"Levity", guilt, and grace

IN "LEVITY," Billy Bob Thornton looks almost like a ghost. His blank expression, his penetrating stare, and his white stringy hair give him something of an otherworldly presence. But Manual Jordan is not haunting anyone. Instead, it is he who is haunted. He walks and talks like a man who has the weight of the world on his shoulders. Twenty-three years ago, he killed a teenager in a robbery, and, with the punishment of the state now behind him, he suffers under his own punishment.

After a car accident in my teens, which hurt no one but could have, I began wondering how I would survive the daily routines of life knowing that I had removed a life from the planet. It was too frightening to even contemplate seriously. But "Levity" brought the question back to me. How could I really be free from such an act? I could ask for God's forgiveness, for the family's forgiveness, but could I ever really move past it?

Manual Jordan doesn't seem to be able to. He makes fumbling attempts at reconciliation, going so far as to befriend his victim's now-grown sister (without revealing who he is). He's looking for something to set him free, some way to be redeemed, although he has no faith he'll find it.

In some ways, the character of Manual is a refreshing one. He takes guilt seriously. It's rare that, even within the Christian church, I can find people who takes seriously the pain inflicted by sin, and take steps to remedy it. I, too, am guilty of glossing over harms and hoping that time will heal a friendship -- even though I've had relationships strengthened by dealing with the offense. The blanket of grace that covers believers is often taken to mean that we don't need such trivial formalities of admitting to each other when we were wrong. After all, God's forgiveness covers all our sins, past and future, so why enter into such uncomfortable territory?

"Levity" is uncomfortable territory. It's a probing, searching movie that connects us with our own sense of guilt and our search for grace. It reminds us that these are processes, that they are part of a journey, not subject to a quick fix. It invites us to be honest about our own misdeeds and our own broken relationships. It highlights healing moments with those who reach out to Manual with hospitality, conversation, trust, and food, and asks us who might need such things from us. Manual cannot bring himself to believe in a God, but these moments of grace found throughout his story open a window of possibility to, at least, the audience.

If the film has something worthwhile for Christians, it's a fresh examination of the weight of guilt, especially in the light of our proclamations of easy grace. But I do not mean to suggest that more emphasis on guilt within the church would be a healthy thing, either. Often such messages are used for coercion, much like a parental guilt trip; we are asked to volunteer and donate as recompense for forgiveness. A healthy sense of guilt will give you a humility before others, and a passion for reaching out in love to those who feel pain the same way that you do. But at its worst, it is a diversion from real spiritual freedom. Psychologist Stephen A. Mitchell, in one of his case studies, explored the effects of guilt coupled with self-judgment:

There was a magical, almost delusional dimension to Will's guilt. ... He was unable to accept the loss of an ideal image of himself, the image he had shattered. ... Will, who seemed to be the guiltiest man alive, had actually arranged his life around a refusal to truly bear his guilt. His appeasement and self-punishment were all aimed at erasing the consequences of his actions, which he was simply unwilling to accept. Thus self-inflicted or arranged punishment, while appearing to acknowledge culpability, often operates as a diversion from experiencing guilt that feels too difficult to bear.

I do not pretend to offer the last word in the relationship between guilt and grace; it has been written about for centuries and will continue to be so. "Levity" does not offer answers either; it intends to be a catalyst for these kinds of questions. But I will leave you with this summary of Paul Tournier's book "Guilt and Grace," which differentiates between the guilt over what we've done (which can and must be reconciled with others) and the guilt of simply being (which is can be reconciled only with God). In this way, grace blankets us completely, but does not excuse us from making right what we are able to.

[Tournier] formulates his distinction between our guilt of doing and our guilt of being. ... We feel guilty for what we do and what we fail to do. That's our guilt of doing. .. Well, we'll change that. We'll try harder. We'll do what is right. That is always the human response to a guilt of doing. ... [But our] guilt is greater than our doing. Our guilt ought to begin to appear to us as a guilt of being. ... It's who I am that is the problem, not just what I do. And I can't change who I am. ... Who will deliver me from what I am? That's Paul's final question about the work of the law in human life. The law intends to show us who we are. When we see who we really are in God's eyes, there is only one thing we can do. We cry out for deliverance. And there is a deliverer. ... As Paul says in Galatians, the law serves its real function when it brings us to Jesus Christ.

"The Matrix" and philosophy: What will heaven be like?

RICHARD HANLEY'S EASSAY "Reflections on the First Matrix," published in the "philosophy" section of the Matrix website, examines Agent Smith's monologue regarding the prototype dream-world presented by the computers to their human subjects. It was "designed to be a perfect human world, where none suffered, where everyone would be happy," Smith tells us. But "no one would accept the program."

