Wisdom and Folly

We have been vacationing at my parents’ place in the mountains and I have been busy rescuing children stranded in trees and marveling at the number of reptiles and amphibians my boys can catch in one day. I have also been busily lying around reading a book I never thought I would admit to having read, let alone recommend. I once heard someone say that sometimes when reading a book, it is as if a hand reaches out from the pages and takes yours, or something of the sort. (It was in a movie preview so I didn’t have much time to absorb the quote.) Perhaps this idea is a bit of cliché but only because we have all had the experience.

In reading Margaret Atwood’s novel The Handmaid’s Tale, I found a hand extended from an unexpected quarter. As I have said before, I’m no feminist, so my expectations for enjoyment were relatively low. But this hand that clasped mine sometimes felt like the hand of friendship, warm and soft with humor and tenderness. Atwood tells the story of Gilead, a nation whose society is an oppressive hybrid of legalism and classism that would make the Pharisees look like slackers. This place is the head-on collision of Islamic Fundamentalism and the caste system of India with The Stepford Wives riding shotgun. Despite the heavy and often grotesque subject matter, Atwood flavors her writing with just enough wit to keep you from throwing yourself under a bus halfway through the book. Her ironic humor functions like salt in chocolate—you taste the despair more distinctly when compared with the lighter moments. At other times, rather than a friendly handshake, I felt like I was receiving a hearty slap in the face. All the atrocities committed by the Nation of Gilead are justified in religious terms, and the warping of the Scripture and truth into such monstrous falsehood is unsettling to say the least. I feared a “See all the horrible things people do in the name of Christianity” moment. But as I continued to read, I found a fairly balance approach. Yes, all the bad guys (and gals) use a lot of mumbo jumbo Christianese, but the main character of the book, Offred, seems to see this for what it is—mumbo jumbo. She also sees the weakness of reasoning which attempts to justify a society without restraints. Through the use of outrageous exaggeration, Atwood depicts both sides more clearly rather than employing one-sided stereotypes of the popular Christian fiction variety. Frankly, I find it more offensive when Christians present a white-washed, over-simplified version of the straight and narrow than when non-Christians present all Christians as hypocritical morons looking to oppress the infidels. We, at least, should know better.

This is definitely not a book for the faint at heart. It is crude, graphic, and highly disturbing. But considering the times we are living in, perhaps it is no more so than what you see surfing the net or watching the nightly news. Whatever your perspective, The Handmaid’s Tale will give you plenty to chew on as it has me. Something to think about as I take another picture of the boys’ creepy-crawlies or ascend the heights to liberate a terrified Maggie. While I don’t see myself walking hand-in-hand with Margaret Atwood down a sunny country lane (after all, Jane Austen is my usual partner in such walks, and she might get jealous), I certainly wouldn’t mind sharing a cup of coffee with her and hearing more of what she has to say.  I will promise not to be too defensive and not to use any Christianese. Maybe I will even bring Jane along, if Atwood promises not to use the “F” word too much or slap me in the face again.

So we are in an economic crisis of historic proportions.  The Obama administration, following treasury secretary Timothy Geithner, is addressing the situation with massive spending.  Will the strategy work?  Only the most inveterate optimist would think so.  It doesn’t take a PhD in economics to recognize that you can’t spend money you don’t have in order to solve a financial problem.  Some pundits (including the likes of former Clinton operative Dick Morris) have suggested that Obama actually wants the plan to fail as a pretext for government takeover of the entire banking industry and the final step toward a socialist state.  That’s a rather cynical take on the situation, and I pray it’s not accurate.  But I’m afraid I can’t rule it out.

But aside from the question of cure—how to solve the mess we’re in—there is the question of cause:  How did we get here?  While there were certainly failures of government oversight, in the end it boils down to greed and irresponsibility—personal vice.  In other words, this national crisis, like most of our problems, is the result of immoral behavior.  And even the most ingenious government plan cannot fix the moral faults of the populous.  So what can fix America’s moral problems, whether they regard greed in the marketplace, marital infidelity, racism, sexism, abortion, or the evils of pornography?  Moral renewal is not something that can be legislated, programmed, or solved through education.  Ultimately, it’s a matter of the human heart, and this can only be addressed spiritually.  As critical as federal policy is, our current economic debacle is symptomatic of our deeper moral-spiritual crisis.  And until we reverse course in a moral-spiritual way, we won’t see any long-term economic cures.

