Story and Harry Potter

Tonight is the beginning of the end of the Harry Potter movies. People all over this continent are gathering at their local theaters at ungodly hours to see how the production studios capture the series' end. Some will be dressed in the garb of their favorite characters while others will think they are too cool to partake in an adult version of dress-up (but secretly wishing their heart would allow for this childish fantasy). Many will call in sick for work tomorrow while others' production output at work will resemble that of their body prostrate in bed. All for a story.

Why are people so engrossed with this story? Honestly, in this case, I have no idea. I have never seen, and probably never will see, the movies or read the books. Sometimes I tend to defy the cultural norm, even if it robs me of some perfectly healthy pleasure, for the sole purpose of not being like the others. Its a rather poor character flaw.

We DVR our weekly shows; we read the great texts and the beach classics; we watch documentaries about fast food; we wikipedia our favorite musicians for perspective; we feel the rhythm of poetry while picking it with a fine comb; and we watch nature explode for 30 minutes in a two and a half hour indie flick. Why? 

Some way, some how, stories fill the soul at its deepest level. Each character played well, each plot developed adequately, each beat resounded draw us toward something and even into it, in a way. We live vicariously through the rising and falling action and the complications and resolutions. (Freytag anyone?)

We participate in these stories so easily and free flowing. They are our escape from the happenings of our mundane and, often times, frustrating life. They are good things we use to help cope from the harshness of the world.

But, do we participate in the stories of others? Do I?

Over the last few years, including now, the story I focused on was my own. Are the actions and scenes of my story reflecting Christ? Are they showing me as smart? Are they making me happy? Emotionally stable? Confident?

As I wrestle, with the help of others, through some doubts, frustrations, anxieties, etc., I seem to be back at this point: strive toward Christ, whatever the cost. Interestingly enough, the consequences of these actions will produce fruit (Jesus!), but also a sense pride (flesh). I can't strive perfectly or purely. Praise God for the Holy Spirit and the work he can do use my acts to bring glory to the Father!

Dietrich Bonhoeffer's story not only stirs the soul to vicariously live through his actions of the first half of the 20th century but it moves the postmodern soul into parallel action. In striving for Christ, Bonhoeffer sacrifices his life for the salvation of the German Church that the 3rd Reich mutated into an engine for its own propaganda and good. His role in the fight for the Church consisted of lies and deceits, attempted assassinations, familial estrangement, as well as ultimately producing a "widow." From Eric Metaxas' incredible biography on Dietrich Bonhoeffer:

"[Bonhoeffer] knew that the consequences of his obedience were God's business...'It is remarkable how I am never quite clear about the motives for any of my decisions. Is that a sign of confusion, of inner dishonesty, or is it a sign that we are guided without our knowing, or is it both?...[God] certainly sees how much personal feeling, how much anxiety there is in today's decision, however brave it may seem. The reasons one gives for an action to others and to one's self are certainly inadequate. One can give a reason for everything.  In the last resort one acts from a level which remains hidden from us. so one can only ask God to judge us and to forgive us...At the end of the day I can only ask God to give a merciful judgement on today and all its decisions. It is now in his hand (p.345).'"

When your story is one that strives after Christ, your joy (or lack thereof), your suffering (maybe ever constant), and your self-efficacy is dependent upon God and his judgement.

But there is more to our individual stories. We must define what it means to strive after Christ. I don't know the answer to this fully. Oh how I wish I did! But this is what I do know: we are to love God with all of our heart, soul, mind, and strength, and we are to love others as our self (Matt. 22). The Jesus Creed. This is the heartbeat of striving after Christ -- the theme of our story. The former includes cultivating all aspects of the Imago Dei principle while the later is the physical actualization of the former. Obedience to the Son unifies us with the Father (John 3) and obedience means following the Jesus Creed.

So, in essence, our stories need to include God's story and others' stories and do not worry about the consequence of our actions. If our story does not include those two, our story ends up like a bad Keanu Reeves or Vin Diesel flick that causes men to wish to be in one of the many remakes of Sweet Home Alabama.

I pray I (we) strive for Christ, no matter the perceived consequence, no matter the perceived cost. Our story for His glory.

The Imago Dei Principle

Suddenly the bird darted out of the tree and away, and instantly he thought of the "fly buzzing about in the sun's rays" that Hippolyte had talked of; how that it knew its place and was a participator in the universal life, while he alone was an "outcast."...An old forgotten memory awoke in his brain, and suddenly burst into clearness and light. It was a recollection of Switzerland, during the first year of his cure, the very first months...He climbed the mountain-side, one sunny morning, and wandered long and aimlessly with a certain thought in his brain, which would not become clear. Above him was the blazing sky, below, the lake; all around was the horizon, clear and infinite. He looked out upon this, long and anxiously. He remembered how he had stretched out his arms towards the beautiful, boundless blue of the horizon, and wept, and wept. What had so tormented him was the idea that he was a stranger to all this, that he was outside this glorious festival. 

