Romans #4
13 years ago
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Pac-Man: The Movie
“A twisted tale of four ghosts trapped in a maze while being stalked by a giant yellow monster.”
Such is the description for the best video I’ve seen on youtube.
Apparently, others agree. Pac-Man: The Movie has been receiving about 10,000 views a day. It just broke a million views.
This video has it all. It’s entertaining, funny, creative, and suspenseful. But it’s also courageous. I mean, it tells the story few of us want to hear: the story of our enemies.
The amazing thing about this movie is that it tells the story of the ghosts – and that is a story that I don’t want to hear. If there is one thing I have never questioned about the Pac-Man legend, it is the goodness of Pac-Man and the evil of the monsters.
But, after seeing this video, I have to question that assumption. Like one of the commentators on youtube wrote, “My view of pac-man has completely changed because of this video.”
So, what happens when we take the tale about the ghosts seriously? What happens when we listened to the story of our enemies? What if, when we listen to our enemies, we discovered they were just as weak, confused, and scared as these ghosts? What if we are actually like Pac-Man, irrationally believing in the justification of our violence because of misplaced belief that violence can be good? And what if, as the end of the movie suggests, we continue to use violence and we all end up dead?
Indeed, my view of the world has changed because of others who have had the courage to listen to the stories our “enemies.” What’s the solution to the violence in our world? The creators of this movie have given us a good start in finding the answer to that question. Hopefully the millions who have viewed this movie will be influenced by it to listen to the voice of their enemies.
One more question. Who is another “bad guy” or “villain” from a video game, movie, television show, or book that needs his or her story told?
Thursday, September 11, 2008
9/11 and the Power of Listening
This morning I went through, what has become, my usual routine. I woke up at 5:30 to the cry of my 4 month old son. After about a half hour of hoping it was a dream and letting my wife try to calm him, I got up, walked to the basinet, picked him up, and walked downstairs to our basement – where we keep the greatest invention young parents can buy: a magical swing that lulls babies to sleep in a matter of seconds. No kidding. For $49.99 you too can purchase this supernatural swing that oscillates in a perfect rhythmic motion. I’m convinced that no young parent should be without this device. After he was sound asleep and buckled in, I walked up to the kitchen, seized a cup of coffee, came back down, and turned on the television.
That’s what has become my morning routine – and I love it.
But, when I turned on the television, I was reminded of another morning when my routine was shattered. It was seven years ago on September 11, 2001. I was just starting my senior year at Linfield College, in McMinnville, Oregon. I was living in one of the new dorms on the new Keck Campus with three of my buddies. One of my roommates was already up, in our living room, watching the Today Show. I knew something was up, because this was not part of our morning routine. “Hey Matt,” I said. He didn’t look up; he just sat on our couch, silent, glued to the television. I took my place on the chair, and soon our two other roommates came to our living room. We sat that morning, together, in silence.
I remember that day with a clarity I rarely possess. On my way to class, I walked into our school’s small coffee house that was clearly over-populated with students, staff, and faculty. College administrators rolled a flat screen television inside so we could watch what was happening together, and, more importantly, we could mourn together. I remember very little talking in the coffee house that day.
The class I was going to was a Senior Seminar in Religious Studies. I picked that major after a personal tragedy, my mother’s death. I hoped that studying religions would provide answers to ultimate questions – specifically, the answer to suffering.
Seven years later, I’m still looking for the answers. In the face of suffering, all answers, whether religious or secular, seem trite, stale, and insipid. All except for one. It’s an answer that can’t be verbalized. It’s so much better than a verbal answer. The answer has two steps. The first step is seen in the Jewish tradition of Shiva. Shiva is a time of mourning after the death of a loved one, where people come together and sit shiva with each other. No words are needed; in fact, it’s a time when we acknowledge that words, that verbal answers, fail us. Unbeknownst to us at Linfield College, our community was practicing Shiva on that horrific September day.
At some point, Shiva ends, but the questions about suffering remain, and we grasp for part two of the answer. The wrong step here is unfortunately the easy step to make: Violence. The belief that violence can redeem the world is a myth that must die. The myth of redemptive violence is the wrong answer because it confuses justice with revenge in an effort to justify wars that only add to the misery of our world.