Like many Christians, I believe only significant divine intervention can save us from ourselves.  But what form might this take?  Perhaps a revival within the church not unlike what happened during the Great Awakening in the eighteenth century.  Another possibility is the “no pain, no gain” model, where God allows us to “hit bottom” in order to motivate repentance and the moral seriousness we seem to have lost.  An extreme version of this was recently predicted by New York City pastor David Wilkerson who warned about a coming calamity (see his March 7 entry here: http://davidwilkersontoday.blogspot.com/).  According to Wilkerson, this is a straightforward case of divine wrath which we deserve because of our extreme rebellion as a nation.  Wilkerson’s announcement is particularly stunning because:  1) he’s not a kook or money-grubbing sensationalist but a humble and reasonable pastor who has demonstrated integrity for five decades of ministry and 2) his now famous predictions from the early 1970s were remarkably accurate—a fact that cannot be fully appreciated without seeing how unlikely his prognostications looked from the perspective of someone in the early 70s.

So will Wilkerson’s prophecy be fulfilled?  It’s scary to think so, but whether or not we believe him, the category of divine wrath should be taken seriously.  Our nation is in state of extreme moral-spiritual rebellion, and we are bound to pay the fiddler, whether this takes the form of natural consequences or special divine wrath.  We all need to consider how we can deepen our moral-spiritual commitment through personal repentance and more earnest pursuit of virtue.  Just as our national economic crisis is a product of many individual vices, national renewal can result from many individual virtues.

Jim and I are fairly resistant to new technologies, always hanging on to the last before falling head long into the lap of the latest trends. Our little computer was teased on the cyber playground for being the only PC on the block who wasn’t allowed to play on the internet. We were still purchasing phone cards and calling collect while the rest of the world whizzed by on their cell phone, gawking at us as though we were on display in a Natural History Museum. “Observe twentieth century man in his natural habitat, the phone booth. Note his horrified expression as the operator, a now extinct creature, explains the interstate calling rate.” Just recently I was out to dinner with friends, feeling ever-so current with my portable talking device tucked into my purse—I even have an in-car charger now—when I heard a strange pecking sound coming from the back seat. I turned to see my always-up-on-the-latest-everything friend texting! I couldn’t believe my eyes. 

While Jim and I were in England several years ago, we observed British youngsters frantically banging on their cell phones with their fingertips, but frankly I thought they were having some strange sort of fit, perhaps an early symptom of mad cow disease. Since then, of course, I have learned better, but still I assumed that texting was something only teenagers did to avoid making eye contact with anyone over the age of 25. Now here was my contemporary clicking away. I was baffled, being the twentieth century gal that I am (and frankly even the twentieth century was a bit ahead of me. I am the kind of person who googles maple syrup farms and pick-your-own blueberry fields in an attempt to keep alive my inner Laura Ingalls Wilder. True, this does require internet service, but hey—no one’s perfect).  My friend—I won’t mention her name, let’s just call her Carrie Ross—went on to explain the glories of texting. She used small words and spoke slowly, so I think I caught most of what she was saying. Texting is really convenient. You don’t have to have a whole conversation. It isn’t as socially intrusive as talking on the phone. I nodded in seeming agreement and inwardly decided that her new metallic purse had affected her thinking. 

