After what has been a very hectic past few weeks and indeed months, I have managed to find my way back to the blogosphere. Since I’ve been back stateside from my studies at St Andrews, my time has been consumed with unpacking, preparing for my upcoming spring semester at Vanderbilt, and otherwise settling matters that have arise in my absence. Though my writing has as of late been sparse, I have certainly had my share of visits to the movie theatre within the past week (two visits, to be exact, which for me, is quite a lot considering that I view maybe six movies in the theatre per year). Last night I saw Invictus. Other than being an all-around well-made film (directed by Clint Eastwood and starred by Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon), it was powerful, inspiring, and otherwise thoroughly thought-provoking.
As a brief synopsis, Invictus is centred in the struggles of a South Africa in the early 1990’s that is fighting to overcome the destructive division of apartheid. The recently elected president, Nelson Mandela, inherits the unenviable role of leading a nation that is struggling to find hope and direction in a post-apartheid world. Mandela must lead a country that is torn by mistrust and hatred—not the least of which is directed towards Mandela himself, the first black president of a nation where power and privilege had previously been in the hands of whites. Essentially, it is a struggle that goes to the core of the human heart—a struggle that embodies issues of identity, difference, and common humanity. And in order to address the task of unifying a nation, Mandela goes to what lies at the heart of the nation—rugby. For South African blacks under apartheid, the South African national rugby team, the Springboks, had been the symbol of white oppression. The Springboks were comprised predominantly of white players, with only one black player; furthermore, rugby itself was predominantly a white person’s sport while black South Africans played soccer instead. Thus given its symbolic significance, whenever the Springboks played any nation, white South Africans always pulled for South Africa and black South Africans pulled for whoever the Springboks were playing against. When Mandela was elected as president, black South Africans were eager that the Springboks—this symbol of white oppression—be disbanded. However, rather than take what would be the easy way out, the way of the wronged acting in revenge, Mandela chose to maintain the Springboks—including their team symbol, colors, and players—as the national rugby team of South Africa; to have done otherwise would have been to take away what white South Africans loved and thus to have further isolated blacks and whites. As time progresses and as South Africa comes into the running for the World Cup, blacks and whites become united under this one goal of victory, of a victory that would symbolize a new South Africa, a nation that is one.
The Enacted Gospel
As I watched and later reflected upon this powerful film, two thoughts kept coming to my mind. First, I was struck by the starkly real, if verbally elusive, expression of the gospel embodied in this entire story. Here in this story is the gospel enacted; perhaps one could even refer to this as theology expressed in non-theological terms, and it is all the more powerful because of it. This movie would not typically be called a “Christian film”—there were no references to Jesus, no mention of the Scriptures, and indeed there was a repeated reference to “the gods, wherever they may be.” Yet this story is so exceedingly full of Christ! It embodies that which Christ came to give and to show—the forgiveness and love that lead to new life. Prior to assuming office, Mandela had been locked in a tiny prison cell for nearly 30 years; his crime? Largely, being black! And what does he do when he is released and assumes a position of power? He could have easily used his power to get revenge upon the whites who hated him and who had stolen so many precious years from his life. But he does not do this; he chooses the path of reconciliation, the path that only comes by forgiveness and loving the other.
Furthermore, the division of blacks and whites in apartheid South Africa carries with it the undertones of and hence hearkens us back to a different division that the Apostle Paul confronted in his own day—the division of Jews and Gentiles. Just as this latter division was overcome by the Gospel of King Jesus through whom all find a place in God’s one covenant family, so too the division of blacks and whites was overcome by the Gospel of the crucified Jesus crowned King on the cross. This is the Gospel of forgiveness, the Gospel that defies every natural human inclination that screams for revenge, the Gospel that is the anti-sacrifice—the sacrifice to end all sacrifices, the Gospel that ends the vicious cycle of violence and opens up for a us a new way of existence. This is the Way of the Kingdom, the way of peace that comes through a love that does not hate the other but rather a love the fully identifies with the other and thus a love that knows no enemies. This is the most powerful love, the love that overcomes hatred by overabundance of love. This is the love that is nature of our God and hence is the nature of Reality itself.
