In some ways, Wieseltier's arguments are self-refuting. He notes that the Gospels “have been interpreted in many different ways,” but in the very next paragraph implies that a literalist reading is illegitimate. Why? No reason, except that such interpretation is “childish,” “pre-theological,” “credulous,” and so on.
Now, I have my own problems with certain kinds of biblical interpretation; in my dissertation work I take positions that some traditionalists will find very disagreeable. But the events surrounding the death and resurrection of Christ are the heart of Christianity: as St. Paul said, if there is no resurrection, then we are fools, and among men the most to be pitied. I am not claiming that the Gospel accounts are literal in every detail—there are, after all, a number of minor discrepancies in the corresponding passages—but Wieseltier's attack on Gibson's mode of interpretation is nothing more than a rhetorical cheap shot.
Even so, an understandable one: Wieseltier is Jewish, and doesn't accept the notion of the Christian Savior as Hebrew Messiah. Fair enough. What is not acceptable is his contention that Gibson's dramatization of the text as written is somehow beyond the bounds of propriety.
There is a word to describe Wieseltier's claim, and one with which he should be well acquainted:
Almost all of the accusations of anti-Semitism directed against The Passion are arising from the cultural Left; and despite Wieseltier's claim that the depiction of Jews is “invented,” there seems little in the film's characterizations that cannot be found either in the Gospels, or reasonably extrapolated therefrom. Gibson's crime appears to be that his vision is insufficiently, well, nuanced.
That, and the fact that he's gotten all those red-state troglodytes in an uproar.
Gibson's adversaries ought to be chagrined: after a full year warning of anti-Semitism resurgent, they have exactly one village idiot to show for their efforts, and the only suspense remaining is whether the film's domestic box office will break $400 million. But being on the Left means never having to say you're sorry. The tactics employed in this case are not new, and indeed are typical of the Left's first—and often only—form of attack. Got a problem with opponents of your pet hate crimes legislation? Speak truth to power: they are so obviously racist. Or what of those atavistic theocons® standing against a bold mayor's advance of civil rights? Clearly homophobes—not just benighted breeders, but objectively disordered!
Etc.
Fear and loathing from the Left aside, however, there is something else interesting about the response to The Passion. Why have evangelicals and other Christian conservatives been so enthusiastic about the project? The other recent Jesus biopic—last fall's The Gospel of John—grossed only about $4 million, in spite of being a word-for-word adaptation of the Fourth Gospel and being generally lauded for the quality of its production. Why the difference?
Not a trick question, really: The Passion of the Christ has Mel Gibson; The Gospel of John has, well, Christopher Plummer. The former is, or until this latest film was, Hollywood royalty; the latter is just old (though among other things he did make an interesting Klingon once upon a time).
So one of the entertainment industry's elite—part of a business not known for its sympathy towards religious conservatives—declares not only that he's one of you, but is going to produce a film consistent with Christian tradition. It's rather like being in junior high and discovering that one of the cool kids actually likes you.
Not that's there's anything wrong with that: we all enjoy the sense of validation that comes from having things in common with a celebrity. I was, for instance, going to blog this story about how Johnny Ramone is a certified Republican, who even praised President Bush at his band's induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. (Ace unsurprisingly got there first.)
But such fascination can go too far. The site for The Passion of the Christ officially licensed merchandise certainly toes the line. Then there's this:
After decades of self-interested televangelists, it is no wonder that emerging generations yawn in the face of historic practices of faith and the authority of the church. That is, until The Matrix. Neo is a savior worth considering, and his recontextualization of the gospel as a story of freeing the captives has won many new believers.
Uh-huh. Recontextualize this, morons: In 1999 the brothers Wachowski released a film that coupled groundbreaking visual effects with a funky twist on the “brains in a vat” scenario pondered by pseudointellectual sophomores of all ages. In high postmodernist style, the Wachowskis mixed influences ranging from Derrida to Schopenhauer, from Buddhism to Gnosticism, in with enough Christian symbolism to bait the gullible into believing that some deeper message lurked within. Cleverly, however, the creators refused to explain what meanings they intended in their project, a ploy which was nonetheless unsuccessful in hiding the fact that their ruminations on fate and free will are a complete hash.