Then one day my cell phone made a noise I had never heard before, while I innocently drove along listening to my iPod in the car with the kids. (I am starting to see that perhaps I am not the prairie girl I once believed myself to be, but come on. iPods are really, really cool. Especially with the windows down and P!nk belting out “So What” while you and the kiddles sing along. Am I right or am I right?). I had received my first text message. Slowly over the months to come, I have received more and more texts and have begun to send my own little messages in a bottle across the great ocean of electrical waves that surround us. And, I have to admit, my nameless friend (Carrie) was right. It is nice to send a quick hello or needed info without having to actually speak to the person. But of late, I have begun to wonder if my practices are in keeping with my deeper convictions. (This epiphany came whilst I was listening to my mom on one line and checking my voice mail on another. Pretty low, right? I quickly confessed to my mom and vowed never to do it again.) Sure, it is cleaner and simpler to send off a text without actually having to go through all the entanglements of greeting someone and enquiring about their day, but isn’t that missing the point a bit? Isn’t communication supposed to be about entangling ourselves in one another lives?  Today a friend called (not the nameless Carrie) and really needed to talk. Normally I would chat as long as the cordless phone allowed for my wandering around the house “accomplishing” things. I would have listened as long as it didn’t cost me anything. But this time I asked myself “What would Ma Ingalls do?” In an act of extreme self-control, I sat and had a real conversation, in all it’s messy splendor. (By the end, I actually had to resort to talking on a phone with a cord, something that went out soon after smoke signals and the Pony Express.) So the next time your fingertips get itchy, remember that simple and clean isn’t always best. GTG.

When I heard last Fall that new albums were forthcoming from both Morrissey and U2, I was thrilled.  Not only are they two of my favorite musical artists of the last 20+ years, but they have established themselves as among the most important of their time.  Naturally, I was hopeful that their new records would be good, but being a realist about the fact that the quality of a band’s or songwriter’s work tends to wane over the years, I braced myself for disappointment.  If just one of these albums was strong, I’d be satisfied. 

Well, my most optimistic hopes were realized.  Both Morrissey’s Years of Refusal and U2’s No Line on the Horizon are excellent, once again proving the staying power of these artists.  In the latter case, however, it’s a more significant achievement.  I have noticed that most bands have approximately a ten year period of inspired creativity, after which the quality of their music begins to diminish.  This seems true of all the great bands which remained together for more than a decade, e.g. The Rolling Stones, The Who, Queen, Pink Floyd, REM, etc.  It also seemed true of U2, since after their 1991 classic Achtung Baby their work has been good but not great.  However, No Line on the Horizon breaks this trend, and the ten year hex just noted, in dramatic fashion.  From the mesmerizing and addictive opening title track to the eerie closer, “Cedars of Lebanon,” Bono and his mates seem inspired.  Lyrically, Bono has yet more to say and has found new ways to say the things he’s already said.  Musically, the Irish lads have managed—even in their 30^th year as a band—to explore new territory, both in terms of chord structures and production approaches.

Meanwhile, the Moz has made his own strides on Years of Refusal, which is one of the strongest of his solo career now spanning more than two decades.  It is also one of his most energetic, as many of the songs were tracked live, and Jerry Finn’s deft production preserves an immediacy of feeling on the other tracks as well.  Morrissey’s voice is as strong and rich as ever, and his slowly revolving cast of supporting musicians serves the songs well, filling the album with memorable hooks and phrases.

So I’ve been enjoying both of these albums immensely.  But as I’ve listened, I’ve been struck by the stark contrast in worldviews.  Interestingly, both Years of Refusal and No Line on the Horizontypify the personalities and values of Morrissey and U2, respectively.  In fact, one might say that each album is a definitive statement of sorts for each artist, at least relative to their output thus far.  And I would sum up the prevailing themes as follows.  For Morrissey, it boils down to temporality, resentment, and despair, while for U2, the thematic core is eternity, grace, and hope.

