Mistakes Vs Crimes

Be not ashamed of mistakes and thus make them crimes. --Confucius

When I read that quotation by the great Chinese sage, Confucius, I had to think about it a long time. I wasn't sure what he meant by it. How could shame cause a mistake to become a crime?

I finally realized that shame can cause you to choose your action rather than admit your mistake, and then you have to conceal it.

Here was an example I thought of.

Say you're at the grocery store, and you check out, pay, and leave. You're loading your stuff into the car, when you realize that a can of pears is in the corner of the cart, not bagged up with the rest of your things. You don't remember putting it on the conveyor belt. You check your receipt, and sure enough, you didn't pay for it. How could you have missed it? It was right there in the cart!

You feel kind of stupid for missing the can, but you'd feel even more stupid going back in. I mean, how much can a can of pears cost? Eighty-nine cents? So what do you do?

At this point, you've made a mistake, right? But if you're too embarrassed to go back in and make a huge deal over an 89 cent can of pears by admitting your mistake and insisting that you pay for them, your mistake becomes something else. You'll have chosen to leave with that can of pears that you didn't pay for. Only THEN will you have stolen them. That's when you've done what Confucius warns against--you've let your shame turn your mistake into a crime.

I can think of more examples, but this was the first one I thought of and I kind of liked it. Can anyone think of any situations in which someone might let their shame turn a mistake into a crime?

Tragedy for Poland

You've probably heard by now of the tragic pane crash of a flight that left from Warsaw, Poland and was trying to land in Russia. The flight's passengers were government officials, almost 90 of them, including the president and his wife, army chief of staff, national bank president, deputy foreign minister, army chaplain, head of the National Security Office, deputy parliament speaker, civil rights commissioner and at least two presidential aides and three lawmakers.

They were on their way to a memorial service, to remember the more than 22,000 Polish officers who were massacred by Soviet Troops in the forest of Katyn 70 years ago. Memories are long in that part of the world, and 3 generations later, the Poles have not forgotten their soldiers. The government has been devastated, and the Russians have promised a full investigation, but despite the numbers of important people on board, it seems so far to be simply a terrible accident. The pilot was trying to land the plane in the fog and didn't succeed. I hope that's all that happened.

Now, here's something that struck me forcibly in reading that article. If this happened in the US, what would be the public reaction to the crash of a plane carrying politicians, bankers, and military leaders? I can guarantee it would NOT be the reaction that one Polish citizen had:

"I worry because so many clever and decent people were killed," said high school student Pawel Kwas, 17. "I am afraid we may have problems in the future to find equally talented politicians."

When was the last time that we used the words clever, decent, or talented when speaking of politicians? I'm not saying that's OUR fault--when was the last time we saw a politician acting as though they were clever, decent, or talented? For all Poland's problems--problems increased by this terrible event--they must be doing something right.

The Easter Vigil

For those of you from different traditions, the Easter Vigil is the ancient service of the Resurrection that takes place between sunset Saturday and sunrise Sunday. It's awesome, in every sense of that word.




It is sunset. The evening is cool and the breeze makes it hard to light the big candle. We are quiet; even though we’re outdoors, any necessary conversation is whispered. It’s been a hard week, and we’re tired. We’ve been through betrayal and suffering and death and absence; we’ve been here every night. We kept watch until it was all over.

The deacon lifts the candle out of the backyard grill that someone brought for the new fire. He holds it out and we crowd around, wanting our share, lighting our smaller candles, passing the flame around until everyone carries one, even children. Especially children. The deacon enters the shadowy church, holds the candle high, and sings.

The Light of Christ.

We sing back.

Thanks be to God.

He sings it again, then again, as he makes his way to the altar. We follow him, shuffling into our pews, quietly, quietly. The church looks foreign. It’s dark and so very clean. There are no flowers, no candles on the altar. The choir, deacon, and priest wear only black cassocks. No hangings, no incense, no sacrament in the ambry. The church is as bare as a rock-hewn tomb.

The deacon places the candle in its stand, and by its light he sings again.

Rejoice now, heavenly hosts and choirs of angels, and let your trumpets shout salvation, for the victory of our mighty King.

The first little tingle of anticipation sparks in our bellies.

This is the night when you brought our fathers, the children of Israel, out of bondage in Egypt, and led them through the Red Sea on dry land.

It’s a very ancient hymn, so it’s very long. We shift from foot to foot and take our children’s candles away before they hurt someone. But the words still move us there in the darkness.

