“Heal me, O Lord, and I shall be healed;
save me, and I shall be saved,
for you are my praise.” (Jeremiah 17:14)
A longstanding tradition dating to the early church is to gather at the anniversary of the death of a martyr. Today we remember the witness of a remarkable man from the 20th century.
Seventy-five years ago today, Eric Liddell breathed his last, succumbing to a brain tumor while in Japanese custody at a prisoner of war camp in occupied China. “It’s complete surrender,” he is said to have uttered, referring to his Christian missionary work.
Liddel is best known to most people via Ian Charleson’s portrayal in the classic movie “Chariots of Fire”. This academy award winning drama covers an early part of his life when he had decided to run competitively, ultimately representing Britain in the Olympics. “I believe that God made me for a purpose. But He also made me fast, and when I run, I feel His pleasure” he tells his disapproving sister in the film. (His sister’s objection to Liddell’s running is one of several points of creative license—she actually supported his athletic career).
After years of training, Liddell was selected to represent Britain in the 1924 Olympic Games in Paris. Learning that the heats for the 100 meter dash were to be held on Sunday, he refused to run as he felt that this would dishonor the Sabbath. He instead ran and won the 400 meter dash.
In 1925, Liddell returned to China, where he had been born, and took up the role of a missionary. He taught at an Anglo-Chinese school for wealthy Chinese students, was superintendent of the Sunday School at Union Church in Tianjin, and built the Minyuan Stadium, modeled after the Chelsea’s football grounds.
In 1932, following his ordination to ministry, he married Florence Mackenzie, a daughter of Canadian missionaries. The couple had three daughters. As World War 2 broke out, a pregnant Florence left China for Canada. Eric then took a position at a rural mission station in Xiaozhang, alongside his brother, a physician.
When the Japanese took over, Liddell went back to Tianjin for a time. In 1943 he was sent to the Weihsien internment camp along with other missionaries and foreigners. He became an organizer of prisoners and a respected leader among them. Children called him “Uncle Eric”. In 1945, he became ill, and was found to have a brain tumor. He died February 21, and was buried beneath a small wooden cross in the garden behind the Japanese officers’ quarters.
Langdon Gilkey, who would later become a theologian, said of Liddell: “Often in an evening I would see him bent over a chessboard or a model boat, or directing some sort of square dance – absorbed, weary and interested, pouring all of himself into this effort to capture the imagination of these penned-up youths. He was overflowing with good humour and love for life, and with enthusiasm and charm. It is rare indeed that a person has the good fortune to meet a saint, but he came as close to it as anyone I have ever known.”
And Happy New Year.
We beseech thee, Almighty God, to purify our consciences by thy daily visitation, that when thy Son our Lord cometh he may find in us a mansion prepared for himself; through the same Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.
You wake up, and find that you are sitting in a leather chair in a strange room that looks a bit like a physician’s office. A pleasant bespectacled man tells you that you have died, and are now beginning your afterlife. “Welcome to The Good Place,” he beams. You soon emerge into a sunny, pleasant “neighborhood” filled with saintly seeming people milling about and eating frozen yogurt. Yet not all is as it seems. For one thing, you clearly know that you don’t belong. You were a terrible person in life.
This is the opening premise of the entertaining and thought provoking show, “The Good Place”. Somehow I missed this on NBC and am now binge-watching reruns on a streaming service. I will confine my remarks to the first season, but will directly discuss the shocking twist of the season finale.
Eleanor, a self-absorbed, semi-alcoholic woman whose life’s work was selling a fake product, finds herself dead and consigned to “The Good Place”, but she knows that she doesn’t deserve to be there. A mistake has caused her to switch places with another who shared her name. She decides to try to earn her place anyway and begins ethics lessons with a former ethics professor named Chidi. Meanwhile she has a troubled and catty relationship with her neighbor, Tahani, a tall glamorous former philanthropist, who seems too good to be true, and has some subtle narcissistic traits. After doing the right thing in the midst of numerous ethical dilemmas, Eleanor finally realizes something shocking: “This is actually the Bad Place, isn’t it?”
The show has been compared with the play “No Exit” by existentialist Jean-Paul Sartre, and this is apt. The first season unfolds much like the famous scenario in Sartre’s book. “No Exit” describes a version of Hell. Sartre, who was famous for saying, “Hell is other people” drafted a play in which three main characters are trapped together in a pleasant room. They are dead, and have been consigned to Hell. They have been assigned to spend eternity together. It dawns on them that they are to be each other’s tormentors:
INEZ: Wait! You’ll see how simple it is. Childishly simple. Obviously there aren’t any physical torments—you agree, don’t you? And yet we’re in hell. And no one else will come here. We’ll stay in this room together, the three of us, for ever and ever. . . . In short, there’s someone absent here, the official tortur
GARCIN [sotto voce]: I’d noticed that.
