Childhood's End

     This post will be a bit of a "cross-over episode," as Leonard Nimoy died today at 83. I was saddened by this. Growing up, Star Trek was a companion, a show that formed my imagination, taught me certain values, and gave me some of my first fictional role models. Nimoy, in the television series and the feature films, was always the highlight for me. Spock was a character who was supposed to be alien, but always conveyed a certain wonderful humanity. And so a childhood hero died today.

     Death occupies my thoughts frequently, not just today. Not, I hope, in a morbid way, but because I think it is important for a person to consider their mortality, and let that shape how they live their lives day-to-day. I will die someday, so I ought to live in a particular way right now, keeping that before my eyes. But my senses tend to be dull, as many do, and so I usually forget, and place death in my pocket. When someone dies, someone whose death will affect me in some way, it is always a moment where death stands before me again, and it refreshes my memory: ah, I will die someday.

     So, to tie this in to the hero of this blog, the good Doctor. This is a series that gets to cheat a bit. The protagonist changes actors every few years, "regenerating" into the next incarnation. The obvious reason is that it allows the show to continue on for as long as the ratings are good, because it is not tied to the willingness of an actor to play the character for years upon years. Different people have different Doctor's as their favorites, but when the consistency of the actors remains good (as it has in the reboot series, I think), it is hard not to be attached to all of them. It is sad to see your favorite go (let's here it for the Tenth Doctor!), but it's okay, because it also gives a feeling of expectation, the joyful anticipation of seeing what this next actor will bring to the role. The resurrection of the Doctor is a wonderful thing, as well as sad.

     Spock got to come back from the dead once (Star III: The Search for Spock). Leonard Nimoy will not. He was, for my money, a fabulous actor who played a role well. He's also played other roles well, but none like Spock. Sadness over the loss of a person, whether known personally, or who influenced our lives through their vocations, is normal. Doctor Who gives us another way to think of death, though, one that is filled with more hope. With death comes sadness, but a sadness that then becomes something new, adventurous, a mystery to unravel, an expectation to fill. After death, there is new life.


     As we face our deaths, which will come to each one of us, we don't have to stop with sadness. It doesn't have to be an experience of total fear, or resigned desperation. Our death, as Christians, as ones who will receive a resurrection of our own, is a future of anticipation and mystery, of joy and discovery, of something inexpressibly wonderful. So while the visage of death, having taken Mr. Nimoy, reminds me that I have reached my childhood's end and can no longer ignore my mortality, the fear of death gives way to the hope of eternal life, and sadness gives way to something new. Maybe the question to ask when we approach our deaths ought to be, with hopeful expectation and curious expressions, "What's next?"

Rest in Peace, Leonard Nimoy. And to all the rest, Live Long and Prosper.

Time as Memory

"What then, is time? I know well enough what it is, provided nobody asks me; but if I am asked what it is and try to explain, I am baffled." -St. Augustine of Hippo, Confessions, XI.14

     Only one post in January...let's blame the intricacies of time, or Daleks, or something. Anyway, some ideas have been brewing on a Christian view of time in my insufficient mind. Rather than start describing time abstractly, I thought I would begin by discussion how we perceive time, or experience time. Often a subject is best approached starting with what we know, so here goes.

     I thought I would start with one of the first truly timey-wimey episodes, "Father's Day."This episode falls right in Series 1 of the reboot, starring the inimitable and underrated Christopher Eccleston, whose only crime was to be followed by David Tennant. I digress. The premise of the episode revolves around his Companion, Rose, who never met her father, as he was hit and killed by a car in 1987. Rose, wanting to see her father, convinces the Doctor to take her back to the day he was killed (why that day I have not been able to wrap my head around, however!). No doubt overwhelmed by the sight of her father, whom she never knew, Rose prevents his death. This of course creates problems of the timey-wimey variety, as the timeline has now been changed. It opens a rift of some kind, and creatures (fairly cheesy ones, but they aren't really the point) terrorize those in the area.

