Star Wars: Where Hope lies.
Where the Hope Lies
by Roberto Rivera y Carlo
Six years ago, one of the first pieces I ever wrote for Boundless was about the excitement surrounding the new Star Wars trilogy. People were lining up weeks before opening day and others were looking twice before crossing the street less they die before seeing the movie. Why? The power of a memorable story.
Six years and some (to put it mildly) mixed reviews later, this part of the Star Wars story comes to a close with Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. And it seems to be going out on a high note, at least if box office receipts and critics' opinions are the measures you employ. The story? It works but only because of what both the audience and Lucas bring to the theater: an imagination shaped by the Christian story.
Episode III begins near the end of the 'Clone Wars' referenced in Episodes II and IV. Anakin and Obi-Wan rescue Chancellor Palpatine who has been kidnapped by the rebels. I won't spoil what happens next except to say that Anakin faces a choice that will define his destiny.
At least that's what the audience is meant to believe. The truly pivotal moment comes after Anakin returns to Coruscant and Padme, whom he married in secret at the end of Episode II. Keeping the secret is tough enough, especially since Obi-Wan seems to know that if he needs to find Anakin all he has to do is go to Padme's place. Now, Mrs. Skywalker tells Anakin something that not only rocks his world but an entire galaxy as well: she's pregnant.
Anakin, who, many years from then in a galaxy far, far, away would be said to have "abandonment issues," doesn't take the news well (if by "well" you mean not dreaming that the woman you've loved since you were 10 will die in childbirth). Like any good Jedi, Anakin goes to Yoda with his concerns, albeit in a way that is careful not to reveal that he's violated the whole 'a Jedi Shall not Know Anger. Nor Hatred. Nor Love' thingy.
That's when this pivotal moment in the trilogy takes place. Yoda tells Anakin that instead of mourning for those who have died and missing them, he should instead "rejoice for those around you who transform into The Force." If he stopped there, maybe, just maybe, Anakin might have walked away thinking, I don't know if I can do that or what does he know? He's short, green and has a problem with syntax and looked for a second opinion. But Yoda goes on to tell Anakin that "attachment leads to jealousy" and "the fear of loss is a path to the dark side." That being the case, the proper response is to "train yourself to let go of everything you fear to lose."
At this point I thought if this is the best the Jedi can do, they deserve to go extinct and have their light go out of the universe. Add what science fiction writer Orson Scott Card calls the Jedi's "elitism" and "self-righteousness" and little wonder that Anakin turns to the one person who, however opaque his motives, seems to understand him: the chancellor, a.k.a. Darth Sidious. Sidious promises Anakin that there is a way to defeat death but that such knowledge lies beyond what the Jedi can, or at least will, teach him.
Even if you haven't seen Sith, you know what happens. What reviewers call the film's "dark" quality is Anakin's fall from grace: his helping to exterminate the Jedi, his penultimate confrontation with Obi Wan and his becoming the Darth Vader we all know, the one whom Obi Wan describers as "more machine than man, twisted and evil."
In all of this, we're supposed to draw parallels between Anakin's embrace of the "Dark Side" and "Faust," the legend about a man who sold his soul to the devil in exchange for power, pleasure and forbidden knowledge. But Anakin's desperate turn is driven by love, not a lust for power. He's not out to prove that "that mortals ... have as much dignity as any god." All he wants to do is save his wife. It doesn't justify his choices and actions but it does make them understandable. Who among us wouldn't be similarly tempted if we were told that our response to the death and suffering of those we love should be to "let go"?
If the story had ended here it would be a complete downer. But of course it didn't. The audience enjoys Episode III because it brings the knowledge of what happens in Episodes IV, V and VI to the theater. They know why the next installment is entitled A New Hope. But what makes that hope possible and what makes it new is that the central character in the remainder of the trilogy discards the Jedi code with its emphasis on detachment and replaces it with something more, well, Christian.
When we first meet Luke, all he wants is to get off "this rock," as he calls Tatooine, and live a life of adventure. Then, as he learns about his abilities, he puts them to use against the Empire. But his path only becomes clear when he learns that Vader is his father. Whereas Yoda and Ben have given up on Anakin/Vader, his son refuses to and instead insists on going after the one lost sheep. What ultimately restores the sought-after "balance" to the Force isn't power and it certainly isn't detachment; it's love. The Jedi who "returns" is very different from the ones exterminated at the end of Episode III.
Thus what's "new" in A New Hope. Detachment and fatalism have been set aside for a kind of love that sees things clearly but nevertheless insists on the possibility of transformation and even redemption. Love that is willing to risk everything for the sake of the loved one is what ultimately brings down the Empire. It's the one thing that neither the Sith, with their lust for power, nor the Jedi, with their forswearing of attachment, saw coming.
