My mom has a prim and proper evangelical friend who went to see some suspenseful movie in the theater. It was a popular movie, and the theater was packed. At the climax of the movie, the main character is betrayed and killed by his best friend. Without realizing what she was doing, my mom’s friend jumped out of her seat and shouted at the screen, “YOU SON OF A BITCH!”
I am just like my mom’s friend. When I watch a good movie, I become the protagonist. In my mind, I am dodging bullets or plotting revenge or coping with a broken heart. One of the best things about story is that we learn truth and wisdom about life without having to actually go through the circumstances that lead to such a revelation. But it’s also one of the hardest things for me about watching some movies. You know the ones I’m talking about: the ones where the protagonist is in trouble and keeps making things worse and worse until he is stripped of any redeemable quality. It normally starts out small. He owes his bookie some money, or he gets a drink with his cute co-worker while his wife is at home with two screaming kids. Then he decides to join a buddy in a “can’t-miss” robbery to score the cash, or he lets the girl talk him into a couple more drinks upstairs at her place. All of a sudden, things are out of control, and life as he knew it is over. And he doesn’t live in a vacuum; he’s like a tornado ripping up the lives of those people unfortunate enough to care for him. Because he couldn’t control himself in minor things, his vices take over his whole being.
Here’s why those movies are hard to watch: I am so, so capable of that. I am so capable of it. I am so capable of letting little vices start to take who I am. And I could do it without anyone knowing. I’m pretty good at hiding that stuff—most of us are. We’re slippery, furtive creatures that can quickly become more animal than man. Think of Gollum in Lord of the Rings or Joseph Conrad’s The Heart of Darkness. That is who we are. That lives inside of us.
Sufjan Stevens has a song called “John Wayne Gacy, Jr.” about a real-life serial killer who dressed as a clown and raped and murdered over thirty men and boys. That’s about as messed up as it comes. The song eerily describes Gacy’s method, but the end of the song gives me the chills:
And in my best behavior
I am really just like him
Look beneath the floorboards
For the secrets I have hid
Am I any different than John Wayne Gacy, Jr.? Sure, I haven’t actually killed anyone, but didn’t Jesus say that if I look at a person with anger, it is the same as murdering him? Don’t our hearts make us as guilty as Gacy? Aren’t we on an even playing field?
But at the same time, we are capable of great things. Beauty and grace and compassion live in our hearts alongside all that ugly stuff. We can seamlessly slip back and forth between these two states like an experienced skier effortlessly navigates moguls. These moments—these “slippery slope” points in time—are the ones that matter. And like in Woody Allen’s movie, Match Point, these moments can come down the flip of a coin, like when a tennis ball hits the top of the net and could come down on either side. These moments define us.
But here’s the thing: these moments occur every day. C.S. Lewis writes in his essay, “The Weight of Glory,” that we “live in a society of possible gods and goddesses” and that “the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare.” And all the time we are either becoming one thing or the other. We’re either moving toward goodness, truth, humility, beauty and mercy, or we’re giving way to selfishness, greed, lust and depravity. Both live in us. Both are fighting a war for our souls.
Here is where we normally insert that Jesus has come to redeem us from this brokenness. And I believe he has. But it’s a work in progress. Moreover, I think Jesus has equipped us with a tool to combat the chaos within us: friends. Real friends are willing to take a flashlight and nose around beneath the musty, cobwebbed floorboards of our attic-like hearts. They pry around; they want to know what’s under the canvas tarp even when we’re trying to divert their attention to the vintage stereo that might look good in the living room. And in spite of all our shortcomings, they continue to love us, not because their attics are tidy but because they are loved themselves. It starts by letting someone in, by giving someone the key to the attic. Friendship, obviously, requires effort on the part of more than one person, but I know that too often I wait for someone to come knocking instead of inviting someone over to have a look around. I am finding that when I let people into the dark, dark places of my heart, those places suddenly aren’t so scary. I don’t feel as threatened by them. And I know that if I act on those feelings, someone will know about it. It’s amazing how merely voicing the rumblings of the heart is like diffusing a bomb. All of the punch dissipates, and I realize that maybe I’m not such a weirdo after all.
I’ll close with a poem from one of my favorite writers that, I believe, applies to friendship as well as our spiritual life (maybe substitute the word “Lord” for “friend”):
Come to me, Lord, I will speculate not how,
Nor think at which door I would have thee appear,
Nor put off calling to my floors be swept,
But cry, “Come, Lord, come any way, come now.”
Doors, windows I throw wide, my head I bow,
And sit like one who so long has slept
That he knows nothing ‘til his life draws near
No comments:
Post a Comment