     What I would like to reflect on in regards to this episode is the desire for Rose to see her father. It isn't the logical paradox or physical possibilities of this episode that interest me, thought they are interesting, but the simple desire for memory. In Saint Augustine's Confessions, later in the book he talks about time from human perspective. He points out that time consists of three different aspects: past, present, and future. They have a very complex relationship to one another, which gives us some interesting grist for the mill. The present, as we know it, immediately turns into the past. The present also exists looking towards our potentialities, our future. So far, so good. The way St. Augustine puts it, "...the mind...performs three functions, those of expectation, attention, and memory." The present requires our attention, the past is brought back by memory, and the future exists in our expectation.

     Well, lots there to think about. But what I find interesting in relation to this episode is the importance of our memory. Our present has been formed by our past, and our present also looks forward to our future. Both present and future are, then, driven by the past. What should immediately stop us in our tracks, however, is recognizing how little of our past we actually were in control of. Our birth, our childhood, our parents, all out of our control. Even the death of loved ones, out of our control. The death of Rose's father, out of her control. She has no real memory of him, only a picture. She cannot use her memory to experience her father in the present, as I can with my grandfather who died some ten years ago. There is no voice, no face, no shared experiences to make the loss a bit more bearable. Only a void, filled by a photograph.

     So that's the point of the episode. Filling the void, creating a memory, however fleeting and superficial. Because our past makes us who we are. Rose has an opportunity here to fill that void, and establish a memory that can place her father always in her present. But of course, she goes too far. She tries to change it, so that her entire past can be rewritten. At the end of the episode, she ultimately gets what she is looking for. Her mother Jackie says, "People say there was this girl, and she sat with Pete while he was dying. She held his hand. Then she was gone. Never found out who she was." Rose creates a better past, and now has a memory. "Peter Alan Tyler, my dad. The most wonderful man in the world. Died the 7th of November, 1987." For you and I, there is no way to go back and create a memory, once the past is gone. Or is there?

     As we approach Ash Wednesday, Lent, and Easter following, I consider: what are we doing on feast days such as this? We are remembering. Somehow, we are to recreate the past, re-experience the acts of God in the world. It is a form of sacred memory, a past that forms us even though it lies far beyond our experience. Somehow, perhaps there is a way that we get to cheat time, to be formed that which we never knew? Maybe we aren't quite so different from Rose after all.

Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey...Doctrine?

    It may seem odd that, on a blog about a show that centers around time travel, we haven't yet had any posts on Time (with a very intentional capital T). Well, there are of course some reasons for this. First of all, where do you even start? How many seasons, how many wacky moments of time-tinkering mayhem? It's like asking which book of the Old Testament prophets one should start with. Hmm, umm, I dunno, the one with the inexplicable and cryptic messages for Israel about their future. Narrows it down, doesn't it? Second, we wouldn't want to scoop any of the doubtless wonderful insights sure to come in any upcoming books (nudge nudge, wink wink).

     To start off what I am sure what will be one of many posts on the subject, I wanted to deal with this basic premise of the show, that time is not linear, but, as we all know, "wibbley-wobbley." This comes in the middle of one of the best loved episodes, "Blink." The good Doctor tells us that we tend to see time in a linear fashion, as we experience it, but that in reality it is a big, convoluted mess. This is what allows the Doctor, presumably, to travel to and fro throughout history, interfering in a way that would make any Trekkie gag.

     Why would this be a problem for a Christian? Well, for one, Christianity generally teaches that God has determined what will come to pass. Can it be changed? It is of course widely debated whether human beings are capable of free choice in the first place, let alone the ability to somehow transverse time and change its course. There are different approaches to these questions, but of course they all assume one thing: God has a plan, and He will see it through.

     One approach to the basic problem that I find fascinating is one proposed in the season 4 episode, "The Fires of Pompeii." When the companion, Donna, protests the Doctor's inaction in saving the doomed city from the terrible volcanic fate that awaits it, he informs that there is nothing he can do. Why? Because there are fixed points in time, things so pivotal to history, that they cannot be changed. What if God sets some things in place, immobile, but then allows us freedom within those bounds? I am acquainted enough with the history of Christian thought to know that this is not an original idea, but here I pose it here as one example of an interesting way to think of time.

     The theology of time is not one much discussed, but perhaps, with the popularity of shows like Doctor Who and films like Interstellar, the burgeoning field of quantum physics, and just the general explosion of knowledge regarding the nature of our universe, it might just be an interesting topic for Christians to think about again. We'll try to give it some focused attention here in posts to come.