The right answer to the second part is summed up in a short book called, Where was God on September 11? Like the practice of Shiva, it requires participation. Reflecting on 9/11, Frank Geer suggests we live the answer to suffering by being, “a compassionate listener. Listen to somebody when they want to tell their story about where they were, what they felt, who they were with on September 11. Listen in a way that indicates compassion and understanding. The great thing about doing that is that if I do that to you, you’re probably going to do that to me.”
Geer proposes that compassionate listening has a contagious power that spreads compassion. Unfortunately many don’t want to believe in its power. Many think compassion is a sign of weakness, but, in fact, compassionate listening should be the starting point in confronting terrorism. Many think it’s foolish to listen to the cry of our “enemies,” and we follow our old routines of dropping smart bombs in an illogical effort to end terrorism, all while children cry out as their parents are ripped from their lives. We need to break from our routines of dropping “smart bombs,” and become “foolishly compassionate listeners.”
And we continue to ask, “Where is God?” Maybe God is asking, “Where are you?”
That’s what has become my morning routine – and I love it.
But, when I turned on the television, I was reminded of another morning when my routine was shattered. It was seven years ago on September 11, 2001. I was just starting my senior year at Linfield College, in McMinnville, Oregon. I was living in one of the new dorms on the new Keck Campus with three of my buddies. One of my roommates was already up, in our living room, watching the Today Show. I knew something was up, because this was not part of our morning routine. “Hey Matt,” I said. He didn’t look up; he just sat on our couch, silent, glued to the television. I took my place on the chair, and soon our two other roommates came to our living room. We sat that morning, together, in silence.
I remember that day with a clarity I rarely possess. On my way to class, I walked into our school’s small coffee house that was clearly over-populated with students, staff, and faculty. College administrators rolled a flat screen television inside so we could watch what was happening together, and, more importantly, we could mourn together. I remember very little talking in the coffee house that day.
The class I was going to was a Senior Seminar in Religious Studies. I picked that major after a personal tragedy, my mother’s death. I hoped that studying religions would provide answers to ultimate questions – specifically, the answer to suffering.
Seven years later, I’m still looking for the answers. In the face of suffering, all answers, whether religious or secular, seem trite, stale, and insipid. All except for one. It’s an answer that can’t be verbalized. It’s so much better than a verbal answer. The answer has two steps. The first step is seen in the Jewish tradition of Shiva. Shiva is a time of mourning after the death of a loved one, where people come together and sit shiva with each other. No words are needed; in fact, it’s a time when we acknowledge that words, that verbal answers, fail us. Unbeknownst to us at Linfield College, our community was practicing Shiva on that horrific September day.
At some point, Shiva ends, but the questions about suffering remain, and we grasp for part two of the answer. The wrong step here is unfortunately the easy step to make: Violence. The belief that violence can redeem the world is a myth that must die. The myth of redemptive violence is the wrong answer because it confuses justice with revenge in an effort to justify wars that only add to the misery of our world.
The right answer to the second part is summed up in a short book called, Where was God on September 11? Like the practice of Shiva, it requires participation. Reflecting on 9/11, Frank Geer suggests we live the answer to suffering by being, “a compassionate listener. Listen to somebody when they want to tell their story about where they were, what they felt, who they were with on September 11. Listen in a way that indicates compassion and understanding. The great thing about doing that is that if I do that to you, you’re probably going to do that to me.”
Geer proposes that compassionate listening has a contagious power that spreads compassion. Unfortunately many don’t want to believe in its power. Many think compassion is a sign of weakness, but, in fact, compassionate listening should be the starting point in confronting terrorism. Many think it’s foolish to listen to the cry of our “enemies,” and we follow our old routines of dropping smart bombs in an illogical effort to end terrorism, all while children cry out as their parents are ripped from their lives. We need to break from our routines of dropping “smart bombs,” and become “foolishly compassionate listeners.”
And we continue to ask, “Where is God?” Maybe God is asking, “Where are you?”
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