Movies may have been my first love, but as I emerged from Martin Scorsese’s Raging Bull, I was catapulted toward a different kind of obsession.
Robert DeNiro’s haunting portrait of boxing champ Jake LaMotta left me beaten and bruised. I watched as Jake destroyed his relationships with his brother, his wife and his fans. Jake ends up alone, in jail, literally banging his head against the wall, crying, “Why? Why? Why?”
As the film ended, Scorsese offered a curious counterpoint. The credits read, “All I know is this, once I was blind, but now I can see.” I recognized the blindness in Jake and me, but I wondered, “What did it mean to see?” A violent, profane R-rated movie had sparked a spiritual search. Film forged theology.
Only years later, as a student at Fuller Theological Seminary, did I hear a theological term that approximated my experience of cinema and salvation—“general revelation.” Something was revealed to me through Raging Bull—a sense of longing, need and desperation. Paul Schrader wrote the screenplay, Martin Scorsese directed the movie and Robert DeNiro gave the performance, but the Holy Spirit convicted me of sin.
From the beginning, since the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters, God has offered revelations. God spoke and there was light (
Churches may condemn movies for serving as a substitute religion or idol worship. Academic film scholars may dismiss movies as products of capitalist ideology, reinforcing cultural hegemony. I resolved to walk down the middle aisle, where most of us wander in the dark.
Revelation 101: Special and General
The same God who spoke through dreams and visions in the Bible still is communicating through our celluloid dreams—the movies. As the Spirit of God raised up unexpected sources of wisdom during biblical times, so the same creative Spirit is inspiring actors, screenwriters and directors today. God not only is speaking through faith-fueled projects like The Passion of the Christ or The Chronicles of Narnia. The most important spiritual truths often are embedded within profane settings (cf.
The theological term to describe this phenomenon is general revelation, which suggests God can speak through anyone or anything at any time. Serious, thoughtful Christians have found themselves transformed by potent, R-rated films like Magnolia, Fight Club and American History X. The fervent discussions swirling around Memento, Eternal Sunshine and Million Dollar Baby suggest people with and without faith commitments find crises of faith to be occasions of searing insight, surprising comfort and unexpected grace.
The word “revelation” has echoes in the Greek word for “apocalypse,” which means, “to uncover, reveal, disclose or make known.” Christian scholars reserve the word “particular” or “special” for the revelation of God in Scripture. Study of general revelation highlights the hints and whispers of God available to us all. Because sunsets and stars are available to all people, they are considered general sources of revelation. General revelation also has been linked to human reason, the nudge of our conscience.
My personal experience of general revelation (within the movies) sparked my search for propositional truth to explain it. To me, films are not useful merely for appreciating overlooked biblical texts or comparing interpretive processes. The best movies are revelatory in nature, not just when exploring themes pertaining to God and ultimate questions, but also provide occasions for the hidden God to communicate through the big screen. Cinema is a locus theologicus, a place for divine revelation.
Some Reformed Protestant traditions have labeled the phenomenon of general revelation “common grace.” Common grace creates theological problems for those of us who wish to have a corner on God’s favor. How could a horror writer like Stephen King pen The Shawshank Redemption? How can we explain the profoundly Christian truths emerging from the collaborative efforts of Tim Robbins, Susan Sarandon and Sean Penn in Dead Man Walking? Common grace reminds us the gifts of God and the ways of the Spirit are mysterious, beyond our understanding.
Faith and Fantasy
From The Chronicles of Narnia to the Harry Potter movies, fantasy and magic have captivated audiences and succeeded at the box office. While computers and technology animated these movies, they also have re-enchanted our world, reintroducing us to the wonders of nature. Why were fantasy films so often dismissed as kids’ stuff? Perhaps we need to recover the childlike sense of wonder Jesus celebrated. The proliferation of fantasy films reflects the rise of general revelation and a growing hunger for shaping stories among kids of all ages.
For fairytales to work, evil must be taken seriously. Fantasy must mirror our world’s ambiguity, mystery and danger. There are poison apples, berries and mushrooms in the forest. The Wicked Witch of the West fuels children’s nightmares because kidnapping remains a legitimate fear. A wise person doesn’t fall for the queen’s fair appearance. Children must learn to see through nature, to discover the genuine dangers hiding beneath facades.