What was this universe? What was this grand, eternal pageant to which he had yearned from his childhood up, and in which he could never take part? Every morning the same magnificent sun; every morning the same rainbow in the waterfall; every evening the same glow on the snow-mountains. 

Every little fly that buzzed in the sun's rays was a singer in the universal chorus, "knew its place, and was happy in it." Every blade of grass grew and was happy. Everything knew its path and loved it, went forth with a song and returned with a song; only he knew nothing, understood nothing, neither men nor words, nor any of nature's voices; he was a stranger and an outcast. 

--Prince Myshikin, The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky

The concept that God created man in his own image really fascinates me. From the Christian perspective, it is so undeniably true. As we look upon the created natural world, only one created thing or being loves, thinks rationally, creates with practically no bounds, and chooses freely -- man. These attributes reflect only one other being or essence, the Father. How amazing that God privileged man with this!

But what is so strange about it all is that other than the writer of Genesis, Paul, from my menial research, is the only biblical author that mentions man being created in the image of God. Paul's focus on the subject centers on the fact that the faithful begin to transform into the image of God once they lay "aside the old self with its evil practices, and have put on the new self who is being renewed to a true knowledge" (Col. 3:9-10). While, on the other hand, Gen. 5, which occurs after man's fall from perfection in the image, refers to Adam's fatherhood as him becoming "the father of a son in his own likeness, according to his image." Genesis seems to show that the very act of childbirth, even from the most fallen of the fallen, corresponds to some sort of participation in this imago dei principle. So, while all, whether a follower of Christ or not, can participate in that image because it innately dwells within us, only those who truly follow him begin to transform into it. The indwelling of the Spirit enables that work (i.e., sanctification). Does that finding have any substantial consequence? No, probably not, but some form of significance might derive from it.

With that brief quasi-aside, lets focus on The Idiot and its relation to the imago dei principle. Before I began this particular writing endeavor, I felt like my conclusion would somehow or someway look something like this: "why can't my path be like the one of the fly? or the sun? or the grass? Why can't every life instance and experience, like that of the natural, be a full and complete participation of God's glory? In essence, why can't I be perfect like the rising and setting of the sun is perfect in time, distance, order, etc?" I am like a whiny Job without the nagging wife, inconsiderate friends, and, of yeah, the intense physical, emotional, and spiritual turmoil. 

So as I have sat here at Starbucks the last two or so hours reflecting upon this passage and the verses above, I have been moved to think about The Problem of Pain by C.S. Lewis. Oh how I wish I had my copy with me, but yea, my memory will have to do, even though it is a gross injustice and simplification to his actual words.

In The Problem of Pain, Lewis devotes a whole chapter to animal pain. He does this in order to distinguish between the beauty of bearing God's image and the natural participation in God's glory that the rest of creation falls under. An animal receives pain and suffering only because of a natural instinct woven within its very fabric. This pain happens at the atomic level, when something goes haywire with physical. This is an important distinction because human beings experience pain and suffering not only on the physical level, but also on a soulful level. This "soulful" pain occurs because of the imago dei principle. We were created with divine-like attributes that enable us to love, which enables us to empathize, which also enables us to feel pain. But because of the Fall, this soulful pain and suffering also occurs because of our freedom to sin. An animal does not have the privilege to be free, so therefore it does not have the freedom to sin. But in our freedom, we do sin and cause pain to others at a metaphysical level as well as feeling pain at a metaphysical level. 

Why is all of this important? One, because I want to avoid pain and suffering at that metaphysical level, just as everyone else does. If we were to become like the fly, or the grass, or the sun, we lose our divine attributes and only experience the reflexive pain that the natural feels. Secondly, and worst of all, the imago dei principle and all that falls under it is the only thing that allows us to recognize, understand, and ultimately love the Father. So while I feel like an outsider and outcast in some ways, like Myshikin and Hippolyte do, I can place my footsteps in the footsteps of Christ -- the one perfect example who lived as both the sun and the man. 

Nature might scream the glory of God, but they don't know it. We can look at man, the ones redeemed and slowly becoming like their Creator and the ones who reflect it unknowingly, and say, "we are like God, so therefore we are loved by God." Just as in marriage when the fulfillment of the man and women's love is the conception of one in their own image, so is man in is existence that derives from the divine Creator ( think Adam begetting Seth).