Chip's Ravelings

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I watched Shaun of the Dead for the first time a couple of days ago. It was funny and profane and not at all horrifying. I had seen Hot Fuzz, so I was looking forward to seeing Simon Pegg and Nick Frost in this film, encouraged by my older kids who thought I would like it. Shaun of the Dead follows the fortunes of a young retail clerk who has just come to realize that his life is at a standstill. His career is a dead end, his girlfriend has just dumped him, and his flatmate is holding him back. He decides to retake control of his life just as his community is overrun by zombies. Shaun must rescue his friends while fighting off the undead.

The humor in Shaun of the Dead is what I would call frat boy humor. Much of it consists of profanity and crude references to sex. According to IMDB, the f-word occurs 77 times in the film. No word on who did the counting, but it was certainly prominent. Nevertheless, the funniest parts are when the characters are finally laying bare their own desires in their relationships in dialogue made ludicrous by the backdrop of zombie hands at the windows and the sounds of zombie moaning. It was also funny to see one of the characters literally disemboweled and torn limb from limb.  (On a side note, the next day after seeing Shaun, I saw Euripides’ The Bacchae, which also features a man being torn to pieces at the bare hands of other humans. The Bacchae makes zombie movies seem rather tame.)

What really got me thinking, however, was the character of Ed. Ed is Shaun’s flatmate. They were best friends at school. Ed is crude and dirty, lazy, slovenly, and disgusting. Shaun’s other friends can’t understand why Shaun sticks with him. In fact, Ed is Shaun’s Id, the infantile part of Shaun that revels in whatever is disgusting or shocking. In order for Shaun to bring order to his life, he has to have some control over Ed. As the movie is ending, we think at first that Ed is dead. Shaun, reunited with Liz, has taken control of his life. But the last scene shows him going out to the shed where he has Ed, now a zombie, chained and under control but still able to play video games and make him laugh. The Id is not gone but tamed.

Long before Freud described the Id, Saint Paul described the flesh (often called the sinful nature in modern translations), that part of a person that continues in rebellion against God even when the person has made every conscious effort to surrender. Saint Paul’s prescription for the flesh is death. It cannot be tamed, and even when killed, keeps returning to a semblance of life and trying to regain control. The flesh is the zombie in each of us. The trouble with the flesh is not merely that it does things unacceptable in polite society. It is hostile to God and tries continuously to undermine the work of the Holy Spirit. As often as it raises itself up, it must be killed again—not tamed or kept in chains but put to death. Only constant vigilance with the grace of God can protect us from the flesh.

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If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness. (1 John 1:9)

“Faithful and merciful” I can understand, but “faithful and just?” Why does John reassure his readers with God’s justice? Wouldn’t God’s mercy be more appropriate?

Let’s think about this verse in context. John has been giving the gospel in a nutshell. The blood of Jesus purifies us from all sin. We can’t claim to be without sin, but if we confess our sins, then he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins. God’s plan for dealing with sin was to give his own son as an atoning sacrifice. By the blood of Jesus the penalty of sin has been paid and God’s wrath against sin has been turned aside. His justice is satisfied by the blood of his son.

Sin continues to be a problem, however. The sinful nature remains in us, and we continue to sin even after placing our trust in him. But if we acknowledge our sin, we can count on God—he is faithful—to do what is right. And what is right? It is right for God to forgive our sin since Jesus has already paid the penalty for it. If God were to hold our sin against us or exact some further penalty, it would be tantamount to saying that Jesus’ blood was not a sufficient sacrifice. God is just; he will not count against us even the sins we commit after having come to a knowledge of the truth. We must, however, confess them as sins and not excuse them or pretend that they’re not really so bad.

There are two errors we must also avoid. The first is thinking that God’s forgiveness means we need not bear the immediate consequences of sin. The second is adding sin to sin with presumption.

God’s forgiveness saves us from the ultimate consequence of sin: death. But this does not mean that we will not bear the immediate consequences. Someone caught committing a crime is still answerable to the criminal justice system. God’s forgiveness does not keep him or her from facing the penalty prescribed by law for committing the crime. God may forgive murder, but the state does not. Likewise, someone guilty of unkindness toward a brother must still bear the cost to the relationship with that brother.

Since we have this guarantee of forgiveness, someone may be tempted to say, “I will sin and then confess and be forgiven.” Thus they would add the sin of presumption to their other sins. The transformed heart does not desire to sin. It’s desire is to please God above all else, so if you find yourself desiring to sin with an expectation of being forgiven, you must ask yourself whether your heart has been transformed.

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The ancients knew what they were about making February shorter than other months. Short as it is, it still seems the longest. Since Christmas with its reds and greens, all we’ve seen are somber browns and grays and blacks and blinding whites. The snow has lost its charm, and all of us, cooped up together for the past two months, have too often lost our tempers. We needed to get out. We needed to renew our faith in the coming of spring with its lush growth and wanton colors.

Saint Paul mercifully provides a place where those weary of winter’s doldrums can refresh their souls. The Como Park Conservatory operates year around, but in February, it’s like water in a desert. We all went yesterday to marinate ourselves in the tropical weather under its glass dome. We breathed the drenched air of the fern room. We saw the stately Christmas palms and the not-so-stately bottle palms. We saw oranges on an orange tree and cacao pods on a chocolate tree and coffee berries on a coffee tree. We saw allspice and red ginger and black pepper. We saw a Panama hat tree, so called because its young leaves are used to make Panama hats.

We always save the best for last, of course, and the best is the Sunken Garden with all the flowers. I like flowers, but I’m not very good with their names. I do fine with marigolds, daffodils, and tulips, but I can never seem to remember cyclamens, rhododendrons, or bromeliads. So, to my chagrin, I can’t remember most of what we saw. All I know is that they were beautiful. There were crimson blossoms sprung from drooping heads that twisted their petals upward as they unfurled. There were star lilies as big as my hand. There were blossoms shaped like tiny vases.

And there were carp in the pond. When the children were young, they would race past the flowers to see the fish, to touch the fish. Certainly, the carp are fascinating: their glittering scales, whiskered faces, and round toothless mouths. Lithe and slippery, they glide over and under one another looking shamelessly for a handout.

After walking through the garden, I sat down on a bench where the winter sun dazzled me. I relaxed. For, lo, the winter is past. The rains are over and gone. Flowers appear in the earth, and the time of singing has come.