In Pan’s Labyrinth, 11-year-old Ofelia confronts monsters in two realms. When her mother remarries a captain in Fascist Spain, Ofelia is transported to a world of violence, torture and abuse. She escapes to a fantasy world of fairies and fauns that appear equally menacing. While her brutal stepfather Vidal focuses solely upon the baby boy residing in her ailing mother’s womb, Ofelia explores the labyrinth in the dark woods nearby. She sneaks into the frightening chambers of the Pale Man, a devourer of children. Yet, her stepfather proves to be equally monstrous. Pan’s Labyrinth becomes a bloody nightmare of a fairytale, collapsing the distance between the Spanish Civil War and Ofelia’s imagination.
Del Toro ends Pan’s Labyrinth with remarkably Christian imagery and choices. The faun proves to be a trustworthy companion, drawing Ofelia (and her baby brother) into the labyrinth with Vidal in hot pursuit. During her final test, Ofelia chooses to sacrifice her own life rather than her baby brother’s.
Director Guillermo Del Toro affirms her brave decision when he says, “Ofelia dies at peace with what she did. She’s the only character in the film who decides not to enact any violence. [She is] the only one who chooses, ‘I will not take any life because I own only mine,’ that’s the character who survives, spiritually. The fascist dies the loneliest death you could ever experience.” Del Toro also recalls Kierkegaard’s quote, “The tyrant’s rule ends with his death. The martyr’s rule begins with it.”
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Enduring fantasy films not only present legitimate dangers. They also imagine a far-away place where we all long to live. It is not created God’s way, ex-nihilo (out of nothing), but reflects things we recognize from this world. They give us ancient and magical worlds as we’ve imagined them.
Visionary director Tim Burton loves to create fantasy worlds. Big Fish confronts the skeptic side in all of us. Burton clearly relished the opportunity to construct a magical version of the South, complete with witches and an enchanted forest. Yet, the film plays such mythology straight. In Burton’s fanciful film, Will Bloom returns home to visit his dying father, Ed. He wants the real story of his dad’s life and love, but Will’s efforts are frustrated by Ed’s adherence to “fish stories.” The film takes Ed’s side in the debate. Far-fetched accounts of gentle giants and werewolves as circus ringmasters are held up as true. We root against the rationalist and cheer for the absurdist storyteller. Big Fish assaults our cynicism. It challenges those who would drain the world of magic and mythology to reconsider.
Big Fish also is meant to console. As Will faces the end of his father’s life, he (and we) must consider what matters. Is life only what can be seen or measured? Can love truly transcend our limitations? Can our modest life story connect to a larger story or tradition? Tim Burton stops short of making any grand, overarching claims. In the end, Big Fish affirms the power of storytelling to animate our lives. It celebrates the importance of a dying art. We need fantasy to narrate and navigate our world, to face death with dignity.
From the Profane to the Profound
My search for God began through the profane, unlikely means of Martin Scorsese’s Raging Bull. Thousands of cinephiles speak in rapturous terms about dark, twisted movies as miraculous, enlightening and inspiring. So can’t we reconcile the general revelation of God experienced via movies with the special revelation of Christ revealed in Scripture? Doesn’t the same Spirit animate both theological categories?
Comparatively hidden verses unearthed by theologian Jurgen Moltmann energize me. His natural theology begins in the Old Testament with the Spirit of Creation. The Spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters in
Creative people longing for inspiration are inherently (but perhaps unknowingly) on a search for God. Inspiration is the wind of God which entrances, enthralls and enraptures us. When we get “in the artistic groove” we rarely want to leave because the presence of God (whether acknowledged or not) is such a lifegiving, life-sustaining creative force. We can’t manufacture it. We can’t manipulate it. God’s wind blows mysteriously, but once we’ve experienced it, we desperately want more.
Openness to God and the movement of the Spirit may threaten those who like their theology delivered in a predictable manner to a pew on a Sunday morning. Yet, Christ will accomplish His purposes with or without us. If God wants to use Martin Scorsese and Raging Bull to touch a moviegoer in Charlotte, N.C., then who am I to argue? The ways of God always have been mysterious, outside the box, progressive in their revelation. Try as we might to grasp the Spirit, He always seems to slip through our fingers. I am comfortable playing catch-up, looking to the stars and the movies for signs of life.