This is the night when Christ broke the bonds of death and hell, and rose victorious from the grave.

The excitement tingles a little less subtly now, but we know we have a long way to go. We finally sit, and prepare ourselves to hear the Story. Reading, psalm, collect. Reading, psalm, collect. Reading, psalm, collect. They’re long readings, and the plainchant of the psalms is sometimes difficult. It’s hard to see our service booklets in the dim light. The children grow restless, so we take them out, then bring them back in, and still the Story goes on. It is our story, the story of how God gave us this night.

We have a baptism tonight. An adult, a middle-aged woman, is taking her place in the Story. This is not a Sunday morning baptism. This is no sprinkle on a baby’s forehead, with silver shells and dainty purificators. The font is as big as a trough, in fact it is a trough draped with white cloth, and she kneels in the water, soaking her clothes. Quietly the priest scoops up water into his big hands and pours it over her head. Then he pours oil over her, so that its fragrance fills the church. It runs down her cheeks and her neck.

The deacon and another helper assist her out of the font and pat her with big, soft towels. She’s by no means dry, but she’s no longer dripping. She turns to the priest, and we can see her tears in the candlelight. The priest robes her in white, then leads her to her place in the front row.

We are silent, tense, expectant. We can hardly breathe.

The priest and deacon kneel on the steps in front of the bare altar, and the priest begins the Litany of Saints, another ancient and long prayer. He starts slowly, chanting into the darkness.

Holy Mary…pray for us.

Members of the altar guild rise from their pews and enter the sacristy. We barely see what they are doing, we are chanting.

Saint John…pray for us.

Silently, flowers bloom in the darkness, golden candlesticks glow with the light of the Paschal flame. The altar is adorned with white. We don’t really see this, it’s dark, and we are chanting.

Saint Mary Magdalene…pray for us.

The rhythm picks up, faster and faster, until there’s barely time to say pray for us before the next saint is invoked. Anticipation is building. There is a rumble beneath our feet, it’s so low we almost can’t hear it. The earth seems to be shaking. Slowly it builds, coming out of the organ and up through the floor, up through our bodies and out of our mouths as we nearly shout, pray for us pray for us pray for us.

The earthquake crescendos and the priest leaps to his feet on the last breathless note. As he rises, so does the light, and we gasp at its presence.

“Alleluia! Christ is risen!”

The priest shouts it….we’ve been building to this moment all week, all year, all eternity.

“The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!”

He shouts it again, his fists raised in triumph.

“Alleluia! Christ is risen!”

“The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!”

The glory of it all rolls out of him and over us. He proclaims it again, his voice breaking with joy, challenging us to match him.

“Alleluia! Christ is risen!”
“The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!”

He shouts again and again, and we answer again and again. His hands are raised, his face is flushed. Many of us are crying. Our voices are going hoarse.

“Alleluia! Christ is risen!”
“The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!”

Finally, the organ picks up the cry, swelling from under the priest’s voice, until we are all singing out at the top of our lungs, “He is risen, he is risen, tell it out with joyful voice!”

The priest and deacon leave, and return a moment later in vestments of gold-on-white. The deacon lights the incense and we are soon breathing in what we’re singing about. The newly baptized woman is being hugged by everyone in the church as we all continue to sing. Every sense is alive.

“Death is conquered, we are free! Christ has won the victory!”

The priest stands in front of the altar, framed by candles, surrounded by an overflow of flowers. Lilies and azaleas, gold and silk.

Some of us are still crying, hugging, humming. We can hardly sit still, we can hardly be quiet. It is Easter, and Christ is risen.

The Passion of the Christ, 2004

This is my review of The Passion of the Christ. It's also posted, with video, on Kat's Film and Book Reviews. It's been rainy all day, but it really started thundering hard at 3:30. Very appropriate for Good Friday.

The Passion of the Christ
2004
Rated R
Directed by Mel Gibson


I was in a unique position for the original release of The Passion of the Christ.  I was teaching in a liberal Christian college, which was nestled in a very conservative Christian culture.  From my liberal colleagues—most of whom refused to see the film—I heard strongly worded condemnations of the supposed anti-Semitism of the film, and critical, even horrified, assessments of the “unnecessary” violence of the film.  From my more conservative church members, I heard the elevation of the film to the level of Scripture--also often before they had seen it.


