Bendemption (long read version)

This is the long-read version of a 3-part essay. If you'd like to read it in parts, here is Part One, Part Two and Part Three

Part One: Kylo Cancelled?

A few weeks ago I had occasion to write a brief twitter thread about Psalm 51, which formed the core of what I will write today. This is King David’s Miserere, which he is said to have poured out when he was confronted by the prophet Nathan about his affair with Bathsheba and subsequent murder of Uriah. The thread reflected on what redemption might and might not mean for David, as expressed in this classic expression of repentance. I tweeted out the main gist of my idea, but then someone interjected, “there was no redemption for Bathsheba and Uriah!”

I was a bit baffled by this interjection, which to me seemed to be a non sequitur.  My seminary Old Testament prof had stressed that the Biblical interpreter’s main job is to “dance with the text,” to take seriously what Scripture presents us even as we present our own experience to it, and this fit well with my mindset to stay focused on the flow of a thought being explored or to let myself get caught up in the sweep of a compelling story. My twitter interlocutor instead brought forward the need to question the text, to expose those who have been kept silent by it. I spent the rest of the conversation, not so much backtracking but still covering my bases in communicating that I understand the importance of that question too. Not backtracking, but sidetracking off of my main point.

This type of counter-textual analysis isn’t new to me: I’m not surprised by it but after a few courses in undergrad and a bunch more in seminary, I understand its importance but I admit I’m tired of it being the only aspect of someone’s approach to the Sacred Text of my community. But it was the non sequitur itself that concerned me, that my conversation couldn’t continue but had to be “cancelled” by the counter-conversation. My concern is a broader one: I worry that we’re at a cultural moment in which we are incapable of having both the critical conversation and the “moving-forward” constructive one at the same time, much less finding ways to integrate the two.

I’m being a little too vague. Which conversations in particular? Ultimately that of tradition and innovation, concerns of the past vs. concerns of the present, such as oil and environment, “ok, boomer” and “lazy millennial,” Jordan Peterson and the folks that cancelled him. Now before I go on I feel the need to (ahem) cover my bases and clarify that my politics are decidedly not centrist. I will side with innovation, present concerns, Greta Thunberg and the unique struggles of Millennials in a Boomer-dominated world. I remain unconvinced that Peterson and especially his followers are the right people or in the right place to make their claims: they may be attempting a constructive conversation about masculinity, but they haven’t sufficiently grasped the import of the critical conversation, the effect of toxicity on women and other minorities. In Part 2 I will be clear that the critical conversation is essential for the constructive conversation to have sufficient depth. Indeed, the most welcome part of this cultural moment has got to be #MeToo, the critical conversation that required some voices to take a “time-out”—to be “cancelled” (or at least “postponed”) in order for women to truthfully express their pain and experiences without fear of reprisal, and for them to be believed.

However, sometimes “cancel culture” isn’t itself sufficiently critical. The occasion for my reflection on Psalm 51 was my initial response to Stephen Kent’s article for The Federalist on what Bendemption might say in the context of “cancel culture.” Cancel culture may have important elements but it can often be the performative woke residue that merely reacts to the gains of #MeToo, fiscally-motivated virtue signalling without transformation, without the deeper, integrated conversation and conversion that I believe #MeToo truly called for. Covering their bases for the sake of covering their bases. Responding to save face, rather than as a way to live better in society and be better people.

A high-profile example of economic virtue signalling was Disney and Marvel’s removal of James Gunn from the Guardians 3 film after old inappropriate tweets had surfaced. Disney and Marvel went ahead with firing Gunn despite opposition from Zoe Saldana, Pom Klementieff and Karen Gillan, all powerful women who had worked closely with Gunn, two of them of colour, none of them the sort to tolerate a man guilty of the behaviour that Gunn was accused of. If these women felt that Gunn was a safe and constructive person to work with, then they should be believed. Add to this the fact that Gunn very publicly disowned his previous comments as part of his foolish past, and that the tweets themselves were dug up by those seeking to discredit Gunn precisely because of the prominence given to women and people of colour in Guardians 1 and 2. As the link above makes plain, Disney and Marvel ultimately relented and brought Gunn back to the fold. However the whole kerfuffle has delayed the film, and therefore complicated the exquisite narrative balance of the MCU, while Gunn finishes the Suicide Squad sequel for Disney-Marvel’s competitor, Warner Brothers-DC.

Part Two: Postponed, not Cancelled

Now 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’s 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.

Part Three: A contrite heart you will not despise

And so for Luke’s nephew, redemption won’t simply be the act of leaving Kylo Ren: it’ll involve the opportunity to be better for the galaxy, for Rey and for himself. Now in Part Three, I can turn back to Psalm 51 to help us see what Ben’s moment of reflection might look like: what he might have to leave behind and what he might learn anew. I’ll quote portions of the Psalm, but the whole thing is worth reading here (it isn’t that long).

Notably, the Psalmist directly confronts the limits of the law, that it can only get us so far. He addresses God with the conviction,

“You have no delight in sacrifice [in this case, the legal demands of justice];

    if I were to give a burnt-offering, you would not be pleased.

The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit;

    a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.”

Ben may indeed have to be “postponed” for a time, but this cannot simply be to keep the galaxy safe from Kylo Ren, as if Ben no longer has anything to offer.

