A Woman who communicated

        Arrival is about so much more than aliens coming to earth and a linguistics professor and a physicist working with their teams to try to communicate. It is pretty amazing.

So, Emily was probably going to pick this movie that none of us had watched and I blanked out on that bit of info and watched it on my own before we watched it together. It is a movie well worth a re-watch. In a way, it is like watching 6th Sense over again, I saw things from a different perspective having seen the ending, and consequently, I saw a lot more of what was going on. For that reason, I am not going to tell many details, I will however say that this shows an amazing development in the main lady, from desolate to really consciously living. She becomes captivating.

It is a quiet sort of movie; I recall very little vulgar or offensive language; the violence is second hand; and there is no excessive sensuality at all. What humor is present is quiet. The colors are quiet, often blue-toned, lending to a sort of melancholy feel. There were a few moments when the music seemed a bit heavy handed, but I can kind of understand why they would play those sounds when they did—thematically. It still drove me out of the scene a little. Speaking of scene, the filmography was beautiful. I loved the use of clouds and wind on the one hand and TV and intercom screens on the other.

On the writing, I loved how minor characters still felt like living people; they made good use of background and side interactions. One character speaks pretty dismissively of a lot of the people at the camp that is set up near the alien shell in Montana. It seems as though maybe the writer was not quite so dismissive. Rather in contrast to that is the attitude of the colonel who fetches the civilians who are helping out. He tells Ian, the physicist, and Louise, the linguist, after they started sparring a little over the importance of math versus language, that “That is why you're both here. And I'll get your coffee.” He seemed like he would be one of those heroes that nobody knows about; he just goes and does his best to do whatever job he has with the least amount of fuss and fewest casualties possible.

For Louise's part, she is pretty intense as she gets into this figuring out the aliens thing keeping in mind the end goal. It was interesting to watch that, especially as a teacher interested in languages. One of her first, though not the first, break-through moments with the aliens comes when she removes some of her protective gear and identifies herself with her name instead of just the generic “human” identifier. That really made the guys backing them up nervous-- “Do we abort?” While most were concerned about security, potential dangers, the aliens as potential threat, Louise saw them as beings with which to communicate, potential teachers, even. She personalized the communication, and that is what started the breakthrough to be able to understand the aliens.

Like I said, I do not want to give away to much about the plot, so I will leave you with those tid-bits and one more: the aliens are named Abbot and Costello.

Cowards and Courage, a few little thoughts

Cowards no entran en la reina de Dios (It says so in Revelations 21, for example)

How can I live for God if fears control me? So I need then, to live inspired by the love of God. There is no room for hypocrisy, no room for timidity.
 “Seek first the kingdom of God.” Our heavenly Father knows that we need food and clothing, but calls us to seek first the kingdom. Not even a sparrow can fall to the ground without him knowing it. How much more aware is he of our needs, concerns, desires? But, seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you.
God never promised luxury or ease, but he does promise to be with us, “even to the end of the age.” He bids us take up our cross and follow him. He promises, in essence, struggle and affliction, but he also tells us that his yoke is easy and his burden light. How can this be? Because as we rely on his grace, he is the one holding us up. Love makes even the greatest burdens light.
Love inspires us to surmount the insurmountable, to face down the dragons, to scale cliffs, to confront our enemies, to love our annoying siblings or classmates. Love gives us courage. Jeremiah could not face the Israelites, if it were not for a love for God. Catherine of Alexandria could not have faced down the scholars and the governor, had it not been for her passion for Jesus her saviour. I could not have become Catholic, facing my mother's disapproval were it not for the love of Jesus.

When God's love fills us, that is when we have courage. Couer—heart our heart is made strong by God's love.

Holding hands

Father asked us why we joined across the aisles holding hands.
Some gave response, “T’ show we are one community of believers.”
“To show unity in prayer.”
He observed that this tradition of ours was started in the seventies; it is nowhere in the mass. Fine as it may be, it actually disrupts the first part of the prayer. As we set things down and spread out seeking hands to hold, maybe forcing in some recalcitrants, we lose a beautiful part of this pivotal prayer in the mass. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”
By the time we say “Give us” we are back into the prayer.

