Towards the end of the school year, one of our senior teachers led a devotion in which he considered what it might have been like for Jesus to be born into our age in history. The shepherds, he suggested, would have posted pictures on Facebook of themselves with Mary and baby; they would have updated their statuses to make everyone else wish they were there and be envious because they weren't.
I wasn't entirely sure of his assessment of our generation, but it got me thinking. When Christopher Hitchens and Kim Jong Il died in the last few days, I heard as soon as the New York Times posted the newsflash: my iPad said "ding" to notify me of the update. But when Jesus was born the news was only broadcast locally. Only shepherds heard the angels singing; only the Magi paid attention to the herald in the stars. The news was there for those with eyes to see and ears to hear, but few saw it and fewer still heard it. The teachers of the law whom Herod consulted gave the doctrinally correct answer about where the Messiah would be born and showed not the remotest interest in finding out for themselves if this had indeed happened. Would it have been any different if the media were there to broadcast it? Would we be any more attentive?
Then last night I watched Lars von Trier's latest offering, the visceral masterpiece, Melancholia. Though beginning with a detailed and rich depiction of a wedding going slowly, subtly wrong, von Trier gradually introduces the pivotal plot device of the mysterious planet Melancholia which, some say, is hurtling towards the earth. Kiefer Sutherland's John insists that no, it isn't, that the real scientists know what the alarmists deny: that the planet will only pass us by, not hit us. But Charlotte Gainsbourg's Claire does not believe him and regularly goes online to see what the "alarmists" are saying. Which of them is right is adjudicated by the film's devastating denouement, already foreshadowed in the spectacularly understated prologue - a series of extended single shots set to Wagner's "Tristan and Isolde" showing the varied forms of emotional and physical desolation the characters encounter.
The film, in the end, offers decisively little hope, seemingly presenting annihilation as the only answer; and perhaps von Trier is right, though not quite in the form that he has shown. One of the more interesting elements of the film, however, is the way in which characters wrestle with crisis. Kirsten Dunst portrays Justine, the deeply depressed heroine whose "melancholy" paradoxically dissipates as the crisis approaches. Only she seems equipped to deal with what comes. John, on the other hand, represents the laissez-faire attitude so many of us have towards the idea of an apocalypse. A Christianity Today review of the film cites media analyst Neil Postman as noting "that it is impossible to look at the world as a serious place when a newscaster can solemnly inform viewers about a military study touting the inevitability of nuclear war and be followed by a commercial for Burger King". Or, in simpler terms, Susan Sontag once noted that a typical scenario for the past century is that an apocalypse is predicted and then nothing happens.
But the world is a much more alarming place than we can quite grasp. The creator of the universe was born into a manger and only a few people noticed. When the end comes, will we be as indifferent, as able to ignore it? Jesus, who would know, suggested it would be otherwise:
“So if anyone tells you, ‘There he is, out in the wilderness,’ do not go out; or, ‘Here he is, in the inner rooms,’ do not believe it. For as lightning that comes from the east is visible even in the west, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. Wherever there is a carcass, there the vultures will gather." (Matthew 24:26-28)
Perhaps this Advent we would do well to pray that our eyes might be open and our ears attentive. When the newsflash arrives, we won't be able to ignore it, but we also may not have time to respond.
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