There’s some justification for considering the film to be faithful to the spirit of Scripture, even if it’s not exactly revelation.  With an emphasis on John’s gospel, borrowing from other gospels and certain mystical works, it’s hardly a mistake to consider the film a reliable resource for historical, even theological, information.  In that context, the charge of anti-Semitism needs to be addressed. 


This is a more complex line of thought than it might seem.  The canonical evangelists, all but one of whom were Jews themselves, tended to be very hard on their own people.  Their frustration with the Jews was born from the exasperated love for beloved family members who refuse to act in their own best interest.  “He came to his own, and his own knew him not.”


But the fact is, the Jews had no power to execute anyone.  They were an oppressed and occupied nation.  Only the legal authorities of the Roman state, represented by Pontius Pilate and his military support, had any power over rebels, traitors, or insurgents.  Both history and Scripture make it clear: the Romans, not the Jews, are responsible for Jesus’ death and punishment.  The film does not equivocate in this matter.  Pilate was conflicted and compromised, Roman troops ranged individually from compassionate to sadistic, and in that context, Jesus suffered standard Roman punishments. 


Though director Mel Gibson doesn’t leave the burden of blame on the shoulders of the Jews, he certainly does fail in exploring the untenable position the Jews were in in relation to Jesus of Nazareth.  Gibson plays the Jewish contingent at the surface level, giving his actors very little complexity to attach themselves to.  It’s faithful to the letter of Scripture, but misses an opportunity to flesh out the conflict, especially on the Jewish side.


The objection to the violence of the films is another matter, and it’s hard for me to be patient with that line of thinking.  I’m reminded of the anecdote about the British lady who objected to the film, because “it makes our Lord’s crucifixion seem so unpleasant.” Whatever one thinks of Jesus, he was both flogged and crucified. 

This is no sanitized-needle lethal injection in which the criminal just falls asleep.  It’s not even a bloody but quick beheading.  It’s one of the most tortuous and violent means of death ever perpetrated by men upon other men.  If you’re going to make, or watch, a film focusing on the suffering (and “passion” means suffering) of a historical figure, you’re going to have to deal with that suffering.  If you can’t stand it, then don’t watch it, but don’t criticize the filmmakers for being honest to the historical events.  As far as I’m concerned, it’s a point of honor; I can’t keep him from suffering, but since he did it for me, the least I can do is watch without turning away.


It’s that devotional impulse—the “he did it for me”—that appeals to the devoted Christian audience.  These are folks for whom the same Jesus portrayed by Jim Caveizel is a living, active presence in their lives.  To be exposed to the real suffering of the One they love most, to have it taken out of stained glass and Italian sculpture, is an incredibly powerful experience.  In that power is the reason for the film’s success.  For the faithful viewer, it’s all about the conviction that while Jesus was suffering, he was thinking of me.


Nevertheless, Gibson understands that even those of us who were “washed in the blood,” can’t maintain an emotional investment in non-stop, unbroken violence.  Gibson tempers the harshness of Jesus’ suffering, especially as he is more and more disfigured, with flashbacks of Jesus teaching and healing.  In these flashbacks, we see Jesus as active, intentional, and above all, strong.  This is a masculine, assertive Jesus, with both compassion and joy—and a bit of a temper. 


Thank God for that. Heaven knows that between numerous “Jesus films” and the efforts of countless preachers, we’ve had enough portrayals of Jesus that reduce him to a weak, asexual, effeminate being, the “declawed Lion of Judah” we so often get in church—“fit only as a pet for pale curates and pious old ladies.”  In addition, Caviezel is beautiful—physically beautiful—in this role.  The more bloodied and objectified Jesus gets, the more desperate we are to see the agent Jesus—acting on others, not being acted upon, and full of glowing health and vitality.  By the time Jesus dies in ugly horror, we need the Resurrection.  It’s a privilege and a profound relief to see our Jesus restored to his intensity and masculine beauty. 

 
Gibson’s film is not above criticism, and it would be a mistake to transfer our love for Jesus to Mel Gibson. Jesus’ suffering seems abstract at points, leaving the viewer to wonder just how much Gibson counted on his viewers to fill in motivation and conflict.  The figure of Judas is creepy and pathetic, but we are given little insight into why he betrayed Jesus.  The androgynous Satan figure actually works surprisingly well as a symbol of the insidiousness of temptation, though I spent too much time trying to discern whether that was actually the actor’s own voice the figure used.  But in the end, the film was made with love for its subject matter, and believers, at least, benefit in the making-real of something that has too often been kept at a distance.