It's an idea that doesn't belong to the Eastern thought that permeates the Star Wars saga. It's a Christian idea. The late John Paul II in Crossing The Threshold of Hope, spoke about Buddhism's "negative attitude toward the world." In this view, the world is "only a source of suffering for man" and man's best course of action is to "break away from it ..." In contrast, Christian belief in "God the Creator of the world and about Christ the Redeemer" provides "a constant impetus to strive for its transformation and perfection" of that which is wrong. This belief in the possibility of transformation finds its way into the West's stories, even those stories that aren't religious. It could hardly be otherwise since this belief forms the basis of western hope.
(Every time I point out the differences and incompatibilities in the ways that Buddhism and Christianity view suffering and attachment, I get emails saying that I neither understand nor respect Eastern thought. On the contrary, I understand Buddhism pretty well for a non-Buddhist and I respect it a lot. What I don't respect is westerners trying to have it both ways by creating a fusion of the two. Religion as it's actually practiced by real people in the real world isn't an a la carte affair. It answers life's big questions in specific ways and these answers shape the perspectives, feelings and aspirations of its adherents and the cultures created by those adherents.)
What I wrote in my piece about Attack of the Clones, is even more true now that I've seen Revenge of the Sith: The Star Wars saga "works because Lucas, with the audience's connivance, injects ideas and images from the story that Christians believe was written before the beginning of time and is woven into the fabric of universe." Thus, the story ends in a way that an audience shaped by the Christian story expects it to. The result is what we, and Lucas, call hope.
Copyright (c) 2005 Roberto Rivera y Carlo. All rights reserved. International copyright secured.
Where the Hope Lies
by Roberto Rivera y Carlo
Six years ago, one of the first pieces I ever wrote for Boundless was about the excitement surrounding the new Star Wars trilogy. People were lining up weeks before opening day and others were looking twice before crossing the street less they die before seeing the movie. Why? The power of a memorable story.
Six years and some (to put it mildly) mixed reviews later, this part of the Star Wars story comes to a close with Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. And it seems to be going out on a high note, at least if box office receipts and critics' opinions are the measures you employ. The story? It works but only because of what both the audience and Lucas bring to the theater: an imagination shaped by the Christian story.
Episode III begins near the end of the 'Clone Wars' referenced in Episodes II and IV. Anakin and Obi-Wan rescue Chancellor Palpatine who has been kidnapped by the rebels. I won't spoil what happens next except to say that Anakin faces a choice that will define his destiny.
At least that's what the audience is meant to believe. The truly pivotal moment comes after Anakin returns to Coruscant and Padme, whom he married in secret at the end of Episode II. Keeping the secret is tough enough, especially since Obi-Wan seems to know that if he needs to find Anakin all he has to do is go to Padme's place. Now, Mrs. Skywalker tells Anakin something that not only rocks his world but an entire galaxy as well: she's pregnant.
Anakin, who, many years from then in a galaxy far, far, away would be said to have "abandonment issues," doesn't take the news well (if by "well" you mean not dreaming that the woman you've loved since you were 10 will die in childbirth). Like any good Jedi, Anakin goes to Yoda with his concerns, albeit in a way that is careful not to reveal that he's violated the whole 'a Jedi Shall not Know Anger. Nor Hatred. Nor Love' thingy.
That's when this pivotal moment in the trilogy takes place. Yoda tells Anakin that instead of mourning for those who have died and missing them, he should instead "rejoice for those around you who transform into The Force." If he stopped there, maybe, just maybe, Anakin might have walked away thinking, I don't know if I can do that or what does he know? He's short, green and has a problem with syntax and looked for a second opinion. But Yoda goes on to tell Anakin that "attachment leads to jealousy" and "the fear of loss is a path to the dark side." That being the case, the proper response is to "train yourself to let go of everything you fear to lose."
At this point I thought if this is the best the Jedi can do, they deserve to go extinct and have their light go out of the universe. Add what science fiction writer Orson Scott Card calls the Jedi's "elitism" and "self-righteousness" and little wonder that Anakin turns to the one person who, however opaque his motives, seems to understand him: the chancellor, a.k.a. Darth Sidious. Sidious promises Anakin that there is a way to defeat death but that such knowledge lies beyond what the Jedi can, or at least will, teach him.
Even if you haven't seen Sith, you know what happens. What reviewers call the film's "dark" quality is Anakin's fall from grace: his helping to exterminate the Jedi, his penultimate confrontation with Obi Wan and his becoming the Darth Vader we all know, the one whom Obi Wan describers as "more machine than man, twisted and evil."
