Christ, Prayer, etc. My practicum instructor began this quarter with the following question: “As ministers, we often use some pretty loaded language like 'God' and 'Holy Spirit.' If we don't know what we mean by these words and ideas, should we expect the people with whom we interact to understand us?” I found that to be a profound question. These religious terms are so often thrown around in church, almost casually. But what do we mean by “God?” What does it mean to call Jesus the “Christ?” What do I mean by any of it.

That got me thinking (always dangerous!). What is church? What are we doing when we come to church? Oh, and that age old question: why church? While I don't intend to give a comprehensive analysis of what I think church “is” and “does,” I do believe that a church is, among other things, a community of interpretation. A church is where interpretation happens.

Church as “a community of interpretation” might strike us as pretty obvious. The church has a central text, the Bible, and most church services are built around interpreting this text. In the same way a preacher interprets a biblical passage, we might find ourselves coming to church to interpret the language of faith. We ask questions like the ones I posed above: what does “God,” “Christ,” or “Faith” mean? We can't help but use our lives and our experiences to interpret and understand what these things mean, and we learn from ourselves and from each other in community.

But I want to go further than that. The church is a community of interpretation in a more radical sense. Yes, the church gathers together people of various backgrounds, vocations, and interests and unites them with a recognizable language, the language of faith. But we don't simply interpret this language; no, the language of faith interprets our own lives. There is an interpretive “back and forth” involved.

What we do at church—again, among other things—is seek to understand ourselves, the world around us, and the purpose and meaning of life through the language of faith. We interpret in order to understand. With an understanding of our faith-language we come to orient ourselves and make decisions about who to be and what to do. In other words, the faith-language interprets us. Yet, this is not a wooden, rigid process. It is a fluid, dynamic one. We come to understand the faith-language—and are interpreted by it—through using it and interpreting it. We interpret in the process of being interpreted.

This is an ongoing process that happens with each other in community. In this way, what we understand God, Christ, and Faith to mean is not static, but instead unfolds for us as we interpret and are interpreted by these central elements of the Christian faith. Thus, a church, I want to suggest, is a community of ongoing interpretation about the language of faith. What it means for God to be in relationship with us, to have given us the Christ, to redeem us and offer us salvation is understood in and through the language of faith that unfolds for us together.

A church, then, asks the very same kinds of questions as my practicum instructor: What does it mean to say “God,“ the Christ,” or “Holy Spirit?” These terms are drawn out in the sermon, used in communion, and offered to the children at children's time. And they also involve are very lives. We come to see more of what and how those words mean by sharing our lives with one another. Even as we sing and pray we can come to recognize new dimensions of God's Grace or Forgiveness as they give themselves to us in each new day and every moment. So what do I mean by “God” and “Holy Spirit?” I have some basic ideas, but the rich contours of those ideas are developed each week in the elements of the worship service and in the interactions with the people of the congregation. You are a part of what “God” means to me, and together we interpret this term and use it to interpret our lives. What I mean by “God” is linked up with “a community of interpretation,” where we all interpret in order to understand. Church, as St. Augustine might agree, is a place where faith seeks understanding.

An Epiphanic Imagination

Last week, Kory mentioned that the Gospel of Mark is like an action-adventure story. Jesus jumps out of the gate like a thoroughbred and doesn’t show any signs of slowing. The frenetic, fast pace of Mark’s gospel is important to keep in mind. Jesus has been moving immediately from task to task; from healing to teaching to preaching. Then we get this famous moment, this famous transfiguration of Jesus the Christ.

Mark 9: 2 – 9

I’m not sure if you noticed, but there has been a common feature over the last few weeks in the sermons. Can you guess what that might be? Now, if you're like the children when I ask them questions during the children's moment, then you're first response might be, “I don’t know what the answer is, but I bet it has something to do with Jesus.”

Fair. Kory’s sermons have had “something to do with Jesus.” But he’s also been continually referencing movies. We’ve explored Jesus in terms of the movie Anchorman, “I’m kind of a big deal, people know me…” and as Elliot Ness from The Untouchables. We've thought through faith in terms of the movie Signs. And I’m sure the movie references will continue; in fact, if I was a betting man I might even put money on it. Okay, I’ll admit, I am a betting man and I’ve already got 10 bucks on the line; Kory don’t let me down.

