Wearing a mask in public is not cowardice. It is not socialist. It is not tyranny. It is not the destruction of your freedom or autonomy.
Wearing a mask in public is the responsible thing to do, not in order to save yourself, but in order to keep those around you safe. It’s about a disease that lays dormant for two weeks, and even after that can be asymptomatic, but which still spreads via liquid particles from the mouth and nose. You should wear a mask to keep those around you safe from getting a disease you may or may not be carrying. It’s about thinking about others and doing our part to help everyone around us stay safe and healthy. It’s about protecting vulnerable populations like the elderly, the immuno-compromised or the pregnant.
The real coward is the one who can see no further than the end of their own nose, and thus cannot conceive of doing the radical, dangerous work of loving others by caring for our neighbors. That is the work of Christ, not of cowards.
(Never mind that Jesus blesses the meek and the peacekeepers, not the brave or the strong. But that’s a Sermon on a Mount for another day.)
“Survival,” Stanley Hauerwas writes in the Foreword to Truthfulness and Tragedy, “is not a worthy moral end.” These words seem like ones we should be meditating on during this time of pandemic, fear, and death gripping our nation and world.
They are shocking words, especially coming from a Christian. Too often, our faith is equated with the American pro-life movement that has co-opted much of the public persona of American Christianity. Yet, as Hauerwas highlights, our faith is not – or at least, should not be – one predicated on a monomaniacal pursuit of life for life’s sake. The question is not whether we live or not, but how we live. Upon baptism, we take on a new life, one dedicated to imitating the life, death and resurrection of Christ. Our lives becomes dedicated to something beyond our own needs, our own desires, our own mere survival. As Christians, we have a duty to conform our lives and our priorities to those of God as revealed in Christ.
This reorientation of self, this submission to the life of discipleship, rather than being a restriction on our being, instead is the root of the greatest freedom of all: the freedom from fear of death, the freedom for a life, life lived for love. In Christ, we become free of the need to survive, which leaves us free to love God, to love our neighbors, to love our enemies, to practice love through open, selfless service of others.
We become capable of this kind of love because by being freed from the fear of death, we no longer are driven by our need for validation, for acknowledgement, for the stroking of the ego so often sought in our relationships with others. We no longer need an enemy to define ourselves against in order to be reminded we are good. And we become capable to living our lives in a way that orients our actions and priorities towards practicing love for God and love for others in service to those in need, those we meet everyday.
In short, through life in Christ, we break free from our existential fear in order to love freely and wildly.
I’ve been thinking about this all as I watched the news of protesters taking to streets and capitol buildings in places like Michigan, in opposition to the social distancing and shutdown measures our leaders are putting in place to help forestall the spread of Covid-19. I thought about the interplay of fear and love when looking at images like these:
TOPSHOT – A protestor with a sign that has Michigan Gov. Gretchen Whittmer depicted as Adolph Hitler is seen at an American Patriot Rally organized by Michigan United for Liberty protest for the reopening of businesses, on the steps of the Michigan State Capitol in Lansing, Michigan on April 30, 2020. – The group is upset with Michigan Gov. Gretchen Whitmer’s mandatory closure to curtail Covid-19. (Photo by JEFF KOWALSKY / AFP) (Photo by JEFF KOWALSKY/AFP via Getty Images)
Instead, what I see in these images is deep, existential fear. It’s fear revealed in the intense desire to reopen to economy, to sacrifice others, to display a false bravado in order to mask a fear of their own mortality. Men and women standing in a state capitol with guns and fatigues to protest quarantine orders aren’t the epitomes of bravery and courage; instead, they are the purest distillation of fear.
It’s a fear that we channel quite well here in America: the fear of being called on to sacrifice something for others, of being asked to submit our own primal needs in order to promote a good far beyond our own. It is a fear, in short, of other human beings, and the demands their existence puts on our own.
Understanding as I do the demographic makeup of political coalitions in America, I have no doubt many of the men and women in the photos above would describe themselves as Christians. But the Christianity they practice seems rather small and sad. It is a faith that has been subsumed under American individualism and capitalistic greed. It is a faith that has been conquered by death and insignificance, and thus can no longer recognize the radical call of Christ lose one’s self and become willing to lay down our lives for others, even those that may seem undeserving.
To follow Christ means, again the words of Hauerwas, “we are freed from the obsession of securing our significance against death.” It means living in such a way that our love and trust in God through Christ becomes apparent in our actions. This love in action never looks like an assertion of self, or a need to strike fear into others, or in the need to protect or assert oneself. Instead, this love in action looks like just what Christ described: “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.”
