Bendemption, Three Weeks Away

Part Two: Postponed, but not Cancelled

In Part One, I discussed the way that Bendemption would come in the context of both #MeToo and the “cancel culture” that followed it. I raised the need for both a critical conversation on toxic masculinity and a constructive conversation that teaches men to live, do and be better in society. Now in Part Two, I look at St. Paul’s engagement of law, sin and grace from Romans 6 to help us understand what it might mean for Ben Solo to leave Kylo Ren behind.

Before I go on, I have to admit I was initially against Bendemption. Part of this is because Kristian Harloff’s popular voice was against it, part of it out of concern that it would simply rehash Anakin’s story without moving the saga forward. I’m no longer convinced of either of these reasons, and believe it to contain compelling narrative possibilities.

However, there’s one thing I still simply cannot go along with: Reylo. Bendemption via Reylo, and Reylo itself. My general issues with shipping notwithstanding, this one would demonstrate an egregious tone-deafness to the purpose and importance of #MeToo in our cultural moment. When Kylo gaslighted Rey after killing Snoke, he erased any chance of a healthy romance with her. If she was at all interested, and came to me and asked my opinion (maybe as a friend or as a parishioner), I’d advise her against it, help her remember that she has higher standards than that. A healthy romance is a mutually supportive one, what the Bible called “equally yoked.” But even in the healthiest of relationships, romantic and sexual feelings and drives have a particular potential for toxicity and subjugation that other types of relationships might not. #MeToo has begun to expose the ways this potential has become an epidemic in our society.

Given Ben’s state of mind and recent history with Rey, a relationship between them would risk reducing Rey to a plot device, yet another romantic interest in a male-dominated story. This would be especially the case with Bendemption, it would be just another “manic pixie dream girl” storyline that Hollywood has such a hard time escaping. Bendemption via Reylo would reduce Rey to merely the vehicle for Bendemption, rather than continuing her own wonderfully heroic journey as the co-protagonist.  Because if Bendemption happens, it will be a major thrust of the story: because of the forces involved, Reylo would turn the Sequel Trilogy into Ben’s story alone. This would be woefully disappointing, since this Trilogy has skillfully balanced the focus on both Rey and Kylo, and really given her the spotlight, especially in The Last Jedi.

But this isn’t to say that Rey can’t have any relationship with Ben, and that she can’t have a role in Bendemption. The trailers make it clear that she very much will. Indeed, I find a non­-romantic Bendemption incredibly appealing, because in order for Ben to be redeemed, one of the things he’ll have to grapple with is his past treatment of Rey, how and why he tried to subjugate her in Snoke’s throne room. If he is redeemed, he won’t be “cancelled,” but rather have found a way to live otherwise, to live better, to turn around. An important part of his journey would be learning to partner with Rey in her journey as a colleague and fellow inheritor of the Jedi legacy. The final chapter in one of the most relevant stories in our civilization with do its small part to help our culture (especially the men that Ben represents) purify its memory, live otherwise, live better, turn around.

The spiritual significance of this is clear. Metanoia. Turning around. Repentance. I was ultimately convinced of Bendemption by an article I had read earlier by Abigail Dillon for Eleven-ThirtyEight . Dillon illuminates Ben’s possible return to the light with the doctrine of Healing Grace, the mercy that God shows to repentant sinners by relaxing the demands of justice and pardoning their sin.

She implicitly raises the very question that occupies hypothetical discussions about Ben’s grandfather: if the Returned Jedi Anakin Skywalker had survived the destruction of the second Death Star, and if Luke had been able to bring his still-living father back with him to the party on Endor, would Anakin still be responsible for the crimes of Darth Vader? Would he be able to actively contribute to the New Republic in some capacity, or would he have to be “cancelled” (and not just “postponed” for everything he had done over the last few decades?

We have great difficulty answering this question because we want Anakin to contribute to rebuilding the Galaxy, but do not want Vader to get “off the hook.” We don’t want to extend “cheap grace,” so we can’t make room for mercy at all. On cue, Dillon quotes St. Paul’s very response to this problem at the beginning of Romans 6: “What then are we to say? Should we continue in sin in order that grace may abound? By no means! How can we who died to sin go on living in it?”

Now, Paul is writing to a community that may have actually believed in “cheap grace,” that our own actions don’t matter because Christ has atoned for all our sin anyways. This could be taken in a bizarre direction: people thought that sin was good because it created opportunities for more examples of repentance, a cold calculation that went like this: if more sin=more grace, and more grace=good, therefore more sin=good. This was transparently an epicurean excuse for more sin, which is why Paul had to nip it in the bud.

This use of grace as an excuse for sin certainly continues as an ingrained habit of thought: it contributes to the impotence among some Christian communities to chastise and prevent male mistreatment of women, and I suspect it’s part of the means by which conservative evangelicals have been able to square the circle of supporting Trump despite his clear moral failings. It’s a theologized version of “boys will be boys.”

And in response to this, we often turn to the swift hand of the cancellation: not only to save face (as in the James Gunn example), but also because we think that it’s the only way to prevent the toxicity that has undermined our relationships and our society. To this, Dillon helpfully responds that our need for justice, our desire to withhold mercy, is really a need to ensure that people are living well, treating each other with charity. For a time, for the cultural moment defined by #MeToo, this may indeed be the case. And it’s a general principle that consequences, responsibility, the contingent demands of justice, are necessary for the flourishing healthy relationships. Boundaries, ending unhealthy relationships, this moment of “postponement” that gives space for women to find safety and men to reflect on our complicity. I’ll return to St. Paul’s concerns here: power of “the law” to condemn sin can and does play a part in the working of grace to bring about righteousness.

But as St. Paul makes plain further along in Romans, the law itself isn’t enough. One of the opportunities presented by #MeToo and its consequent situations of being “postponed” is the time offered for men to undergo renewed reflection and increased self-awareness. The time to learn to live well, to treat women—and yes, ourselves—with greater compassion and respect. A final point from Dillon’s article: as Luke reminds Del Meeko, the Rebellion was never just about stopping the Empire, but about learning to choose to be better.  For the Christian, healing grace only gets us so far: we need “perfecting” or “sanctifying” grace to bring us home.

So if Bendemption is to be compelling, it’ll mean that Ben has to be “postponed” for a time, but not “cancelled” forever. Ben’s story represents the unique opportunity to help our society talk about both the need for men to 1) step back, make space for women and other minorities, and to reflect on toxicity and the potential to live better, and 2) gain the courage to live better as active, constructive participants in our personal (romantic, friendships, etc) and socio-political relationships. In Part Three I’ll return to Psalm 51 as a guide to that reflection offered by this moment of space and repentance.