I wonder, is this part of our problem in Christianity today? We are so focused on the doings and the hand-holding. Do we forget to stand still in the presence of Our Father to seek his will? Do we forget that God Our Father has a transcendent will that is not encompassed by our missions, our desires and comforts? Do we forget Our Father because we are so caught up with our brothers and sisters?

Doubt

I sometimes listen to the Graveyard Shift podcast, a few pastors in Ireland rambling on in conversation that might be sort of started or centered on an event or article that caught one or more of their attentions. It can be interesting, sometimes funny, sometimes thought provoking. In the one with a title playing on “nuns” and “nones” it was said that doubt is not the opposite of faith, certainty is. There was a statement made that, while we believe certain things, we have to admit that it is not certain. This reminded me of the annoying saying that “to question is the answer”, as though it would be any good to go through life asking questions without seeking answers. To sincerely question, one must be seeking an answer; if there is an answer, it could be that somethings are, in fact, certain. Anyway, one of them in particular helped to clarify a position that made more sense--that while we question and seek, doubt should not be idealized.
A few days later I ran into a Youtube series by a friar talking about Harry Potter and the Catholic Faith. He, when talking about faith as a virtue, described two different types of doubt--a doubt that is felt and a doubt that is chosen. I might feel as though I am alone, but know that God is with me and accordingly act in faith. If I feel that God is absent and act according to that feeling--that is another story. I might feel like a wretch of a sinner--in for a penny, in for a pound--but knowing God’s grace and by his grace, I can stop and pray with the angels and saints to our merciful Lord and Savior. If I act according to that feeling--how wretched I am!

If the doubt they are speaking of on the Graveyard Shift is the first class of doubt, I can at least agree with doubt not being the opposite of faith. The problem is that the concept is proposed with saying things like “I believe this, but it might not be true.” Ok. On some things, fair enough. I believe Joan of Arc really had visions; I do not empirically know that, and, sure, I could be wrong. I doubt it, though. However, That is not a matter of salvation. Believing that Jesus is the Son of God who was born, died, buried, rose on the third day--if we are not certain about that, are we even Christians? Again, I may not have empirical proof, I may not be able to touch his wounds or thrust my hands into his side, but I do have the witness of his apostles who did personally see his resurrected body. I do have the testimony of the Church that he founded that endured popular persecution and a time of regional popularity followed by popular scorn again. The point is, the gates of hell have never prevailed; she still exists just as Jesus said she would.
I have historical proof, at least, of Jesus existence, but what about the belief in the Trinity or the belief that scripture was inspired by God? I do not doubt that the Trinity is a good description of God. I do not doubt that the whole Bible, including the choosing of what books are in it, was inspired by God. I suppose, for argument’s sake, I could say that I might be wrong about these things. To say that, though, should not be mistaken for humility. That would be to say that the Church, which God founded, might be wrong about these things, which would be to say that maybe the gates of hell did prevail or maybe it was all only types and myths anyway. Why even believe in the actual historical Jesus? Surely a spiritual resurrection is a enough! But if that bodily Resurrection is not true, then, as Paul said, we are most pitiable.

 Where does that leave us? Maybe underground with a queen dressed in silks green as poison who says, “There is no sun.”
The point, then, is not what we doubt, but what we choose to believe.

One Long Day

His face was already bruised.  We idly looked at these men as they came in so very early.  It was probably because their holiday was about to start. They were dragging this man, shoving him, really, into our governor’s courtyard.  They would not enter the building, of course. It might defile them.

The accusation was that he had set himself up as some sort of king--pitiful king!  Even were it not for his bruises, there would be no greatness in his appearance. He was certainly no lord.

He was handed over to us to be beaten, but he did not ask for mercy.  We added to the bruising delivered by his own people. The lash was laid on his back hard.  His back was lacerated, but he did not cry out. We taunted him. The centurion yelled in his face, “Beg for my mercy!  Why don’t you beg for mercy?” and kicked him severely. The man looked at him with compassion.

A couple of us had twisted together some thorns that grew close by.  This false king would have a crown. He was dragged to his feet and held in place as we draped him with one of our cloaks.  We then pressed the crown into this Jew’s head.

