It was winter, nineteen eighty-two. The new annex and library at my grade school had just opened. And to showcase the new technology cart, which consisted of a television and VHS tape player, Raiders of the Lost Ark was showing in the library. I was six years old. We didn’t have a VHS player at home. This was maximum-level state-of-the-art entertainment.
As it neared the end of the film, and the lid of the ark was opened, the lower school students were instructed to close their eyes. This was the iconic face-melting scene. I squinted, but I didn’t close my eyes. By the collective screams and sounds of disgust, I wasn’t the only one!
As memorable as that movie was, it was the golden ark with its two angelic sentinels that impressed me most. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I understood the symbolism. There, in the space between the cherubic wings, was a profound theological statement. The nothingness of space between the wings contained the image of Israel’s God: no-thing.
Humans struggle with idolatry. We always have. We take something good, and we make it our god. The sticker shock of January’s credit statements will be a reminder of that for millions of people. In all likelihood, it won’t be collectively noticed or understood. The markets will not be pleased if we spend less this year than last. How we measure progress these days needs to be seriously reconsidered. But it won’t. Elon won’t allow it.
Our need to fill the gap, to fill the void, to scratch the itch is exploited, packaged, and sold back to us at a premium. We willingly pay the price to buy back our own enslavement. To desire No-Thing is wild and unpredictable; silence unnerves. We speak of saving the environment, yet do disproportionally little to address the spiritual crisis, our cultural obsession with consumption. We are enslaved, and ironically, our enslavement is being marketed and sold back to us.
Even as a lower-schooler, I understood the moral import of the scene from Indiana Jones; that when the lid of the ark of the covenant was opened to reveal a box filled with sand, not treasure, there was something profound being communicated to the audience. Toht laughs hysterically at the sight of the dust. But, as spectral images encircle the entourage, Belloq cries out, “It’s beautiful”. Indiana tells Marion, “Don’t look at it. Shut your eyes, Marion. Don’t look at it no matter what happens.”
The golden ark was beautiful; the spectral images enticed the senses with their quasi-erotic seduction. What enchanted the soldiers was nothing more, and nothing less, than a mirror-reflection of their own disordered desire. And that’s what brings the Nazis to their liquified demise. What is at first beautiful, enticing, and erotic, becomes hideous and corpse-like. They are driven to insanity by the very promise of the image of Israel’s God: no-thing.
As the reverberation of November’s sticker shock echoes through the halls of January, and all of that stuff becomes tomorrow’s junk, and the spiritual crisis behind it goes unattended, Indiana Jones’ words aren’t bad ones to reflect upon: “Don’t look at it. Shut your eyes, Marion. Don’t look at it, no matter what happens.” The answer to the crisis is right in front of us, from Sinai to the present day. But what hope for transformation it offers us is No-thing. And God should have known that in a world defined by consumption, idolatry, and consumerism, you can’t sell a negative. You can’t sell no-thing. Then again, that is the paradox of Israel’s God.
Don’t Look Now
It was winter, nineteen eighty-two. The new annex and library at my grade school had just opened. And to showcase the new technology cart, which consisted of a television and VHS tape player, Raiders of the Lost Ark was showing in the library. I was six years old. We didn’t have a VHS player at home. This was maximum-level state-of-the-art entertainment.
As it neared the end of the film, and the lid of the ark was opened, the lower school students were instructed to close their eyes. This was the iconic face-melting scene. I squinted, but I didn’t close my eyes. By the collective screams and sounds of disgust, I wasn’t the only one!
As memorable as that movie was, it was the golden ark with its two angelic sentinels that impressed me most. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I understood the symbolism. There, in the space between the cherubic wings, was a profound theological statement. The nothingness of space between the wings contained the image of Israel’s God: no-thing.
Humans struggle with idolatry. We always have. We take something good, and we make it our god. The sticker shock of January’s credit statements will be a reminder of that for millions of people. In all likelihood, it won’t be collectively noticed or understood. The markets will not be pleased if we spend less this year than last. How we measure progress these days needs to be seriously reconsidered. But it won’t. Elon won’t allow it.
Our need to fill the gap, to fill the void, to scratch the itch is exploited, packaged, and sold back to us at a premium. We willingly pay the price to buy back our own enslavement. To desire No-Thing is wild and unpredictable; silence unnerves. We speak of saving the environment, yet do disproportionally little to address the spiritual crisis, our cultural obsession with consumption. We are enslaved, and ironically, our enslavement is being marketed and sold back to us.
Even as a lower-schooler, I understood the moral import of the scene from Indiana Jones; that when the lid of the ark of the covenant was opened to reveal a box filled with sand, not treasure, there was something profound being communicated to the audience. Toht laughs hysterically at the sight of the dust. But, as spectral images encircle the entourage, Belloq cries out, “It’s beautiful”. Indiana tells Marion, “Don’t look at it. Shut your eyes, Marion. Don’t look at it no matter what happens.”
The golden ark was beautiful; the spectral images enticed the senses with their quasi-erotic seduction. What enchanted the soldiers was nothing more, and nothing less, than a mirror-reflection of their own disordered desire. And that’s what brings the Nazis to their liquified demise. What is at first beautiful, enticing, and erotic, becomes hideous and corpse-like. They are driven to insanity by the very promise of the image of Israel’s God: no-thing.
As the reverberation of November’s sticker shock echoes through the halls of January, and all of that stuff becomes tomorrow’s junk, and the spiritual crisis behind it goes unattended, Indiana Jones’ words aren’t bad ones to reflect upon: “Don’t look at it. Shut your eyes, Marion. Don’t look at it, no matter what happens.” The answer to the crisis is right in front of us, from Sinai to the present day. But what hope for transformation it offers us is No-thing. And God should have known that in a world defined by consumption, idolatry, and consumerism, you can’t sell a negative. You can’t sell no-thing. Then again, that is the paradox of Israel’s God.
The Reverend Dr. Daniel Tatarnic is priest-in-charge at St. Alban's, Beamsville.
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