The contention of Hanley's essay is that the Christian concept of heaven, one in which "there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain," must also be Matrix-like in nature -- giving the illusion of free will while denying it in actuality. I hestitate to simplify Hanley's statements with a summary, but the essense of his argument is that the Christian view of heaven is impossible. "Perhaps our thinking is incoherent: we think that the best existence is one where human beings interact with each other and everyone has libertarian free will and nobody suffers and that someone knowingly arranges this. If this is an incoherent notion, not even God can actualize it." The primary contradiction, Hanley says, is that the combination of free will and other people necessarily produces unhappiness: "Indeed, the existence of other human beings in the world is part of the 'sharp corners'—a source of suffering. ... One person getting what they want means that another doesn’t." If this is the case, then "God has two main choices in creating a Heaven for human beings: either substantially alter the nature of human beings in Heaven (say by arranging a concordance of wills, contrary to [libertarian free will]) ... or else put each human in a solitary Matrix [that] ... provides plenty of virtual interaction with virtual humans," which would be contrary to true human interaction.

Hanley adds to this puzzle an observation set forth by Mark Twain in "Letters from the Earth," in which the banished Satan instructs his angels about mankind. The devil finds it uproarious that our idea of heaven would include prayer and singing, two activities the majority of us tire of quickly on earth, and yet has left out such pleasures as sex, which is the focus of much of earthly life. In other words, Hanley says, our idea of heaven is to have our desires changed completely, even though that would negate our humanness. "When we humans turn our eyes toward Heaven, our ranking of values seems to change," he writes. "When we consider a pre-Heaven existence, we seem to prefer the best real deal to the best Matrix. When thinking about Heaven, we seem to prefer the best Matrix to the best real deal." We seem to want happiness, however artificially contrived, in the afterlife.

Is there a way that heavenly happiness need not be contrived? Is there a way to maintain free will while interacting with other people? There are several possibilities, including entering into a new state of being that is beyond our current understanding. (Hanley is working off the idea that we remain primarily human in our essence, which is really the only way of discussing the issue without throwing one's hands in the air.) But short of the wiggle room afforded by the limitations of current understanding, there is still a solution available.

Hanley touches near it in his comments on psychological hedonism, which is "the view that there are really only two non-derived human desires: to obtain pleasure and avoid suffering." He suggests that if such a view were true, then free will could still exist in heaven if man "merely changes his beliefs about what it is that will bring him pleasure and avoid pain." But he then dismisses hedonism as cynical and certainly not Christian. But what if there is only one true human desire: intimacy with God? What if all the pleasures that we seemingly crave so much (food, sex, power, influence, admiration) are all just ways of enjoying God's gifts to us and/or pale reflections of real intimacy? If so, then God's full presence with us in heaven would satisfy our desires -- without changing our wills. Our fulfillment would be so complete that we wouldn't need to settle for the earthly imitations, or try to degrade others to our lowly level. We could simply love without wanting anything in return.

Hanley sees this argument coming, or a version of it, and posits two questions in response. "It is standarly claimed," he writes, "that all are free to sin in Heaven, but none do, because they are in some sense incapable of doing so; no one can sin when they are at last with God. This raises two distinct problems. The first is that any such incapability seems incompatible with libertarian freedom." In other words, does my solution really count as free will? Can we really choose anything if we are in fixed alignment to God -- like iron filaments positioned in a magnetic field? Well, yes. We have the account of Lucifer's defection to show us; the angels had free will and some used it to reject God. However, that raises the very large question of how God can promise us a heaven without suffering if it has already once eluded him.

Let me answer that in conjuction with Hanley's other objection: "If there is no incompatibility between human beings having libertarian free will and being incapable of sin, then ... God could have just created Heaven and be done with it, a creation with all of the benefits and none of the disadvantages." Keeping in mind the story of the angels, we might argue that God already tried creating such a heaven, and it didn't work. The problem was that Lucifer was too proud, and thought himself to be equal to God. The whole of earthly existence, then, might be a way to make human beings humble -- before they were given full access to the love of God. If we can experience a filtered version of God's love on this planet, and come to an understanding of how far it surpasses our own, then in heaven we will understand our relationship to God properly. After all, what is the biblical path to salvation if not a process of developing humility before God? We first must give up our pride in ourselves and our trust in our strength, and then throw ourselves on the mercy of God and submit our wills to him. This, then, is the key to a heaven with both free will and human interaction: We will know from experience, unlike Lucifer, that we cannot be God.