“Hail!  King of the Jews!”  They took turns greeting him, striking him with reeds instead of saluting him.  Some spat on his face. Even then, he did not ask for mercy. Even then, he was resolute and, most disturbingly, compassionate.

It was time.  He was called for to be presented to the people, who were close to being a mob.  They would ask for one of their own to be released, and this our governor would do as a generous gesture of goodwill.  

“Behold, the man!”  He motioned to the Jew whom we had just brutalized.  The Jew was still wearing the soldier’s cloak and the crown.

The crowd was roaring a chant, “Crucify! Crucify!”

Our governor yelled over them, “You take him and crucify him!  I find nothing in the accusations against him.”

Some of the men who had brought him in so early that morning motioned for the crowds to quiet as they spoke, “We have a law, and according to that law he must die, because--he claimed to be the son of God.”

Our governor motioned for the Jew to be brought back inside.  Once away from the crowd, who were beginning to chant again, he asked the man, “Where do you come from?”  Blood was drying on the man’s face. He was bruised and his eye was swollen. The man’s expression was serene.

Our governor asked vehemently, “Do you refuse to answer? Hm?”  He took one turn, and then said into the man’s face, “Don’t you understand that I have the power of life and death over you?”

“You have no power over me but what is given you from above.  Nonetheless, they who handed me over to you have the greater sin.” This is what he stated.  In spite of his bruises and bloodied body, in spite of the beatings and the mockery, he was calm. Our governor was pacing and looking out to where the crowds were calling for the crucifixion of this impostor and trouble-maker, as they were calling him.  We awaited orders.

Our governor had a servant bring water, while he went to face the crowd.  Like a tragedian, he motioned the basin of water to himself. “I wash my hands of this innocent man’s blood,” he said as he rinsed his hands and carefully dried them.  The mob roared, “His blood be on us and on our children!” And the man was sentenced to death.

We jostled him down and took off the cloak.  We left the crown in place and put his own robe on him, but, when we were going to put the cross on his back, he reached for it.  His eyes said he knew what he was doing. Once again, they seemed to see straight through me.

We took to the road.  We had a couple of criminals to execute that day along with this man, so we made quite the procession.  The mob was shouting more than its usual imprecations.

The man fell.  It was a wonder he had not fallen earlier.  We picked him up and he took back his cross and plodded on, leaving blood and sweat on the road where he had fallen.  A woman dashed out of the crowd; we did not stop her. She wiped his face, weeping for him. He smiled tenderly at the woman and we urged him forward.  

He was stumbling some more.  I caught the eye of a Cyrenian and called him out.  “You! Take up his cross!” He came forward, and took it grudgingly, but his face changed after the man looked at him and said something I did not understand.  After the Cyrenian served his mile, we released him.

On we went.  If he fell, we picked him up and kept going.  At the gates the women mourners greeted the criminals, but when they got to the man, He told them, “Do not mourn for me, weep for yourselves and your children.  For the day is coming when you will say, ‘Blessed are the barren women, the womb that never bore and the breasts that never nursed!’ Then they will say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us!’ and to the hills, ‘Cover us!’  For if people do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?”

We finally reached the hill outside the city.  The crosses were laid down and the criminals had to be held to them.  Not The Man. He laid himself down. When the nails were driven into his hands he did not cry out like the others.  He sighed once they were in, along with his feet. He looked sorrowful, but it was not for himself. We tacked up the accusation: “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.”

We raised him up between the other two, and one of the men who had brought him in this morning began jeering with his companions, “He saved others, why cannot he save himself?”  and “Let this Messiah, ‘king of Israel,’ come down from the cross that we may see and believe.” This and more they said, while a smaller group of Jewish women and one man stood by weeping.

The man on the cross spoke to the heavens, “Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.”

He also spoke to the small group; one of the women was his own mother.

It was as though the shadow of a snake writhed in agony across the ground, and the sun went black.  There was less talk. We watched.

It had been three hours.  The man cried out in a language I did not understand, but it meant something to the other Jews.  “He’s calling for Elijah!” They got him some wine, but it was too late.  As the sun came back, he cried out, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!”  The earth trembled. The people scattered; only the criminals were left to cry out weekly or to gape in horror, while we stood fast.  I knew then that the man was dead.

Surely, this man was the Son of God.