But in case the plethora of movie references didn’t clue you in, let me clarify: Kory likes movies. He loves to watch them and talk about them. He gets excited about them. And, he used to be a movie critic, too. So when Kory discovered that I had never seen the movie Dead Poets Society, he took it upon himself to mend this cosmic injustice. And, to be honest, I’m glad he did. Not only is it a great movie, but it has a fascinating scene which will allow me to keep up the pattern Kory has already established.

So travel with me to a classroom, taught by an instructor, Mr. Keating, played by Robin Williams. He is the new teacher at the nation’s most reputable prep-school where he will teach a class of young men about poetry and language; and arguably, he will teach them about life itself. At a school where calculation and precision, discipline, tradition, and control are the highest virtues, Mr. Keating opens up a world of emotion, creativity, and self-discovery. He’s rather unorthodox in his teaching style, and at one point in the movie, he jumps up on his desk and asks his students why he would do this.

The students mostly stare at him and one voice from the back of the room answers, “To feel taller.”

“No,” he says: “I stand upon my desk to remind myself that we must constantly look at things in a different way… Just when you think you know something,” he explains, “you must look at it in a different way.”

And so he has every one of his students come forward, step up on his desk, and view the classroom anew, from a different angle, to discover a new vision, to see the world with a fresh perspective. And, I think, to see something that otherwise they might have missed.
In a way, that is what has happened in our text this morning. The world has been opened up for three disciples—Peter, James, and John. These three men follow Jesus up a high mountain and watch as the clothes of Jesus turn radiant, the world is bathed in the light of Christ, and there with him appears Moses and Elijah. They have ascended to a high place, a desk above desks, to see Jesus from a different perspective. And there, at the climax of this terrifying event, a cloud moves in and a thundering voice announces, “This is my Son, the Beloved, listen to him!”

What these men witnessed in our gospel account was a transfiguration, or, more simply, a change in Jesus. Now while I think it is pretty easy to see from our story that Jesus changed for these men, it seems something else happened. They didn’t just see any kind of change, but a special change. They experienced, what we might call, an “epiphany.” But what is an epiphany? How is a transfiguration also an epiphany? While transfiguration means a change in the figure of someone or something, an epiphany is a manifestation. Epiphany comes from two Greek words, epi and phanein. The prefix epi means something like “on or to” and the verb phanein means “to show.” So, an epiphany is a “showing to,” or, as I like to say, a “showing forth.” Jesus not only changed, but in that change, showed something forth.

Peter, James and John did not witness a mundane or ordinary change in Jesus, they witnessed the divine Christ character of Jesus in this change. Jesus showed forth the Christ to them. God’s voice, echoing Jesus’ baptism, pronounced the deepest dimension of Jesus’ identity. Here was the Son of God, standing before these trembling and terrified three disciples… then, in a moment, it was over.

One writer describes the event like this, “Now, on a mountaintop, time evaporates like mist before the dawning of a great glory. If the pace of the journey [in Mark’s gospel] has left us panting, now the height is too great for us to catch our breath.”[1]

I think that is true: We are panting, we are left trying to catch our breath. In a way, it’s not just Peter, James and John who witness a transfiguration, who experience an epiphany, we too are there with them. And like the disciples we have come to this moment, here in this sanctuary from our own frenetic, fast paced lives. We’ve been scurrying between jobs, families, schools, and obligations. And we have come to a sanctuary as yet another stop along the busy roadway of life’s journeys; but here, in this place, we can hear a story and experience the Christ shown forth to us. Out of the flow of life’s demands we have ascended with Peter, James and John to a high place, we have stepped upon that desk above desks to see the deepest dimension of reality shown forth in Jesus as the Christ. If we listen carefully we can hear God’s voice announce to us that this is God’s Son, the one whom God loves.

And yet, we might ask, what makes this so different? Hasn’t Jesus, in all that Jesus is, been present with the disciples from the beginning. Why a mountaintop transfiguration for the disciples? And, what is more, don’t we already know that Jesus is the Christ, too, the Son of the living God? What need do we have for “epiphany”?

