Last evening I had the opportunity to view the second Narnia film, Prince Caspian, at the bishop’s residence downtown with a small group of Sudanese youth. Again, it was a fascinating experience for me.
We began the evening talking a little about the youth retreat planned for Pentecost weekend at the end of May, and by introducing one of the songs we hope to use on the retreat. Then there was a little debate as to whether we should re-watch the first film, since there were some present who had not seen it. In the end we decided to just recap the first film and forge ahead with the second.
Both films take place in the context of war and have prominent battle scenes. Although we didn’t discuss it, it was hard for me not to think about what kind of personal response such scenes evoke in these young people who have lived their entire lives against the backdrop of war. That was particularly true for the opening scene of the first movie: a German air raid over London. The aerial bombings of South Sudan by the forces in Khartoum remain among the most traumatic memories of the war. People here make frequent references to the “antinov” aircraft used by the north to bombard the south.
The Christian thematic is much more subtle in the second film than in the first, and has to do with faith and trust. The Pevensie children arrive in a Narnia that has all but forgotten them and the golden age of their reign, and forgotten even Aslan, too – questioning whether they ever really existed or have any relevance to the hidden and hunted existence of the “old Narnians” who have been conquered and supplanted by the invading Telmarines. It is Lucy, the youngest of the Pevensies, who first sees Aslan; but the others do not believe her and are unwilling to follow the direction she says Aslan is pointing out to them. And Lucy herself lacks the courage to follow Aslan alone. This disbelief and lack of courage result in a dead-end detour and tragic waste of time, and lead to a catastrophically misconceived attack on the Telmarine castle causing the death of many Narnians. In the wake of the failure of their own efforts and reasoning, the older children gradually come to believe that Lucy did in fact see Aslan. When they ask her why they had not been able to see him, she responds by suggesting that perhaps they didn’t really want or try to see Aslan.
The lack of faith of the older children puts them in the position of relying more on themselves than on Aslan, even though Lucy reminds them: “Have you forgotten who really defeated the White Witch?” (meaning Aslan). This represents a swing of the pendulum from the first film, in which the children are extremely fearful and reluctant to enter the battle and fight for Narnia. In Prince Caspian the error is on the other side: they are too presumptuous and self-reliant. The courage that overcame their fear in the first film has become bravado that overestimates their unaided abilities and leads them to the brink of a disaster from which only Aslan is able to rescue them and Narnia in the second.
The themes of faith and trust are, of course, related. Monsignor Luigi Giussani, founder of the Catholic movement Communion and Liberation, saw this clearly, tracing them to their common root in human freedom. His insights on these matters are strikingly illustrated in Prince Caspian. In The Religious Sense (trans. John Zucchi, Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1997), Giussani writes:
The human person, in fact, in his freedom, affirms what he has already secretly decided in the beginning. Freedom does not appear so much in the clamour of the choice. Rather it is played out in the early, most subtle dawn of consciousness in its impact with the world. And here is the alternative in which man risks himself, and if almost unconsciously: either you face reality wide open, loyally, with the bright eyes of a child, calling a spade a spade, embracing its entire presence, even its meaning; either this, or you place yourself in front of reality, defend yourself against it, almost with your arms flung in front of your eyes to ward off unwelcomed and unexpected blows. You call reality to the tribunal of your opinion, and then potentially full of objections, having become too shrewd to accept its most gratuitous and surprising evidence and suggestions, you admit only what suits you. [pp. 122-123]
He goes on to explain that this “[f]reedom is exercized in that playing field called sign,” (p. 123), that is, the way in which we interpret the “gratuitous and surprising evidence and suggestions” with which reality continually provokes us. These are never so utterly overpowering as to vanquish our freedom and coerce a conclusion, and yet our response to them reveals the predispositions of our hearts. That wide open, loyal, bright-eyed, honest embrace of reality as it presents itself to me, Giussani identifies as the evangelical quality of poverty of spirit (cf. Mt 5:3).
Giussani explains this dynamic even further – with regard to our response to Jesus – in At the Origen of the Christian Claim (trans. Viviane Hewitt, Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1998), the book which follows upon The Religious Sense:
God tends to give value to the position our freedom has already assumed. God seconds a decision our freedom has already made and forces it to reveal more clearly what it is willing to do… It is a decision with hidden roots bound to our attitude to reality as a whole. Our freedom is not reflected in startling choices; they are not what make our lives dramatic. Nothing is more discrete than freedom. Our spirit assumes an original position in the face of reality and only afterwards develops and becomes aware of it, especially in making decisions which have the greatest implications. In confronting the problem of Jesus Christ, the consequence of the primordial position is realized, the most intimate and original position of our conscience before the totality of beings and Being. [pp. 71, 79]
And in a quote that connects the dots between faith, trust and freedom, and serves as great summary of the spiritual lesson of Prince Caspian, Giussani writes:
Thus, the most dramatic choice our freedom will have to make and the condition for that capacity for verification which we are discussing here is to be found in the depths of our being: it is a choice between self-sufficiency and willingness. [p. 81]
We began the evening talking a little about the youth retreat planned for Pentecost weekend at the end of May, and by introducing one of the songs we hope to use on the retreat. Then there was a little debate as to whether we should re-watch the first film, since there were some present who had not seen it. In the end we decided to just recap the first film and forge ahead with the second.