In all of this, we're supposed to draw parallels between Anakin's embrace of the "Dark Side" and "Faust," the legend about a man who sold his soul to the devil in exchange for power, pleasure and forbidden knowledge. But Anakin's desperate turn is driven by love, not a lust for power. He's not out to prove that "that mortals ... have as much dignity as any god." All he wants to do is save his wife. It doesn't justify his choices and actions but it does make them understandable. Who among us wouldn't be similarly tempted if we were told that our response to the death and suffering of those we love should be to "let go"?
If the story had ended here it would be a complete downer. But of course it didn't. The audience enjoys Episode III because it brings the knowledge of what happens in Episodes IV, V and VI to the theater. They know why the next installment is entitled A New Hope. But what makes that hope possible and what makes it new is that the central character in the remainder of the trilogy discards the Jedi code with its emphasis on detachment and replaces it with something more, well, Christian.
When we first meet Luke, all he wants is to get off "this rock," as he calls Tatooine, and live a life of adventure. Then, as he learns about his abilities, he puts them to use against the Empire. But his path only becomes clear when he learns that Vader is his father. Whereas Yoda and Ben have given up on Anakin/Vader, his son refuses to and instead insists on going after the one lost sheep. What ultimately restores the sought-after "balance" to the Force isn't power and it certainly isn't detachment; it's love. The Jedi who "returns" is very different from the ones exterminated at the end of Episode III.
Thus what's "new" in A New Hope. Detachment and fatalism have been set aside for a kind of love that sees things clearly but nevertheless insists on the possibility of transformation and even redemption. Love that is willing to risk everything for the sake of the loved one is what ultimately brings down the Empire. It's the one thing that neither the Sith, with their lust for power, nor the Jedi, with their forswearing of attachment, saw coming.
It's an idea that doesn't belong to the Eastern thought that permeates the Star Wars saga. It's a Christian idea. The late John Paul II in Crossing The Threshold of Hope, spoke about Buddhism's "negative attitude toward the world." In this view, the world is "only a source of suffering for man" and man's best course of action is to "break away from it ..." In contrast, Christian belief in "God the Creator of the world and about Christ the Redeemer" provides "a constant impetus to strive for its transformation and perfection" of that which is wrong. This belief in the possibility of transformation finds its way into the West's stories, even those stories that aren't religious. It could hardly be otherwise since this belief forms the basis of western hope.
(Every time I point out the differences and incompatibilities in the ways that Buddhism and Christianity view suffering and attachment, I get emails saying that I neither understand nor respect Eastern thought. On the contrary, I understand Buddhism pretty well for a non-Buddhist and I respect it a lot. What I don't respect is westerners trying to have it both ways by creating a fusion of the two. Religion as it's actually practiced by real people in the real world isn't an a la carte affair. It answers life's big questions in specific ways and these answers shape the perspectives, feelings and aspirations of its adherents and the cultures created by those adherents.)
What I wrote in my piece about Attack of the Clones, is even more true now that I've seen Revenge of the Sith: The Star Wars saga "works because Lucas, with the audience's connivance, injects ideas and images from the story that Christians believe was written before the beginning of time and is woven into the fabric of universe." Thus, the story ends in a way that an audience shaped by the Christian story expects it to. The result is what we, and Lucas, call hope.
Copyright (c) 2005 Roberto Rivera y Carlo. All rights reserved. International copyright secured.
by Roberto Rivera y Carlo
Six years ago, one of the first pieces I ever wrote for Boundless was about the excitement surrounding the new Star Wars trilogy. People were lining up weeks before opening day and others were looking twice before crossing the street less they die before seeing the movie. Why? The power of a memorable story.
Six years and some (to put it mildly) mixed reviews later, this part of the Star Wars story comes to a close with Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. And it seems to be going out on a high note, at least if box office receipts and critics' opinions are the measures you employ. The story? It works but only because of what both the audience and Lucas bring to the theater: an imagination shaped by the Christian story.
Episode III begins near the end of the 'Clone Wars' referenced in Episodes II and IV. Anakin and Obi-Wan rescue Chancellor Palpatine who has been kidnapped by the rebels. I won't spoil what happens next except to say that Anakin faces a choice that will define his destiny.
At least that's what the audience is meant to believe. The truly pivotal moment comes after Anakin returns to Coruscant and Padme, whom he married in secret at the end of Episode II. Keeping the secret is tough enough, especially since Obi-Wan seems to know that if he needs to find Anakin all he has to do is go to Padme's place. Now, Mrs. Skywalker tells Anakin something that not only rocks his world but an entire galaxy as well: she's pregnant.
Anakin, who, many years from then in a galaxy far, far, away would be said to have "abandonment issues," doesn't take the news well (if by "well" you mean not dreaming that the woman you've loved since you were 10 will die in childbirth). Like any good Jedi, Anakin goes to Yoda with his concerns, albeit in a way that is careful not to reveal that he's violated the whole 'a Jedi Shall not Know Anger. Nor Hatred. Nor Love' thingy.