Nevertheless, the first task of this moment would be to get in touch with his sense of contrition. It would provide him the opportunity to gain an awareness of the ways he has harmed others. As the Psalmist cries, “I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.” But what is the scale of the Psalmist’s transgressions? “Against you, you alone, have I sinned, and done what is evil in your sight.” This is a curious claim: David has very much sinned against Bathsheba and Uriah, and Kylo has sinned against Rey and against his own father. But this claim refuses to reduce the Psalmist’s actions to two isolated individuals, because one is too many. And why is one too many? Because the harm brought to one relationship is harm against all relationships, against relationality itself, and therefore against the God who is Love. Relationships are personal, and political, and matters of identity. For the King of God’s Chosen People and for the Supreme Leader of the First Order, the political dimensions are more apparent: they are national, global, galactic, cosmic. But for all of us, causing harm to relationships is an opposition to the God of love, to the Balance of the Force.

But this is precisely where the story turns, because the only reason we’re capable of affecting others for evil is because we can affect others at all, so we can affect them for good. We risk the harm of relationships because we need the good that comes from connecting with others, since that relational connection is intrinsic to our human identity as persons-in-community. The rest of the Psalm is devoted to learning this goodness, first with the posture of a humble student, a Padawan who turns to a power beyond himself:

“You desire truth in the inward being;

    therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart.

Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;

    wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

Let me hear joy and gladness;

    let the bones that you have crushed rejoice….

Create in me a clean heart, O God,

    and put a new and right spirit within me….

Restore to me the joy of your salvation,

    and sustain in me a willing spirit.”

This turn to goodness is made clear by repetition, as is common in Hebrew poetry. Just as notable however is what the Psalmist doesn’t say, what he doesn’t do. Throughout this process, the Psalmist refuses to shame victims, or to make himself into a victim of some sort of counter-revolution. That victim-narrative is the same sort of political game that would use “cheap grace” as an excuse to continue harming others. Not only is the Psalmist prevented from descending into these political games: he finds that he doesn’t need to in the first place. He is free to quit the game, and find his own well-being, the “joy of salvation,” in the Perfect Life of God, because he is free to be vulnerable again. This freed vulnerability offered by the moment of repentance opens us up to the Spirit's work of "grafting us into" the Perfect Life of Christ, who gathers this family of imperfect followers together in lives of mutual responsibility, respect, care and love, and restores penitents to these relationships with God and with others. The “moment” may be lifelong, but it is tangibly real: ask anyone who has been found by this hope to tell you their story.

In fact, the Psalmist is most decisively set on the lifelong way of redemption when he is ready to tell this story to others. Like Yoda, he continues to be a humble student who has been “[taught] wisdom in [his] secret heart,” but is therefore able to pass along his wisdom to others:

“Then I will teach transgressors your ways,

    and sinners will return to you.

Deliver me from bloodshed, O God,

    O God of my salvation,

    and my tongue will sing aloud of your deliverance.

O Lord, open my lips,

    and my mouth will declare your praise.”

He is no longer “postponed,” but an active agent who proclaims the right order of the cosmos, pursues the Balance of the Force, and aids others in following that path. He has found the family that Rey, Poe, Finn, Rose and others have found, and able to actively treat them well. Why? Because he has returned to himself, acknowledged his sin as well as his need for family, for home, and the desires that express this need.

This may all be too much for Ben to undergo in one film: we may only see the start, the initial moment of contrition and surrender, and possibly the first steps of dismantling the effects of his past actions: destroying his shrine to Vader, confronting Sidious. But that beginning may be what we need as a society in order to start teaching men and boys to return to themselves, return to that spark of light and compassion that we all contain. The most compelling possibility for Ben’s return to himself is hinted at even in the Psalmist’s reflection on our fundamental sinfulness:

“Indeed, I was born guilty,

    a sinner when my mother conceived me.”

I was ultimately convinced of the storytelling power of Bendemption when I began to consider the role that Leia might play in his narrative. Rather than being derivative of the Luke-Anakin story, it would provide a powerful mirror image within the Skywalker family that opens up the character possibilities that were closed when Anakin died, the opportunity for Ben as an active agent of the light that I described above.

This isn’t to reduce Leia’s story, or womanhood itself, to the role of motherhood. It merely takes advantage of the fact that being Ben’s mother is a part of who Leia is, one of the many ways that she can bring hope and light to the galaxy. Also, ask healthy parents just how much their roles as parents become parts of their own core identities, and how much they want their children to, in Yoda’s words, “grow beyond” them. Leia’s story was well told in the Original Trilogy, so she can and does have a supporting role for Rey, Ben, Poe and the other main characters of the Sequel Trilogy.

Hopefully there’s enough archival footage of Carrie Fisher to tell this story convincingly, because convincing it would most certainly be. Ben’s mother is powerfully positioned to help him return to his core identity, to his first home in her womb, which we were given a glimpse of in the Aftermath trilogy. Because there’s that other Psalm of praise about birth, which hearkens back to the beginning of the Skywalker lineage and its destiny for the galaxy:

“For it was you who formed my inward parts;

    you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

    Wonderful are your works;

that I know very well.

My frame was not hidden from you,

when I was being made in secret,

    intricately woven in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes beheld my unformed substance.” (Psalm 139:13-16)

What Leia’s birth mother and birth brother said about her birth father, she echoes about her birth son: “there’s still light in him. I know it.”