INEZ: It’s obvious what they’re after—an economy of man power—or devil-power, if you prefer. The same idea as in the cafeteria, where customers serve themselves.
ESTELLE: What ever do you mean?
INEZ: I mean that each of us will act as torturer of the two others.
The three characters proceed to do just that, until finally Estelle cracks:
“Open the door! Open, blast you! I’ll endure anything, your red-hot tongs and molten lead, your racks and prongs and garrotes—all your fiendish gadgets, everything that burns and flays and tears—I’ll put up with any torture you impose. Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough.”
These parables accord with a more modern version of Hell, in which psychology replaces fire and brimstone as a metaphor for its torments. I think of C.S. Lewis, who wrote “It’s not a question of God ‘sending’ us to Hell. In each of us there is something growing up which will of itself be Hell unless it is nipped in the bud.”
Some have objected to this idea, as it underplays the justice and retribution aspects of Divine punishment. In Lewis’ view, and that of “The Good Place”, Hell is as much a self-inflicted torment as it is divinely appointed punishment.
However, does it need to be “either / or”? Might it not rather be both?
Stir up thy power, O Lord, and with great might come among us; and, because we are sorely hindered by our sins, let thy bountiful grace and mercy speedily help and deliver us; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with thee and the Holy Ghost, be honor and glory, world without end. Amen.
Merciful God, who sent thy messengers the prophets to preach repentance and prepare the way for our salvation: Give us grace to heed their warnings and forsake our sins, that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer; who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.
Almighty God, give us grace that we may put away the works of darkness, and put upon us the armor of light, now In the time of this mortal life, in which thy Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both Ihe quick and the dead, we may rise to the life Immortal; through him who liveth and reigneth: with thee and the Holy Ghost, one God, now and forever. Amen.
My temptation is not so much toward a disbelief in God as toward a belief in an impersonal and philosophical God, a necessary being that is unknown and unknowable—something like the “first cause” of Plato and Aquinas. Such a being would answer the philosophical mysteries of our existence, and that of the universe, and yet not be interested in the lives of humans. Such a being would be unlike the God of Christianity.
Just how unlike struck me again recently. Upon reviewing the account of the widow of Nain, recorded in Luke chapter 7, a particular sentence popped out at me. As a recap of the story, Jesus and a crowd of his followers have reached the gate of a village and are blocked by a funeral procession for a dead boy. As the wailers cry out, and the casket is being hoisted aloft, we are told of the boy’s mother, a widow. Suddenly, “when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her.”
There it is! These are the words that on a casual reading can drift by unnoticed, but in fact are shocking and set Christianity apart from other religions. As the crowd later gasps upon seeing Jesus perform the miracle of restoring life to the boy: “God has visited his people!”
Jesus “saw” her. And more than that he noticed. He perceived her, with a gaze that pierces flesh and bone to see what is inside the mind, the soul. An old Anglican prayer begins, “Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid…” God sees you and notices you.
God isn’t some Unmoved Mover. He is not aloof, but rather is deeply and intricately involved in our lives. As those townspeople proclaimed, God has indeed visited His people. He came to us not as a vision or an idea, but as a person who could be seen, heard, touched, and mistreated. Furthermore, God notices individuals, and has compassion upon their plight. In other passages of the Gospels we see Jesus being moved to tears at the death of a friend, and showing anger at injustice. This is what sets Christianity apart from other belief systems.
It is radically different from other ancient religions, which had pantheons of gods who were a bit like Marvel’s Thanos, or larger scale versions of the pretenders for the Iron Throne of Westeros (a “Game of Thrones” reference there). These were arrogant, morally impaired, entitled beings jockeying for power, who would not even notice a commoner (unless perhaps an unusually attractive maiden might arouse some sexual interest now and then). Such “gods” don’t approach you, rather you approach them, if you dare, and if you are somehow unusually worthy. They would not grieve for the death of a widow’s son.
This care and concern for individuals also differentiates Christianity from eastern religions such as Buddhism and Hinduism, which would suggest that everything we see and experience, including our griefs and sufferings, are merely illusions superimposed on some deeper reality, and that the way forward is to detach from this world. This deeper reality doesn’t notice you, because there isn’t really a “you” to notice.
This touching little story in Luke could be seen a microcosm of the Gospel. God notices you, has compassion upon you in your current state of weakness and pain. God not only notices, but approaches. Further, he reaches out and touches the spiritually lifeless, bringing healing and new life where previously there was none.
“What if the hokey pokey IS what it’s all about?”
—-Jimmy Buffett
—-Jimmy Buffett