That's when this pivotal moment in the trilogy takes place. Yoda tells Anakin that instead of mourning for those who have died and missing them, he should instead "rejoice for those around you who transform into The Force." If he stopped there, maybe, just maybe, Anakin might have walked away thinking, I don't know if I can do that or what does he know? He's short, green and has a problem with syntax and looked for a second opinion. But Yoda goes on to tell Anakin that "attachment leads to jealousy" and "the fear of loss is a path to the dark side." That being the case, the proper response is to "train yourself to let go of everything you fear to lose."
At this point I thought if this is the best the Jedi can do, they deserve to go extinct and have their light go out of the universe. Add what science fiction writer Orson Scott Card calls the Jedi's "elitism" and "self-righteousness" and little wonder that Anakin turns to the one person who, however opaque his motives, seems to understand him: the chancellor, a.k.a. Darth Sidious. Sidious promises Anakin that there is a way to defeat death but that such knowledge lies beyond what the Jedi can, or at least will, teach him.
Even if you haven't seen Sith, you know what happens. What reviewers call the film's "dark" quality is Anakin's fall from grace: his helping to exterminate the Jedi, his penultimate confrontation with Obi Wan and his becoming the Darth Vader we all know, the one whom Obi Wan describers as "more machine than man, twisted and evil."
In all of this, we're supposed to draw parallels between Anakin's embrace of the "Dark Side" and "Faust," the legend about a man who sold his soul to the devil in exchange for power, pleasure and forbidden knowledge. But Anakin's desperate turn is driven by love, not a lust for power. He's not out to prove that "that mortals ... have as much dignity as any god." All he wants to do is save his wife. It doesn't justify his choices and actions but it does make them understandable. Who among us wouldn't be similarly tempted if we were told that our response to the death and suffering of those we love should be to "let go"?
If the story had ended here it would be a complete downer. But of course it didn't. The audience enjoys Episode III because it brings the knowledge of what happens in Episodes IV, V and VI to the theater. They know why the next installment is entitled A New Hope. But what makes that hope possible and what makes it new is that the central character in the remainder of the trilogy discards the Jedi code with its emphasis on detachment and replaces it with something more, well, Christian.
When we first meet Luke, all he wants is to get off "this rock," as he calls Tatooine, and live a life of adventure. Then, as he learns about his abilities, he puts them to use against the Empire. But his path only becomes clear when he learns that Vader is his father. Whereas Yoda and Ben have given up on Anakin/Vader, his son refuses to and instead insists on going after the one lost sheep. What ultimately restores the sought-after "balance" to the Force isn't power and it certainly isn't detachment; it's love. The Jedi who "returns" is very different from the ones exterminated at the end of Episode III.
Thus what's "new" in A New Hope. Detachment and fatalism have been set aside for a kind of love that sees things clearly but nevertheless insists on the possibility of transformation and even redemption. Love that is willing to risk everything for the sake of the loved one is what ultimately brings down the Empire. It's the one thing that neither the Sith, with their lust for power, nor the Jedi, with their forswearing of attachment, saw coming.
It's an idea that doesn't belong to the Eastern thought that permeates the Star Wars saga. It's a Christian idea. The late John Paul II in Crossing The Threshold of Hope, spoke about Buddhism's "negative attitude toward the world." In this view, the world is "only a source of suffering for man" and man's best course of action is to "break away from it ..." In contrast, Christian belief in "God the Creator of the world and about Christ the Redeemer" provides "a constant impetus to strive for its transformation and perfection" of that which is wrong. This belief in the possibility of transformation finds its way into the West's stories, even those stories that aren't religious. It could hardly be otherwise since this belief forms the basis of western hope.
(Every time I point out the differences and incompatibilities in the ways that Buddhism and Christianity view suffering and attachment, I get emails saying that I neither understand nor respect Eastern thought. On the contrary, I understand Buddhism pretty well for a non-Buddhist and I respect it a lot. What I don't respect is westerners trying to have it both ways by creating a fusion of the two. Religion as it's actually practiced by real people in the real world isn't an a la carte affair. It answers life's big questions in specific ways and these answers shape the perspectives, feelings and aspirations of its adherents and the cultures created by those adherents.)
What I wrote in my piece about Attack of the Clones, is even more true now that I've seen Revenge of the Sith: The Star Wars saga "works because Lucas, with the audience's connivance, injects ideas and images from the story that Christians believe was written before the beginning of time and is woven into the fabric of universe." Thus, the story ends in a way that an audience shaped by the Christian story expects it to. The result is what we, and Lucas, call hope.
Copyright (c) 2005 Roberto Rivera y Carlo. All rights reserved. International copyright secured.
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