A Non-theological Theology
But what does all of this mean? I actually don’t think a “Christian” movie could deliver a message as powerfully as did this movie. I’m not trying to knock Christian movies here—I’m sure that there are some well-made Christian movies out there that embody a powerful message; however, all too often “Christian” movies end up being cheesy. Besides, the only people that would go to see such movies would be Christians, and at this point, the universal message of the gospel’s new life becomes enclosed upon itself. And what is true for Christian movies is surely also true for Christian theology. It seems to me that one of Christian theology’s greatest challenges today is being able to communicate the Gospel in what is largely a secular and post-Christian culture. This likely requires a new way of speaking—nearly the speaking of theological truths in non-theological language. (A good example of this in theological writings that I have found can be encountered in the writings of Thomas Merton). Such a way of speaking is beyond relevant; it is the truth that we recognize every day though usually don’t state in explicitly theological language. In this way of speaking, one might be able to say that everything is secular, but it would actually be the case to say that everything is now sacred. This is actually not really a “new” way of speaking as much as it is the recognition of the way in which the message itself was borne. The liberation enacted by Jesus and proclaimed by Paul and the other apostles was not a set of systematic theological doctrines; rather, it was a contextually and hence historically, grounded expression of a new way of being that turned reality as it was known at that time upon its head.
Sometimes people want to draw a distinction between the “Jesus of History” and the “Christ of Faith,” arguing that the former was a great moral teacher while the latter was the crucified and resurrected Christ. In fact, it seems that we need not draw such a sharp distinction. The gospel writers present Jesus’ life and ministry as continuous with the events of the cross; in fact, it would make sense to see Jesus’ crucifixion as the embodiment of his own teachings on loving the other, turning the cheek, praying for the enemy, and forgiving those who curse us. If it’s true that great leaders lead by example (as Mandela states), then Jesus was a great leader indeed, embodying his own moral teaching completely—to the point of a bloody death and even in the midst of this uttering those words, “Father forgive them, for they known not what they do.”
An Offensive Absurdity
If we are honest, the morality enacted by Jesus is absolutely absurd. It defies any and every natural human inclination that we have—inclinations that say we must have revenge and punishment for wrongs. But what we don’t realize is that this revenge upon the other actually destroys ourselves—this is the truth that God had to come show us, enacted in his own flesh. Indeed, the fully enacted morality of Jesus even defies our concepts of justice; humans naturally think that the justice of Divinity is punishment, because this is how our sense of human justice works. But here is the case where we must let our human terms be defined by the divine; when we look to the cross for the justice of God, we do not find an angry God who is bent on punishing; rather, we come face to face with the crucified God who is nothing but pure love. An absurdity. An offensive absurdity. But therein lies its power.
It is true that many people find this kind of morality offensive—a justice that essentially consists of forgiveness, mercy, and love? The black South Africans were repeatedly offended by Mandela’s forgiveness of those whom had been his white oppressors and by his refusal to mete out revenge when it seemed duly legitimate; the white South Africans were stunned and didn’t know how to respond to Mandela’s gestures of forgiveness. In the end, only such absurdity could lead to reconciliation. This leads me to the second thought that stemmed from a viewing and reflection upon this film: the implications that this way of living the gospel, the way of forgiveness as enacted by Jesus and followed by Mandela, would have for many other situations in our lives and world today.
Can any of us imagine being locked without legitimate reason in prison for nearly 30 years and then, upon our release, being able to forgive those who had oppressed us? I, for one, don’t think I could. To be able to act in such a way requires a transformation of our being into the likeness of the God who is for others. It also requires a deep-seated trust that the truth of Reality is the truth of the cross and resurrection—that the way of death actually does lead to life, that love actually can overcome hate. Without trusting this, we never can have the basis to radically forgive with our complete being, which requires a radical giving of our full being to others. But herein lies freedom and reconciliation.
Many people no doubt respond to this way of forgiveness by asserting that it is naïve and impractical. Sometimes, they say, we must punish others by seeking revenge. This is depicted clearly in a song by Darryl Worley entitled “Have You Forgotten?” written about the terrorist events of 9/11 in the USA. The entire song is about us as Americans never forgetting the attack upon our country, with the lyrics at one point stating, “Some say this country’s just out looking for a fight; after 9/11, man, I’d have to say that’s right.” It is true that the terrorist actions were atrocious and many innocent lives were lost. In light of this, such an attitude of revenge is easy to understand. But is this vengeful attitude ever going to stop anything—is it not only going to perpetuate the hatred and violence? What is certain is that the attitude expressed in Worley’s song is not the way lived out by Jesus; in fact, it’s the opposite.
Again, in response to critics, this is emphatically not about being a doormat for others to walk upon. Every situation is different. The contemporary situation of anti-Western terrorism is specifically different from Mandela’s situation among blacks and whites in South Africa, and both are different from the situation in which, according to the Christian claim, God was crucified by humans, the Author killed by the characters in the drama. Yet, for all of their differences, there is a continuity that finds its source in the latter. It seems that it would be possible to look to the latter as the controlling narrative that while itself contextually embedded, also finds various expressions in other contexts. However, this requires three things: creativity and faith. We must be creative to think of ways in which the narrative of the crucified God-for-others can be applied in our concrete situations. Yet to do this first requires something more fundamental and difficult: faith. Before we can act upon the absurdity that is forgiveness, we must first be convinced that love does conquer hate and that life does conquer death. Without this, we have no foundation upon which to act—we have no strength to forgive.