In addition, they made two sequels which really sucked.
The cultural opponents of Christianity would like nothing more than to defang the message of the Church, to coerce its more recalcitrant factions into accepting the gospel of “tolerance.” Within the wider culture, this goal has been largely achieved: were you to ask people on the street to summarize Jesus' message, a depressingly high percentage would respond “Do not judge”—a bastardized version of what He really said.
But within the Church itself there are those—the authors of The Gospel Reloaded presumably among them—who see cultural relevance as the highest of virtues, even if that value demands hollowing out their faith until all that remains are a few shiny trappings. A friend told me once that among his fellow seminarians were a few who wore their appreciation of Kevin Smith's odious Dogma as something like a badge of honor. Such hipper-than-thou arrogance makes a mockery of the eternal truths entrusted to the Church, such as the tenet that Christ died because of something called sin.
I don't want to read anything else, hear anything else or feel anything else about “The Passion of the Christ.” There are just so many things not to like. First there is the violence. The relentless phlomp! pholomp! of bullets bashing bodies in “The Matrix” or on prime-time “Alias” is so much more appealing than watching a bleeding, brutalized man for almost two hours.
Mel Gibson's is violence you actually have to confront and feel as opposed to the hither-thither of rapid-edit, thrill-sized THX digital with CGI enhancements. I hate that. It is so much more appealing when scores of nameless, soulless, faceless forms are being splattered everywhere. That makes the violence so much less personal and more entertaining. Slaughter, after all, should be lighthearted.
The biggest problem I have with “The Passion,” however, isn't the violence. It is with the protagonist. The guy on the screen is nothing like that insipid, tunic-wearing, lamb-carrying, two-dimensional, felt-faced Jesus from Sunday school. That Jesus was easy. He could be molded and crafted like Play-Doh into anything I — or anyone else — wanted from him. That Jesus, for instance, would certainly support faith-based charities partnering with the government. He would happily support a balanced budget amendment, increased defense spending and welfare reform. He would definitely be against gay marriage because heterosexual marriage was his top priority — it says so right there … in, well, somewhere. It has been easy for a lot of us to make our own personalized Jesus because he — the Play-Doh one — had no soul and certainly posed no threat. […]
And this isn't just a conservative thing. Jesus is as pliable to the left as he is to the right. He's the moldable Jesus. Friends have told me he would be against any war — Vietnam, Iraq I, Iraq II — but definitely for the “war on poverty” even if it hurt some of the people it was supposed to help. He would definitely, I've heard it said, be against President Bush because he's too conservative on fiscal matters, pro tax cuts and anti gun registration at gun shows. Jesus was evidently passionate about those matters too — one part Cesar Chavez, one part Gandhi. Convenient.
“The Passion's” Jesus, however, isn't convenient. In fact, he makes me very, very uncomfortable. That Jesus isn't moldable, pliable, malleable — not even huggable. He's determined. He knows who he is and why he's doing what he's doing. He rebukes Peter, silently mocks Pilate, defies his captors and never whimpers. Forget William Wallace; this guy is tough. Maybe, just maybe, Jesus the movie is closer to Jesus the book. Maybe he doesn't give a flip about balanced budgets, trade imbalances and interest rates. Maybe he took the lashes of hell for a reason that wasn't material in any way. Maybe he meant what he said about caring for the poor — that loving him requires it. Or about wealth — that it is really, really, really hard for the rich to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Or about profiteering in his Father's house — that it is a remarkably bad idea with suboptimal long-term outcomes. Or even about himself — that he is “the way, the truth and the life.”
One of the wonders of Christianity is how it works in every culture, how—wherever there is a church—the people have learned of fellowship with Christ, regardless of their circumstances or experience. Yet among the three great branches of Christendom—Catholic, Orthodox and Protestant—there is at root a remarkable consonance of doctrine. At the heart of the faith is a Man. Through His sufferings He does indeed relate to each of us, and has compassion on our sufferings. But He is not infinitely pliable.
And in the end He will not be mocked.
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