Temporality vs. Eternity

Morrissey’s preoccupation with his mortality was especially keen on his previous album, Ringleader of the Tormentors, but the theme shows up on Years as well, with such lines as these: “time grips you slyly in its spell and before you know, goodbye will be farewell, and you will never see the one you love again” (“One Day Goodbye Will be Farewell”).  For the Pope of Mope, life is a bitter struggle where “Only stone and steel accept my love” (I’m Throwing My Arms Around Paris”) and “To the rescue nobody ever comes” (“When Last I Spoke to Carol”).  And the best he can do in the way of final comfort is to consider how death might end it all, and “we will be safe and sheltered in our graves” (“Momma Lay Softly on the Riverbed”).  But for U2, the expectation of afterlife is an abiding source of comfort.  In “Get On Your Boots” Bono assures us, “laughter is eternity, if joy is real.”  His joy is to “magnify” his Maker, as he sings, “I was born to be with you…  I was born to sing for you.  I give you back my voice.  From the womb, my first cry was a joyful noise” (“Magnificent”).  But perhaps nowhere is the theme of eternity more clear than in the title of the album and title track:  “No line on the horizon.”  For those who have eternal life, as is the hope of every Christian such as Bono, there is no such line because there is no end to what lies ahead for us.

Resentment vs. Grace

The Christian hope of eternal life is, of course, the result of divine grace and forgiveness, which comes to us through Christ.  Bono sings passionately about this grace, especially in “White as Snow,” the potency of which is underscored by the fact that the melody is a variation of that from the classic hymn “O Sacred Head Now Wounded”):  “Once I knew there was a love divine.  Then there came a time I thought it knew me not.  Who can forgive forgiveness where forgiveness is not?  Only the lamb as white as snow” (“White as Snow”).  In contrast to this, sadly, Morrissey’s world is one of self-loathing and resentment.  In one of his more sardonic songs on Years of Refusal, he sings, “It’s not your birthday anymore.  There’s no need to be kind to you.  And the will to see you smile and belong has now gone” (“Its Not Your Birthday Anymore”).  And his own refusal to forgive—perhaps offering the key to interpreting the album title—is plain in “Sorry Doesn’t Help”:  “Sorries pour out of you…like a QC full of fake humility. But sorry doesn’t help us, and sorry will not save us.  And sorry will not bring my teen years back to me….  Sorry won’t undo all the good gone wrong.”

Despair vs. Hope

So for the Moz, in the end there is only despair.  “There is no hope in modern life,” he tells us in “Something is Squeezing My Skull.”  And elsewhere he stoically declares “Disappointment came to me and booted me and bruised and hurt me but that’s how people grow up” (“That’s How People Grow Up”).  And in the closing track he sums up his own experience accordingly: “Could this be an arm around my waist?  Well, surely the hand contains a knife.  It’s been so all of my life.  Why change now?  It hasn’t!  Now this might surprise you, but I find I’m okay by myself” (“I’m OK By Myself”)  Or so Morrissey tries to convince us (and himself?).  These are the album’s lyrical book ends:  “I’m doing very well” and “I’m okay by myself.”  But in between its all angry despair.  Indeed, Morrissey’s world is a lonely one.  Things couldn’t be more different in U2’s world, where Bono proclaims, “I know I’m not alone” (“I’ll Go Crazy if I Don’t Go Crazy Tonight”).  There is plenty of pain and sorrow, but it is redeemed:  “This foolishness can leave a heart black and blue.  Only love can leave such a mark.  But only love can heal such a scar.  Only love unites our hearts” (“Magnificent”).  There is a profound and exhilarating sense of purpose:  “Every day I die again, and again I’m reborn.  Every day I have to find the courage to walk out into the street with arms out.  Got a love you can’t defeat, neither down nor out.  There’s nothing you have that I need.  I can breathe” (“Breathe”).  And there is that final hope:  “We’re gonna make it all the way to the light” (“I’ll go Crazy”).

Brief comments on film by Amy.
Some old, some new.  Domestic films and foreign too.

Perhaps it has been the effects of the lingering winter, but of late I fear my taste in film viewing has tended more toward entertainment rather than substance. So rather than subjecting you to the less than artistic selection of films I have recently watched, I thought it better to recommend some of the best I have seen in the past. Three genres; three films per genre. Hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

Bollywood:  Water: The story of an eight-year-old Indian widow and her struggle against the traditions that hold her captive. This is a great example of bringing injustice to light while never sacrificing the narrative to agenda. Beware, this movie will rip your heart out but in a good way.  A Peck on the Cheek: Once your heart has resumed its natural function, prepare to have it ripped out again with this movie. An Indian girl discovers she is adopted and begins the journey of finding her birth mother. Highlighting a conflict I was completely unaware of, this movie also teaches without being heavy-handed. Finally, Bride and Prejudice: Jane Austen meets the land of Gandhi. No political agenda. Just really cool dance moves, great outfits and a timeless story that translates to any culture.