Both films take place in the context of war and have prominent battle scenes. Although we didn’t discuss it, it was hard for me not to think about what kind of personal response such scenes evoke in these young people who have lived their entire lives against the backdrop of war. That was particularly true for the opening scene of the first movie: a German air raid over London. The aerial bombings of South Sudan by the forces in Khartoum remain among the most traumatic memories of the war. People here make frequent references to the “antinov” aircraft used by the north to bombard the south.
The Christian thematic is much more subtle in the second film than in the first, and has to do with faith and trust. The Pevensie children arrive in a Narnia that has all but forgotten them and the golden age of their reign, and forgotten even Aslan, too – questioning whether they ever really existed or have any relevance to the hidden and hunted existence of the “old Narnians” who have been conquered and supplanted by the invading Telmarines. It is Lucy, the youngest of the Pevensies, who first sees Aslan; but the others do not believe her and are unwilling to follow the direction she says Aslan is pointing out to them. And Lucy herself lacks the courage to follow Aslan alone. This disbelief and lack of courage result in a dead-end detour and tragic waste of time, and lead to a catastrophically misconceived attack on the Telmarine castle causing the death of many Narnians. In the wake of the failure of their own efforts and reasoning, the older children gradually come to believe that Lucy did in fact see Aslan. When they ask her why they had not been able to see him, she responds by suggesting that perhaps they didn’t really want or try to see Aslan.
The lack of faith of the older children puts them in the position of relying more on themselves than on Aslan, even though Lucy reminds them: “Have you forgotten who really defeated the White Witch?” (meaning Aslan). This represents a swing of the pendulum from the first film, in which the children are extremely fearful and reluctant to enter the battle and fight for Narnia. In Prince Caspian the error is on the other side: they are too presumptuous and self-reliant. The courage that overcame their fear in the first film has become bravado that overestimates their unaided abilities and leads them to the brink of a disaster from which only Aslan is able to rescue them and Narnia in the second.
The themes of faith and trust are, of course, related. Monsignor Luigi Giussani, founder of the Catholic movement Communion and Liberation, saw this clearly, tracing them to their common root in human freedom. His insights on these matters are strikingly illustrated in Prince Caspian. In The Religious Sense (trans. John Zucchi, Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1997), Giussani writes:
The human person, in fact, in his freedom, affirms what he has already secretly decided in the beginning. Freedom does not appear so much in the clamour of the choice. Rather it is played out in the early, most subtle dawn of consciousness in its impact with the world. And here is the alternative in which man risks himself, and if almost unconsciously: either you face reality wide open, loyally, with the bright eyes of a child, calling a spade a spade, embracing its entire presence, even its meaning; either this, or you place yourself in front of reality, defend yourself against it, almost with your arms flung in front of your eyes to ward off unwelcomed and unexpected blows. You call reality to the tribunal of your opinion, and then potentially full of objections, having become too shrewd to accept its most gratuitous and surprising evidence and suggestions, you admit only what suits you. [pp. 122-123]
He goes on to explain that this “[f]reedom is exercized in that playing field called sign,” (p. 123), that is, the way in which we interpret the “gratuitous and surprising evidence and suggestions” with which reality continually provokes us. These are never so utterly overpowering as to vanquish our freedom and coerce a conclusion, and yet our response to them reveals the predispositions of our hearts. That wide open, loyal, bright-eyed, honest embrace of reality as it presents itself to me, Giussani identifies as the evangelical quality of poverty of spirit (cf. Mt 5:3).
Giussani explains this dynamic even further – with regard to our response to Jesus – in At the Origen of the Christian Claim (trans. Viviane Hewitt, Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1998), the book which follows upon The Religious Sense:
God tends to give value to the position our freedom has already assumed. God seconds a decision our freedom has already made and forces it to reveal more clearly what it is willing to do… It is a decision with hidden roots bound to our attitude to reality as a whole. Our freedom is not reflected in startling choices; they are not what make our lives dramatic. Nothing is more discrete than freedom. Our spirit assumes an original position in the face of reality and only afterwards develops and becomes aware of it, especially in making decisions which have the greatest implications. In confronting the problem of Jesus Christ, the consequence of the primordial position is realized, the most intimate and original position of our conscience before the totality of beings and Being. [pp. 71, 79]
And in a quote that connects the dots between faith, trust and freedom, and serves as great summary of the spiritual lesson of Prince Caspian, Giussani writes:
Thus, the most dramatic choice our freedom will have to make and the condition for that capacity for verification which we are discussing here is to be found in the depths of our being: it is a choice between self-sufficiency and willingness. [p. 81]
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