In this time of pandemic and fear, we Christians have a unique duty: to stand up in the face of death and remind the world it does not have the final say, to assert that in Christ we need not live in fear, but instead, we have the freedom of the love of God that allows us to live in joy and hope of a better tomorrow. It is to remember that we aren’t here merely to survive; no, we are here to love, and love fully, wildly, radically, and without bounds.
I am a huge Star Wars fan. It started very young for me; I was an early reader as a child, and one of the first books I read (I kid you not) was the official novelization of The Empire Strikes Back, by Donald F. Glut, in about the second grade. I had so many Star Wars books and comics and toys growing up, it was kind of ridiculous, and I still have a pretty extensive book and comic collection (mostly Legends stuff, but working on collecting the new Canon stuff.)
I also have loved all the new Star Wars stuff from Disney. I think the sequel trilogy is great (yes, even The Rise of Skywalker – more on that below), and both Rogue One and Solo are near the top of my rankings of Star Wars movies. I love The Mandalorian, and I can’t wait for future series and movies. And, for the first time, I am working my way through The Clone Wars, Rebels, and Resistance television series.
One of the best parts of being a dad is the opportunity I’ve had to turn Julian into a Star Wars fan as well. I’ve been able to take him to every move in theaters, which is one of my prized experiences of being his dad. And I love watching him become more and more interested. This last December, I took Evelyn along to see The Rise of Skywalker as well, and having strong female heroes like Rey is so good for her. Being a Star Wars fan as a kid was a big part of childhood for me, and getting to being a Star Wars dad now is even better. Along with Lord of the Rings, Star Wars is my favorite section of nerd-dom to inhabit.
(Quick obligatory aside on Rise of Skywalker: I loved it. I had so much fun going to see it in theaters twice. I know there are problems with the story, and inconsistencies, and yes, there are story choices I wish they had made differently. But anytime I watch it, all those reservations wash away. Like the rest of this last trilogy, the movie is just so dang fun. I’ll take it over any of the three prequels any day. And don’t start talking to me about things that “aren’t realistic” or “illogical” story lines: this is a space opera about laser swords and telekinesis ninjas and faster-than-light space travel. Come on y’all. Chill, and have some fun.)
As a theologian, I also have enjoyed starting to think about the stories and themes in Star Wars along theological lines. There is a lot of stuff to unpack, especially around the Force, the conflict between the Jedi and the Sith, and the ethical and socio-political decisions and failings of the Jedi Order that paved the way for Palpatine and the Empire. Star Wars is our modern day myth, and myth always contains truth and glimpses of the priorities and beliefs of the people who create and sustain them.
But the biggest idea I’ve been playing around with when it comes to Star Wars and theology is about narratives and finding one’s place in a bigger story. One of the big through-lines in the Skywalker saga is that of unassuming, seemingly minor outsiders finding their place in the galaxy’s story. It starts with young Anakin Skywalker, a slave boy far beyond the Republic, on the Outer Rim world of Tatooine. Anakin dreams of being more than a slave, of escaping his home and traveling the galaxy. He has heard stories of the Republic, and the Jedi, and he longs to be part of that story.
Like his father before him, Luke Skywalker also looks up at the Tatooine sky and imagines more for himself. Having grown up with vague stories of a father who was a pilot during the Clone Wars, Luke harbors his own desire to become a pilot among the stars, to live into the family story he knows deep down in his being. When he meets Obi-Wan, and hears about the Jedi, this desire grows even deeper.
Finally, Rey carries on this legacy, on her own desert homeworld of Jakku. A scavenger and virtual slave, she too looks at the sky, and knows of vague stories of Jedis and Luke Skywalker and great battles. She holds vague memories of parents abandoning her, and feels deep down that those parents were important players in the story she knows; she, too, wants to make her mark on that story.
Through these heroes, we see a common theme: the drive to be more than the world (or the galaxy) tells them they are, to be a part of a bigger, more ancient story. All three grew up hearing just hints and rumors of the Jedi and the Republic and all that was happening at the center of the galaxy. And all three want to make their mark on galaxy, by writing their own chapters in the story of the galaxy. They must all leave their homes behind, and make sacrifices that include times of family, comfort, or friends, to go pursue that calling. Once in it, all three also find themselves challenged, tempted, tested, and most of all, accepted into the story of Jedi and the way of life if it prescribes for them.