Anticipating Advent

©Doctor Who/BBC

     Advent is a time of anticipation. During the church services leading up to Christmas, our church lights Advent candles, one a week. Each signifies another step towards the coming of Christ into the world, that pivotal moment of history where the Holy One, taken on human flesh, was born, and in  that moment began the work of overthrowing the powers of the world. In each of these services, we also read passages of scripture that highlight the anticipation, passages that speak of the future coming of the Messiah King. In this way we reenact and participate in the tense, sometimes impatient, always yearning experience of God's people in times past, who looked for the Messiah but did not see His day.

     Every year we are also given a (usually) wonderful Christmas special starring everyone's favorite Doctor. Most of them tell a classic Doctor Who tale, drawing inspiration from C.S. Lewis, Dickens, or developing a unique story. The important plot element is, of course, that humanity, or some representative of humanity, is in dire danger and need, and the good Doctor arrives just in time to deal with whatever villainous creature lurks in the darkness. They are also interesting points of transition for the show, often marking the end of a run for the title actor, or more often are the transition from one Companion to another. But for the characters in the show, these are moments of anticipation as well. These are moments of darkness, terror, and in impending doom, and a savior is looked for. In these moments they need someone to enter into their story, their circumstance, and deal with the evil they face. And that salvation comes, never predicted, an unexpected arrival from a man in a blue box who has the power to set things right.

     That is Advent, that is Incarnation. When the children were being slain by order of Herod, while people fled into the darkness to escape, in a time when there seemed to be no hope of redemption from under the unyielding foot of Rome, a person stepped in to rescue this people in need. But this savior did not do so as a general, or a warrior, or even a Timelord in a blue box. Think about Advent this year. Are you anticipating gifts, or food, or family? Or are you anticipating a Savior, a king, a defender of the weak and helpless? Perhaps our narrative is closer to the fictional world of a science-fiction tale than we might initially think. In the chaos of preparations, stop once in awhile to anticipate, to wonder, to glory at the totally improbable and utterly ridiculous notion that our rescue came on that cold winter's day in quite an unpredictable way. Merry Christmas, and more to come after the holidays!

It Ain't Ever Easy: Doctor Who and Moral Dilemma

     Decisions. If there is anything that an overly analytic mind hates, it is the prospect of making decisions. Some choices are simply too difficult, particularly when either direction could be taken, and either could be legitimate. Some problems simply won't be resolved by analysis. They can be picked apart, seen from every angle, and every possible solution considered, and yet no decision. Sometimes no matter what a person chooses to do, they will win. Or lose.

     As difficult as decisions can be when they are roughly equal, it is even worse when we are faced with moral decisions that have no clear, perfect solution. Throughout the reboot series, constant mention is made of the Time War, a momentous conflict between the Daleks and the Time Lords. In this conflict, we are told, the Doctor made a decision that resulted not only in the defeat of the Dalek enemies, but also the destruction of his Gallifreyan people as well. The 50th anniversary special, "Day of the Doctor," gives fans a long-awaited depiction of this story. The Doctor of this time, the so-called "War Doctor," is faced with a decision: allow his people to survive in the present, or detonate a device known as "the Moment," thus killing them and the Daleks, and by doing so save more lives in the long run.

     Why bring up this particular episode? Because it places before us something common in Doctor Who, and something that I believe Christians often like to forget about, the real moral paradox. As Christians, we believe in good and evil, right and wrong, with clear lines between the two. And, in an ultimate sense, this is true. The Doctor would agree, and he frequently appeals to such categories. But unfortunately, real life is much messier than this. We just as frequently see the Doctor faced with moral dilemmas. Who wins in the doomsday situation of "Day of the Doctor"? No one. The Doctor, having done what needed to be done for the good of the greatest number, is now left with the guilt of his actions, a heavy weight that he never quite escapes.

     We make a mistake when we assume that all moral decisions are easily decided upon, and don't involve compromise and sacrifice. Our expectation that these decisions will be easy often leads us to declare definitively when something is right or wrong, and to judge others when they introduce the complexity of those problems. Complexity is frustrating, and we would prefer easy answers to our moral questions. But Doctor Who never lets these issues be easy; thus it challenges us to think through our own context, and our own moral dilemmas. Is it better if a pregnant girl keeps a child rather than abort it, though facing a life of struggle and poverty? Is it better if a soldier dies that many back in his home might live? Is it better that we give to a poor person, not knowing if they might use that for ill? Is it better to destroy a few, that many may live? Concerning these questions, most Christians would say yes. But better does not mean ideal, or even good. Sometimes, we can't win, no matter what we choose; sometimes, the decision is always an evil one, even if one is better than another.