I want to suggest this morning that what was transformed in the moment of transfiguration and epiphany is not just Jesus as the Christ, but the disciples themselves. Their perception of Jesus was shattered in the brilliant light that overtook them and they were swallowed up in the cloud of God’s voice. The disciples witnessed the vibrancy of Jesus’ Christhood emanating before them… and they were terrified… speechless. Value, meaning, and reality-itself broke into their world in a way they had not yet seen nor could not quite grasp, and, as we discover through the rest of Mark’s gospel, struggled to understand.

What happens in this story, for us, might be our own transformation; our own ability to rise above the throws of life and see God’s Love pouring into the world through Jesus as the Christ. It takes a special capacity to carry the abundance of that reality with us, and within us… it takes a way of seeing things that unlocks life’s deepest dimensions. But I think we do have a capacity for this, and so I invite you to consider with me the imagination. We have inside us, I believe, an often neglected imagination that can be defined by epiphany; and, I think, this is precisely what story of the transfiguration can unlock for us, our epiphanic imagination. This is an imagination that shows forth the world in its deepest dimensions, it sees Jesus as the Christ and the Grace of God saturating the world around us. It is a way of seeing that is easy to forget. And so, like Mr. Keating in the Dead Poet’s Society, we might want to remind ourselves to see in a different way, to activate our epiphanic imagination.

Mr. Keating demonstrates this most profoundly for us in a pivotal scene. As the students open up their school-required textbook on poetry to read the introduction, Mr. Keating has the students rip out a whole essay from their books on poetry... the analysis of poetry in that essay is cold and calculating; it attempts to “mathematize” the poem, chart its axes and discover its formula to predict its value... basically, reading poetry is, for that essayist, a distanced cerebral exercise. It's all about detached reflection and not about intimate, engaged, participation with the poem—it makes the poem impotent. It loses a kind of depth. Mr. Keating wants this mundane and shallow perspective eliminated so that something else can show itself.

At the youth lock-in over this past weekend we had the opportunity to play a game called “Survivor Island.” The game was set up in such a way that everyone had a particular identity with a background, personality traits, and some secretes. Six of the thirteen participants would survive, the rest would perish, and the youth had to decide how to divide up. The exercise was a way of thinking through how we understand human beings and what we value when confronted by the reality of death. As they reflected on the game, the youth debated whether people would have been only interested in their own survival or whether it was possible to have sacrificed for others. A debate sprang up over how we understand human beings, or, what we might call “human nature.”

It is a question we might ask ourselves as well, one that might pertain to the epiphanic imagination. How do we understand “human nature”? I think there are a lot of stories out there that try to define for us “what the human is.” We hear stories, really popular ones, about human beings as political animals or economic creatures. We are supposed to be people who buy things and consume, or who grapple after power. We are supposed to be biologically self-interested after survival and be socially concerned for our own wants and desires, calculating and mathematizing life to make the most rational choices and the most efficient decisions. What’s in it for me, we’re supposed to ask, and how can I get the most out of it. I think it is amazing how we often become the very stories we tell ourselves.

That is precisely why I believe the story of the transfiguration and the gospel itself is so important. It is a different story, one that can cultivate for us an epiphanic imagination. There was something more to Jesus than healing, and teaching, and preaching. There was something that needed a mountain top to unveil, and later a cross to make complete. That reality lit up the mountain in the moment of transfiguration, and it can light up our world today. What was shown forth comes to define how we see the world, what the world itself means. I want to suggest that an epiphanic imagination sees as God does. In that moment on the mountain top the disciples witness how God saw Jesus Christ, as the beloved one. The disciples’ own way of looking at Jesus did not match up with how God saw Jesus. And so their view was exploded by the overpowering Grace of God’s view on things. “Jesus is not what you think he is,” that voice seemed to say,” he is so much more, he is the Christ, he is my Son, the one whom I love.”

The epiphanic imagination is the capacity to glimpse-forward from the now and witness the depths of reality itself—to see how God sees the world: with boundless Love. When we activate our epiphanic imagination we understand life with a value and meaning that often hides behind our other ways of seeing the world—economically, socially, politically, biologically, psychologically. To be honest, I don’t live in the world of my epiphanic imagination very often.