In addition to the need of a contextualized language and theology, I wonder that what Christianity needs most today is a robust faith in a true narrative. By this, I don’t mean a faith that, as has been the task of much modern evangelical theology, makes it the sole focus to argue for the historicity of the resurrection of Jesus. I’m not sure what such “historicity of the resurrection” actually would even refer to, and at any rate, a mere historicism is not desirable, as it tends to choke out the meaning of the events in question. On the other hand, I do think that the question of whether the resurrection actually happened is important, but I’m not sure that we are asking the question in the right way. However, the point remains that we need to be convinced of the truth of the narrative into which we live. I am convinced that the critiques of naivety and impracticality mentioned above against the enacted morality of forgiveness and love of Jesus (and Mandela) come from a basis that does not believe that love actually triumphs hate, that life actually triumphs death—in short, an inability to embrace this way of life stems from an inability to trust in the hope of the resurrection.
Embracing the hope of the resurrection is a very difficult thing—personally and intellectually. But rather than denying this, perhaps we should face the task directly where it stands and look for ourselves whether this hope is actually our own. I think we owe it to ourselves, to our world, and to future generations to take the risk and explore, to see if we can embrace the hope of the resurrection, indeed if there is a hope there to be embraced at all and what it means to embrace such hope. As Mandela showed us, the absurdity of forgiveness will change everything.
So, go watch Invictus and be inspired.
Explore the truth for yourself.
Take the risk.
Everything depends upon it.

silent on the blog for the past several weeks. This has been due to a number of factors. It’s true that I have been quite busy in trying to get settled in and adjusted to a totally new rhythm of life but mostly, I find myself without anything worthwhile to say. So often I look at what I have written on this blog and am quite disgusted– the words always fall far short of the ideas that I want to convey, and the ideas themselves that I want to convey are only ever present in my mind as passing fragments, pieces of which I can sometimes catch here or there. That said, I might be quite silent in the weeks to come. I mostly want to just take part in the experience of being in this beautiful place called St Andrews. Something about being here, so close to the sparkling blue sea and the fresh air, amidst the cobbled medieval town, within an environment of learning and searching, something about all of this is healing and rejuvenating. Perhaps it is better for now to just ‘be’ and be shaped rather than to ‘do’ and try to shape. But we shall see.
the larger scheme of things. Part of this comes from the overusage of the word ’sin’. As it is with other words (I think of ‘God,’ ‘Salvation,’ ‘Christian’) so too has ’sin’ come to mean so many different things that it is now meaningless when it falls upon the ears of many people. They don’t know what in the world you are talking about when you speak of ’sin’. I’m not going to spell out this complicated issue of defining ’sin’ here. Suffice it to say that as humans, we all have an intuitive feeling of separation– from our own selves, from others, and from the Ultimate Reality of existence, which I will here call God. At core, sin is a state of separation, even a condition of separation into which we are born. But it is much more than this. This state of separation is oftentimes the root of actions that can also be classified as ’sin’– taking advantage of others, hurting and even killing others, drowning in self consuming desires– because these acts perpetuate and even worsen the separation that already exists on all three fronts of self, others, and God.
with chasing after beautiful moments that are etched so clearly in my mind. We all know these moments, these times when we are fully alive, when life is real and so worth living. For me, these moments become embodied in physical places, with but a scent, a scene, a sound, or a taste being all it takes to open up the fresh wounds. What then follows is the overwhelming longing and panging desire for that joy and that life embodied in these past moments to return again. But it is not to be found– all that’s left in its trace is a hopeless despair and an empty loneliness. As Lewis points out in his fantastic book Surprised by Joy, certainly this is expected to be the case. Joy– that unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any satisfaction– is only joy insofar as it is focused upon its object. As soon as the eyes are diverted from that intended goal– the object of joy– and are focused instead upon the feeling of joy itself, joy fades and turns into a burning disappointment that leaves us empty and longing for more. But instead of directing this longing in the direction of the beautiful, mysterious object that brought the joy in the first place, we usually direct it towards the feeling of joy itself. Thus we look for that beautiful sun-kissed field, those cottages that were settling down for the evening as the last of daylight faded, the breeze that wispered so peacefully, the worn pages of the musty book that shared with us the secret which opened our hearts, that old beautiful parish so full of mystery and presence that it quickened and stifled our breath– we look for these things and try to recreate these moments, hoping that we can find the joy and be reawakened to life again, but to no avail. This is because as C.S. Lewis explains,