Classics: The Red Shoes: I can’t remember where it was that I first heard this film recommended, but I have been anticipating watching it for quite some time. It was worth watching for the ballet scenes alone which I find transfixing in a sort of horrible way. The art of dance and ballet in particular seems a bit like self-torture, human beings willing their bodies to do things that seem to defy physics. A great tale of the struggle artists face between their personal and professional lives (For a real life example see the documentary Margot).  The Hustler: Maybe this is an obvious one or maybe its one that you have heard so much about that you feel like you have already seen it. Either way, its worth seeing again or for the first time.  Susan Slept Here: Just a sweet, little charmer worthy of a cup of hot chocolate and a snuggle on the couch. No heart ripping is involved and everything ends as it should. I just want to wrap up Debbie Reynolds and give her to someone for Christmas. 

Kid’s Programming:  Backyardigans: A good friend turned us on to this Nick Jr. show about a moose, a penguin, a hippo, a kangaroo and an unidentified creature with pink spots and antennae, and now the whole family (including Jim and I) are hooked. The plots are creative, the music unforgettable in a good way. A must for anyone with kids under the age of five who don’t want to lose brain cells watching Barney or, my personal nemesis, Clifford.  Avatar: This was our first step into more mature shows for the boys and while I was skeptical at first, this fusion of Asian stylizing and Western wit quickly became a favorite. Redwall: The only bad thing about this series is that there aren’t more of them. Medieval mouse knights fighting for the cause of good against strange, one-eyed rats—why wouldn’t you like it? I also recommend anything involving dropping a man off in extreme climates to face the elements alone a la Man vs. Wild and Survivor Man. Just prepare yourself never to look at an animal carcass the same way again.

Some members of the American Philosophical Association (APA) are circulating a petition that aims to censure orthodox Christian colleges and universities.  The authors of the petition are requesting that the APA not allow these institutions to advertise open positions in their publication Jobs for Philosophers. The crux of the issue?  The non-permissive stance of these schools regarding homosexual behavior.  You can read the petition here: http://www.petitiononline.com/cmh3866/petition.html

The implications of this petition are severe, not only for Christian colleges but for orthodox Jewish and Muslim schools as well.  The petition amounts to a frontal attack on the religious liberty of private educational institutions. In response, some Christian philosophers have drawn up a counter-petition, which you can read here:  http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/apa/.  I have already signed this petition and encourage you to consider doing so as well.

Mark Murphy of Georgetown University has drafted a very insightful response to this controversy, which you can see here:  http://www9.georgetown.edu/faculty/murphym/APAStatement-Murphy.htm. Murphy makes several illuminating observations, many regarding the history of the APA nondiscrimination provisions and other points pertaining to the faulty logic of the petition to change the APA’s advertising policy.  Here I will summarize and embellish some of Murphy’s points:

First, the accused Christian colleges do not single out homosexual activity as unacceptable.  Rather, such colleges prohibit all extramarital sexual practice, which also includes adultery, premarital sex, polygamy, pedophilic sex, and bestiality.  The expectation at these Christian colleges is that their employees and students will refrain from all sexual activity that is outside the bounds of Christian marriage.  While some homosexuals might consider the expectation to refrain from extramarital sexual activity to be a burden, it is not a special burden placed on them, since heterosexuals are also expected to refrain from extramarital sex.