Those other stories about human existence often define how I understand myself and others. But, I believe, while helpful at times, those stories can miss a dimension of life, one that is opened up by an epiphanic imagination, by seeing the world the way God sees it. Those other stories, when they are absolutized and taken to be the final story on human existence miss something true, real, and important.

Our epiphanic imaginations make present Jesus the Christ as the Son of God, and, in that way, our epiphanic imaginations also show forth God’s Love, a Love that is in and for this world… From that desk above desks, with our epiphanic imagination, life looks more like God’s poetry than human calculation… and the heart of that poetry beats with a story God asks us to tell ourselves and each other: “You are my beloved.”

Amen.

[1] WIllson, Patrick J. “Time out of Time.” Christian Century, January 24 (1996). See online at: http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m1058/is_n3_v111/ai_14794428

The Matrix of Faith 2

This is the second post in the Matrix of Faith blog series. For the first post, click here.

In my first post I touched on the ways in which movies are more than simple products for entertainment (even if that is how we often approach them). They open up a "possible world" for us to think about and ponder. How does the world presented in the Matrix map on to our own? Should it?

Kory and I bantered back and forth about what is "real" in the Matrix, and any talk about the real and the "really real" can leave one's head spinning. But I think it might be important for us to think through, especially as we often have our own understanding of "the real" and its relation to what counts as "true."

So, several questions:

1. If you have seen The Matrix, what exactly is "the matrix"? Is the matrix what people think is real (at least at first)?
   
2. What is the "really real" in The Matrix? In other words, is it more valuable to be in the matrix or unplugged? Would you rather be "plugged in" or "unplugged"?
   
3. Do you think this way of thinking about the world works (analogously) to how we live and move in the world? Do we need to be unplugged? Are we missing the "really real"? If so, what is it? If not, why not?
   
4. Can you see anyway this would work in a Christian context?
   

Alright, your turn to respond... go!

The Matrix of Faith

There are a number of ways to watch a movie. Most of the time I like to sit and “absorb” the entertainment. While such an attitude towards movie-going might be our default mode, that is not the only way to watch a movie. Movies do not simply or only provide “entertainment value.” They are pieces of artwork, products of a culture. Movies embody values, ideals, philosophies, and even theological perspectives. Like every stroke from an artist's brush, every moment and visual image of a movie is “intended” or purposeful. The director chooses what to include and discards other material. There might be more than “meets the eye” in any particular film.

In addition, movies can evoke emotion, reflection, and a variety of interpretive responses from its audience. Audiences bring life-experiences and various perspectives to a movie that can be opened up and vitalized by the dramatic visualizations of a movie. Movies can stir our voices to our own deepest concerns and convictions.

In the middle of the 20th century, theologian Paul Tillich provided a framework for doing a “theology of culture.” Tillich thought that everything produced by a culture had a “religious substance.” As a result, the theologian could excavate this underlying religiousness and shed a light on it. In other words, the theologian could analyze a work of art--movie, book, play, etc--and discover a religious dimension. This religiousness could then be assessed on the basis of its adequacy for the human situation. In other words, the theologian could determine the “theological value” of the underlying religious substance of a work of art.

The movie “The Matrix” lends itself to a variety of interpretive frameworks. One can look for obvious allusions and subtle narrative similarities with the Christian faith tradition. This can be a stimulating exercise in religious trivia. But one might also consider the “deeper” theological voice of the entire movie to determine its “religious substance.” This is a theology of film, a way of considering the “theological value” of a work of art. It asks the question: “what is of ultimate concern?”

So I want to suggest that “The Matrix” tells a story that is not just a story. It is a narrative competing for our understanding. What is real? Is reality good? What is the highest good? What is wrong with humanity? What is the answer?

The Matrix just might give us some suggestions for these questions which are, in a Tillichian sense, always-already-present religious questions (present in any work of art).

So what should we look for? Reality. What is “real” in the Matrix? Why is the “real” different from the "not-real"? What is wrong with everyday human being-in-the-world? What do we need? Is this good?

Now, from the side of faith, do these suggestions from the Matrix align or detour from the trajectory of faith in the Christian tradition? Hmmm.... heavy thinking.... enjoy!