     Such it is, this side of the New Heavens & Earth. Until that time, we need to be humble regarding these decisions, and remember that just because there is a clear line between good and evil, we and the world are often standing with a foot in each. Until the fateful day that the heavens part and Jesus Christ judges perfectly the living and the dead, we struggle, we make mistakes, and sometimes make decisions that are always tinged with evil, even when we make the "right" choice. And we need stories like those in Doctor Who to challenge us, to help us discern these complexities. We mustn't jump foolishly into our decisions and pridefully think that because a decision is the "right one," our job is done and our hands are clean. Our moral decisions effect both us and others, and part of choosing the better path is recognizing the good and the bad in our own choices. Sugar-coating over the bad by saying, "but it was the right thing to do," without grappling with the adverse effects, is to lie to ourselves and make us less mature, not more.

     But, even as it is messy, sometimes thin lights of heaven poke through the sky, and give us an image of what that perfect morality and justice will look like. Even the good Doctor catches a break once in awhile, as in the reboot series 1 episode, "The Doctor Dances," where one of the final lines of the episode is, "Everybody lives, Rose. Just this once, everybody lives." And in "The Day of the Doctor," the Doctor is even able to preserve his own people from their utter destruction, though he also is unable to remember that he produced this ideal outcome (wibbly wobbly stuff, watch the episode for an explanation). As we make difficult decisions, and face moral dilemmas in our own lives, we learn to look forward to that time when our choices will no longer be tainted with the ever-present chaos of the world, the day that everybody lives.

A Window Into the Now

     This article addresses one of the fundamental purposes of science-fiction, and one that television shows do particularly well. Following my post from last week on why Christians should feel free and encouraged to enjoy science-fiction, I thought it would be helpful to point out another useful element of science-fiction that Doctor Who is well set up to do. And that is to provide a window into a cultural moment, into our moment, specifically on the subject of religion.

©Doctor Who/BBC

     Science-fiction is typically focused on future events, future possibilities and potentials. More often then not, however, the story is a veil that entertains, but conceals a deeper meaning and critique of our current society and culture. We are judged by our (potential) future, critiqued in light of what may be. This is a tradition in the genre from the very beginning, all the way back to H.G. Wells and his Utopian social vision for humanity. It is much like the role that the doctrine of the end times plays in Christian theology; at the end, true justice will prevail, all wrongs will be righted, and we will be judged by our time spent right now. While less definitive in most cases, science-fiction judges us by what we may become.

     Given this, we should expect to find many of our own world present, in metaphorical forms, in the science-fiction we watch and read. The article notes how Doctor Who has addressed the topic of religion throughout the years, sometimes ambiguously, sometimes more directly. Like most science-fiction, the series never affirms the existence of God, and at best will usually leave such questions open. It presents us with some "possible futures" of religion, complete with strangely militarized clergy, odd rituals, and any manner of creepy aliens. But what is most interesting is not how it is presented then, but what it tells us about our cultural beliefs now.

     Modern Christians are not often good readers of our time. I've heard it said that the Church usually imbibes cultural trends, but usually a few years too late. Perhaps in contrast, science-fiction often channels ideas about our own time very effectively. As the article mentions, Doctor Who presents religion in a way that is analogous to the state of religion in the current day United Kingdom, and probably the United States as well. It does this in a way that recognizes the complexities and diversities of current spirituality, and the relativism required of us that is a practical reality even if not an actual one. It allows us to explore religious ideas, even while being ambiguous enough to leave room for the faithful Christian right next to the atheist. The best science-fiction, in other words, reads our society well, and gives us a laboratory for testing out ideas, and for understanding our own times better. It is a window we do well to look through.

da Vinci and the Doctor

http://raisegrate.deviantart.com/art/Doctor-Who-Penultimate-Supper-155877850

Art restorers recently discovered this amazing underpainting while working on Leonardo da Vinci's The Last Supper.