Second, note that this is a behavioral prohibition which is consistent with nondiscrimination on the basis of sexual orientation (per the language of the APA nondiscrimination policy).  To be sexually oriented in a certain way, whether heterosexually or homosexually, is to be physically attracted to members of a particular gender.  But to act or not to act on these desires is a matter of choice, just as it is a matter of choice as to whether to have sex at all.  To insist that persons, whether homosexual or heterosexual, are not free to choose whether or with whom to have sex, assumes a form of hard determinism—a view which, to say the least, is highly contentious.  (See my January 26 post about this.)

Third, the moral norm of confining sex to marriage between one man and one woman is inherent to the religious commitment of these Christian colleges.  Moreover, this is the long-standing belief and practice of all major theisms—Judaism, Islam, and Christianity—and many other religions besides.  So to sanction schools for observing this ideal would be blatant religious discrimination—against, in fact, the religious beliefs of the majority people in the world.

As summer approaches, the days lengthen, the temperatures warm, and a vague dread settles into the pit of my stomach. No, it isn’t that I am against sunshine, capri pants or backyard barbeques. Summer is, in many ways, my favorite season. As a homeschooler, I look forward to the days of just being mom, of nagging my kids to hang their swimsuits to dry rather than nagging them to finish their math homework. My kids and I camp out on the beach of a Taylor Lake and bask in our laziness. But as we while away the afternoon, a dark cloud is on the horizon. The feeling of impending doom grows more pronounced as the week draws to an end. Wednesday afternoon rolls into Thursday evening and I officially panic. The weekend is looming and my husband and I are without a babysitter.

For nine months out of the year, we live in a veritable childcare paradise, as Jim’s students provide us with scores of potential babysitters. I am always amazed at not only their willingness to exchange a Friday night with friends for interminable games of Monopoly and hours of Tom and Jerry but also the cheerfulness with which they submit to their fate. I sometimes feel ashamed at the relief with which I walk through door, practically sprinting to the car only to look back at some sweet young woman who seems perfectly happy to have four kids simultaneously begging for her attention. I love my kids—I wouldn’t know how to face life without them—but let’s face it, we all have our limits. Limited amounts of patience. Limited amounts of attention. Limited amounts of tolerance for noise. But I find myself thinking, is there something wrong with me that I long to escape their presence, if just for a few hours? And why does the babysitter look so at ease? Goodness knows it’s not the money. Sometimes my kids decide to pour salt into the wound of my guilt by begging me not to leave, crying in outrage that I would dare to leave them even for one night. Fortunately, I have caught on to this manipulation. Once my daughter, Maggie, seemed on the verge of swooning from despair as Jim and I left. I had promised the kids a special video, so we drove the few blocks to the library and returned with the promised film. Not wanting to be spotted, I snuck onto the porch in order to deposit the DVD in the mailbox and make a run for it. I happened to look in the window to see Maggie in the throes of a giggle fit. So much for swooning.

Too often I think that despite my overwhelming desire to get time away with my husband, it is I who has the hard time leaving the kids with a sitter. It isn’t that I fear for their safety or well-being. Jim’s students are always highly qualified and trustworthy. We usually return to a quiet house with the only sound being the dishwasher running and soft snoring emanating from the bunk beds. What I find difficult is the idea of the kids being happy with someone else taking care of them, someone who is more fun and energetic than I am. Someone who makes crafts and let’s them have a big brownie even if they don’t finish all their green beans. I am not really jealous of the affection they have for Miss Babysitter. However, the realization that my kids love me just because I am their mom and not because I am amusing or even nice some of the time is rather humbling. I certainly want my kids to love me, but I must confess to wishing sometimes it was a little less unconditional and a little more works-based. I want to be deserving of their seemingly blind devotion.

It’s a bit like our relationship with God. He doesn’t love us because of anything we do to merit His devotion. He loves us because we are family, for better or worse. The difference, of course, is that our kids don’t choose us and have no say in the matter of who they get as parents. God as our Father, chooses us to be in relationship with Him and the work is all His. Though it should be a comfort to know that my connections with my kids and with my Heavenly Father aren’t contingent on my earning their love, it is certainly a blow to pride. I suppose this is one of those instances when it is my kids and not I leading the way. In their unconditional acceptance of me, I see a glimpse of the eternal. Settling back into my sandy lawn chair, I take a long sip of Diet Coke, relax and let the dread recede. Maybe we don’t need a babysitter tonight after all.

