Great, just what you need–more commentary on Mel Gibson’s controversial film, “The Passion of The Christ.”
Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. It may have been the most powerful art, of any form, I have experienced. See it I almost didn’t, because of all the violence warnings. I knew what was coming, so I wasn’t sure that I wanted to go through with it. Like Jesus saw what was coming and wasn’t sure he wanted to go through with it. Which is kind of the whole point, isn’t it?
Actually, what distinguishes this film isn’t so much the level of violence. I thought that Gibson’s film “Braveheart” was more violent. So are other movies that show such things as gray matter being splattered against the wall in slow motion. In “The Passion,” what we experience is not so much unprecedented depictions of violence, but unprecedented levels of suffering. The distinction is important.
Sadly, we have become hardened to violence. But hopefully not to suffering. After all, this is supposed to be a level of suffering that is sufficient to redeem all mankind. You might even argue that anything that shades the unremitting, painful, cruel and brutal physical and mental suffering of Christ’s 12 hours of torment minimizes or even betrays what his passion was really about.
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If you approach the film as do Christians–believing that in this suffering comes mankind’s redemption–then the film is even harder to approach. Because you know that the suffering is not at the hands of Pontius Pilate, a bloodthirsty crowd or the Roman soldiers. It is at our hands. Or more disturbingly, at my hands. There is no comfort in the thought that Christ carried on his back all the sins of the world, committed by billions of souls, so my contribution to Christ’s agony wouldn’t be noticed. Each of us does not, or should not, get off so easy. I don’t think you can partition fault that way. For some this film might offend because it returns us to the departed notion of guilt, Catholic Guilt, Big 1950s Guilt, Dante’s Inferno kind of guilt. And there’s the film’s assertion that a stark battle rages between good and evil. For some of us, it takes us back to the nuns telling us all over again that we drove the nails and swung the whips. Sort of bumps into contemporary notions of a compassionate God who would never condemn someone for all eternity, doesn’t it?
But isn’t there something to be said about viewing evil to shake us into something better? Whether it is the depiction of the horrors of war (caskets of dead soldiers being carried across a tarmac or of a young girl, her clothing seared from her body by a deadly napalm bombing) or photos of dead victims of abortion–the idea that we can learn by not casting our eyes away is accepted by both ends of the political and cultural spectrum. The difference here is that the suffering of the passion was, at its heart, an act of love. At their hearts, war or abortion are the spawn of hatred, loathing, selfishness and lovelessness.
So, then, what kind of father would put his only son through such torment? What kind of love does it take to accept such a burden? The film is loaded with such huge mysteries. What if Jesus, exercising free choice, had rejected his burden? Because he is perfect and can only choose good, did he really have any other choice but to redeem mankind? If Jesus had no choice, what about Pontius Pilate, the Roman soldiers and everyone else? Were their roles scripted from all time? And this ticklish thought arose: If mankind is not alone in the universe, did God send his son to redeem other races? Or were we the only ones “worthy” of the passion. If not, how many times can God’s son die?
I stray. That’s what a fine movie makes you do. So just this final thought. It strikes me that you don’t have to believe in the divinity of Jesus to appreciate this film. Assume he was just a man. Here was someone put to death in the most hideous way imaginable for his beliefs. And for speaking them. Beliefs that would shake the world. Beliefs built on a foundation of love, sacrifice and forgiveness. Not bad things to die for.
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