I offer this rebuttal not as an attempt to defend the faith. After all, Hanley begins his essay by stating that "The point of my polemical approach is not so much to criticize Christianity, but rather to bring the issue of the nature of ultimate value into sharper focus." I offer it much in the same spirit, to discuss with fellow Christians questions of ultimate value. If my depiction of heaven is valid in any way, what does that say about the way we live life on earth? First of all, it would mean finding the God-desire at the root of every one of our human desires. Not only will this spare us much discomfort, it will reduce the "sharp corners" we poke others with. In other words, I have to acknowledge that my marriage is just a reflection of the intimacy I want with God, and keep from putting the pressure on my wife to be God for me. And secondly, it would mean consciously developing humility. It means keeping in mind the great gulf between God's power and my own, not just to give glory to God but to understand the smallness of the gulfs between myself and other people. It puts in proper perspective the minor separations between myself and the movie stars of the world, or myself and the incarcerated, allowing me to see each person as a full human being.

Or, to state the same thing in the words of Christ: "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind" (Matt. 22:37), and "Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven" (Matt. 18:4).

Telepresence in "Ghosts of the Abyss"

ROBERT BALLARD, the deep-sea explorer who found the wreck of the Titanic in 1985, brought back astonishing photos of a largely intact bow that seemed almost ghostly in its preserved state. But even then, Ballard had hopes for a better vantage point for the public to experience the depths of the oceans, which he called 'telepresence.'

"At the level of technology we see on this ship today," Ballard is recorded saying in Charles Pellegrino's 1987 book Her Name, Titanic, "telepresence is still back in the days of a guy yelling into a tin can on a string, compared to where it can go. I mean, we're still using black-and-white TV cameras, for crying out loud. Ultimately we can go toward that personal experience of being there, in other words the Wow! ... We can't transport everyone down to a hydrothermal vent in a mini-sub. But we can put their minds there. ... One day our expeditions will be broadcast live on cable television, in 3-D, from the bottom of the Pacific."

James Cameron was listening. Ballard's discovery turned him into a deep-sea enthusiast, inspiring his 1989 movie "The Abyss." After the fall of the Soviet Union, he set his sights on hitching a ride on a Russian submersible to the wreck of the Titanic itself, which would bookend a recreation of the ship's only voyage. After "Titanic" hit big, and Cameron had the clout to do most anything, he pushed fiction aside for exploration. He made a trip to the wreck of the Bismarck (documented in the soon-to-hit-DVD "Exploration: Bismarck"), visited deep sea vents with unique ecosystems unlike any other on earth (soon to be a 3-D IMAX documentary), and even tried to get aboard the Mir space station (which unfortunately dropped out of orbit).

He also made a return trip to Titanic, armed with better knowledge and better equipment: this time he traveled with 3-D IMAX cameras and two robots small enough to enter parts of the wreck for the first time. "Ghosts of the Abyss" is the result of this expedition. Cynical reviewers have suggested Cameron is simply mining familiar ground for a big hit, but he is giving us what Ballard envisioned so long ago: the Wow of telepresence. He's putting us in the explorer's seat for perhaps the first time since the 1969 moon landing. Whereas today we're concerned with the frontiers of medicine, computers, and science, Cameron reconnects us with the hundreds of generations before us who traveled out to face physical frontiers.

This is a film about exploration, about technology, about pushing the limits, and about the crucible of disaster. Actor Bill Paxton is brought along as an audience surrogate; he's played explorers in "Apollo 13" and "Titanic" but now steps into the claustrophobia and danger of the real-life role. The crew, including Cameron, are too busy with their jobs to communicate the awe of it all, so it's up to Paxton to share with us the size and scope of what we're seeing. Ghostly images of the past, superimposed on the decomposing wreck, also help ground us in our understanding. But the film's best moments are the ones of simple, meditative, three-dimensional immersion in the imagery. The contradictions run deep: Devastation paired with preservation, premium machinery paired with raw humanity, luxury paired with the ghastly. The site invites you to consider not only its story, but your own as well. As one of the crew says, you can't help but wonder what you would have done if aboard the ship.

Halfway through the movie, it shifts into full explorer mode as Cameron attempts to photograph rooms inside the ship not seen in 90 years. His two robots find, among many things, the wireless radio cabin with its settings still in place, a brass bed possibly belonging to Molly Brown, and a drinking glass and a carafe that, unbelievably, remained upright on a wash-stand. But because the tiny 'bots use TV cameras instead of large-format film, this images take up less than an eighth of the IMAX screen. To hold our attention, Cameron breaks the screen into various boxes, some with the TV recordings and others computer-graphic recreations and old photographs. The resulting mishmash is difficult to take in; it's information overload during what should have been the most adventurous sequence.