The Academy Awards garnered by Slumdog Millionaire last week were well-deserved, to say the least.  Amy and I went to see the film a few weeks ago, after multiple recommendations by friends.  Even going in with high expectations, the film floored us.  It had been a long time since we’d seen a film that tells a story that is true to the human condition yet also dares to hope so exultantly.  Not many works of art, films or otherwise, can get you to look evil squarely in the eye and in the end have you crying tears of joy.  Slumdog Millionaire does just this.

For those who’ve yet to be graced by the beauty of Slumdog, here’s a quick summary.  The film follows one Jamal Malik, a kid from the slums of Mumbai India, who appears on the TV show Who Wants to be a Millionaire?  Somehow Jamal has answered all of the questions correctly and is “one question away from winning twenty million rupees.”  Time runs out before he can answer the final question, thus building suspense for the next night and also allowing the Mumbai authorities to brutally interrogate him to find out how he has managed to answer all of the questions correctly to that point.  Surely a slumdog like Jamal doesn’t possess such knowledge, right?  From here the action bounces back and forth between the torturous questioning and a review of Jamal’s life, showing how the answers to each of the questions were emblazoned on his mind through traumatic childhood events—from his immersion in outhouse waste to the murder of his mother.  Each of these events, painful as they were, accrue to his advantage at this fateful hour on national television, where Jamal is poised to become wealthy beyond his dreams.

But wealth is not Jamal’s true dream.  His sights are actually set on a girl named Latika, his childhood friend and now love of his life.  She and Jamal’s brother, Salim, had been abducted by ruthless criminals who cripple orphans to use them as beggars.  The brothers escaped, but not Latika.  Jamal resolves to rescue her from her captors, and the film follows his tireless efforts to do so—a quest which culminates, of all places, on the set of Who Wants to be a Millionaire? 

Critics have frequently called Slumdog “Dickensian” for the power of its narrative eucatastrophe and Capra-esque for its irrepressible hopefulness.  But I can sum up in one word the real magic of the film which makes it so transcendently inspiring: Gospel.  That’s right.  It’s the theme of unconditional love, where a savior emerges from squalor to put his life on the line for the object of his affections.  And don’t think that the film’s creators, director Danny Boyle and screenwriter Simon Beaufoy, didn’t have this in mind.  Jamal Malik, of course, is the Christ figure, and he practically journeys through hell to rescue his darling Latika from those who enslave her.  Jamal rises to public prominence through an extraordinary display of knowledge and understanding, much as did the Nazarene, albeit through the unlikely vehicle of a TV quiz program.  And this same display leads to his arrest and trial in a kangaroo court, where his prosecutors take care to beat and humiliate him, before actually hanging him by his hands for more torture.  Jamal also has his own Judas—his brother Salim, whose actions both guarantee Jamal’s suffering and prepare the way for his heroic liberation of Latika, consummated not in a steamy sex scene but in a poignant embrace in a train station—an unmistakable image of transport to another land.  They will no doubt live together happily ever after.  And, the filmmakers ask us, how do we account for all of this?  Their answer, quoting one of Jesus’ favorite phrases: “It is written.”  Indeed.

It is appropriate that so pure a Gospel story came not from Hollywood, but out of the slums of Mumbai.  For all its pretense to the contrary, Hollywood culture knows little of the abject poverty depicted in this film, much less the possibility of mirth in the slums.  And Hollywood most certainly knows nothing of the self-sacrificial commitment of unconditional love.  Slumdog Millionaire doesn’t flinch at social chaos, cruelty, or the tragic ironies which characterize life in Mumbai.  Nor does it tell us what to feel about these things or patronize us with leftist clichés, as most Hollywood directors do these days.  No, like the great storyteller he is, Boyle simply describes, letting the narrative do its profound work, leaving us to make our own judgments.  The result is a story more full of truth, wisdom, and Gospel hope than we have seen in many years.