For Anakin, his acceptance into the story of the Force is conditioned by his age and his anger, and he constantly hears worries from those around him about these things. What he also hears is that is the Chosen One, the central figure of this story, the one who can bring balance to the galaxy. Eventually, Anakin falls victim to his worst impulses, and alters the story in ways no one could have ever imagined. His fall, the central tragedy of the entire Star Wars saga, triggers the fall of the Republic, and all that comes after it. His redemption again triggers the fall of the established powers, as he kills the very man who tempted him and turned him to the dark. Anakin makes a series of important decisions throughout his life, decisions which change and shape the story he entered into as a nine year old boy. By exerting his own will on the Force and the galaxy, Anakin teaches us that our place in the story is not fixed; within the story we choose to enter, we still have the freedom and the power to shape and drive the story forward in unique, and unthinkable ways.
Luke, on the other hand, learns that he is part of a terrible and wonderful legacy, laid down before him by his father, and by his father’s teachers, who become his own teachers. Their hope for the galaxy has shifted from Anakin to Luke, and Luke must learn how to fit into that role. Unlike Anakin, however, Luke does not have a galaxy-spanning apparatus to guide him and teach him and help him grow. Instead, as the lone remaining Jedi to challenge the Empire, Luke must remake this ancient story, piecing it together as he can, but also writing it anew based on his own wisdom, and on the destiny imparted on him by Obi-Wan and Yoda. After he brings down the Empire and redeems the Skywalker story, Luke is then charged with rebuilding the Jedi Order. Eventually, this too comes crashing down, as he gives in to his own fears and launches his own nephew on a path all too similar to his father’s. Even so, after years of isolation and self-pity, Luke reclaims his place in the story and embraces his legacy again, sacrificing himself to give others the space needed to carry the story forward.
Through everything, Luke remains as the tie that binds together all the other characters. Despite the idea laid on him that he alone must rescue the galaxy from the fall triggered by Anakin, Luke understands that there are so many others who play an important role in rebuilding what was lost. After he disappears, the Republic begins to crumble, his friends are scattered, and his story begins to be forgotten. Yet, his memory still lingers, and his tie to the Force and the Jedi remains, for someone like Rey to rediscover and share again with the galaxy. Luke teaches us that, no matter how much the world wants us to think we are alone, we are in fact surrounded by allies on all sides when we enter and shape the story. When the way forward seems obscured or unsure, we don’t have to go it alone. We are part of a story, a tradition, and we always carry that within us. When we grow older, we will pass it along to the next generation. This is our charge, no matter how much we have failed, or been hurt, or fallen short. The story is bigger than us or our individual failings, and the galaxy relies on us to tell it anew.
Finally, Rey enters the story knowing, deep within her, that she is a part of the story, despite the very best efforts of those around her to constantly remind her that she is nothing but an orphan, a scavenger, a slave, an outsider, and that this story she has heard rumors of is nothing but a myth, far, far away from the sands of Jakku. Yet, she continues to believe, and the galaxy crashes the story down upon her, and she jumps at this opportunity to find her place. In doing so, she learns that not only is the story real, but that she is in fact a central player in it all: a Jedi, a student of Luke Skywalker, a friend of Leia and Han and Chewbacca, connected to Kylo Ren by the Force, and finally, the descendant of the Emperor himself. She is charged with carrying on Anakin and Luke’s story, and with changing it for good. Rey reminds us that hope is never a vice, and that hope lights the way towards our place in the story. No matter how dark things may seem, we have within us all that is needed to join the story, and continue it.
As Christians, we too are finding our place in a larger story. We too all grew up hearing tale of Christ, and of the Church that followed him. As we grew, we too encountered that Church, and had to make decision about whether we would accept that calling, and wed our stories to it, or remain in the comfort of home, of family, and of all we’ve ever known. That larger story becomes our story when we make the decision to write our story into it. And that story is our reminder that we are not solo actors on the world’s stage, but we are part of a bigger, more grand story, within which we find meaning and direction, and which teaches us how to cultivate the skills and wisdom needed to take part in writing the next chapter. Like Anakin, Luke, and Rey, as Christians, we learn that we can shape the story in new ways, that we are not alone in doing so, and that our hope is what sustains us, a hope embodied in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. It is within this story, initiated on the Cross and told by the Church since, that we most fully find ourselves.
In the words of Stanley Hauerwas, “perhaps it is the case that the true stories that we learn of God are those that help us best to know what story we are and should be, that is, that which gives us the courage to go on.” It was the stories they heard that helped Anakin, Luke and Rey go on despite their circumstances, challenges, and pain. It is the story of Christ that helps us go on in the face of injustice, oppression, and violence. And it is stories like Star Wars, our modern myth, that help us keep that in perspective. The beauty of these stories, beyond just how fun they are, is that we learn from them. We learn about hope, about fear, about anger, about destiny, about fate, and about stories shape our favorite heroes and villains, how they aren’t too dissimilar from us. Any story that does that is, in my opinion, God-breathed in its own way.
Justin DaMetz 