Regardless, I'm glad those images have found their way into the public eye, instead of being stored away in science labs. I appreciate that Cameron wants to make us participants in the process of discovery, to take us places we might never go, to enrich our understanding of our world. He has taken Robert Ballard's vision and run with it. "Telepresence is the ability to share," Ballard said in 1985. "What is an experience if it's not shared? You know, it's one thing to be wowed and zapped, but it's another to turn to a person and say, 'Wasn't that great?' It's as important as being wowed. ... The journey's goal is to attain a new truth, a new knowledge. But unless it's brought back and shared, the journey isn't complete."

The contemplative experience of "Rivers and Tides"

TWO YEARS AGO, while staying in England's Lake District, Amanda and I saw an advertisement for an Andy Goldsworthy exhibit. Although we had never heard of him at time, we were intrigued by the photographs of what seemed like magic in nature. The picture I remember most vividly was the one to the right, a snaking path of clear ice through scatterings of powdered snow. I now regret not having attended the exhibit, but what kept me away was a feeling that witnessing the creation of such a sight would have been much more interesting than a photograph of its perfection.

Little did I know that documentarian Thomas Riedelsheimer had much the same idea. His film "Rivers and Tides: Andy Goldsworthy Working with Time" captures the artist's journey through dozens of creative works. (The pictures I have included with this review are not from ones he works on in the movie itself, so as not to spoil any of the stunning reveals.) With the exception of commissions from a museum and a sculpture park, all of Goldsworthy's art in the movie is impermanent. He creates with leaves, thorns, stone, ice, wool, flowers, and whatever other natural elements he finds in the vicinity. His works are toppled by wind, covered by leaves, carried away by the river, and swallowed up by the sea, but he never laments the loss of a finished work. Instead, he sees nature contributing something to the process that he could never have hoped for. Although his photographs reveal pristine beauty, the real art in many ways is the process, from his selection of materials to nature's reclamation of them.

"Rivers and Tides" was the most meaningful spiritual experience I've had in the movies in many years. I've never been much of a naturalist; my older brother always had a better developed sense of awe and curiosity about the outdoors, and perhaps as a result I found my identity elsewhere. But in the past year I've become much more interested in the way God speaks to us in nature, particularly through the flavors, textures, and colors of food. I've been doing a lot more experimenting and exploration in the kitchen lately, and as I shop for specialty items I keep being amazed at how many flavors exist in the world that have never crossed my tongue. "Rivers and Tides" was a similar experience; Goldsworthy creates such exquisite beauty out of natural elements and natural shapes that he draws our attention to the beauty already present in nature that we have forgotten how to see. He reveals, without direct comment, the earth that God created for His enjoyment, which we are invited to take part in. The pace and focus of Riedelsheimer's film is deliberately contemplative, tailor-made for a dark and quiet theater where you can focus your whole attention on it.

Two particular moments in the film resonate with my stage of the spiritual journey. The first is Goldsworthy's insistence that if he hasn't worked for two or three weeks, he feels uprooted and not himself. The finished, saleable art isn't important to him except to feed his family; his real purpose in creating is as a type of grounding exercise. This is one of my biggest struggles in my spiritual life: the temptation to uphold my status within the church community, or my writings about the spiritual journey, as the measure of my value and the source of my pride. One of the reasons I've written so few reviews in the past year, and disappeared from the positions I held, was the need to reconnect with the day-in, day-out struggle to ground myself in God -- without anything of my own to prop myself up. I had to determine if I love God for who He is, or if I just love God for what He can make of me.

The second moment is tied to the first, and that is the impermanence of Goldsworthy's art. Human societies are driven to create buildings and art and children that will outlive them, as a bid for immortality, but Goldsworthy is happy to have his own efforts whisked away by the activity of a lively earth. He understands the illusion of permanence; seen on a long enough timeline even rock is liquid, as he beautifully demonstrates in one scene. Likewise, God has been teaching me that the words I say to a friend, the way I treat a stranger, the food I serve to guests are all avenues to share the love of God despite their lack of "achievement" in the eyes of others. As Christians we tend to honor those who have founded churches, defied governments, written tomes, and spawned movements, but I am finding myself becoming interested in the unnamed players, the faithful backstage folk, the unheralded lovers of God. I am, I hope, becoming one of them.

For the first time I feel the confidence to put words to these kinds of feelings: the stripping away of the need for success, the attempt to walk naked before God, the endeavor to shape my character rather than simply my words, the struggle to give full attention to small gestures of love. And the reason I think I can put words to my feelings is because, in "Rivers and Tides," Andy Goldsworthy had put images to them. His works have given me a context to see what I have been working on myself.