“Do not despair, one of the thieves was saved; Do not presume, one of them was damned.” -Saint Augustine,
With this quote, Director John Michael McDonagh ushered us into the heart and mind of a priest in his film Calvary. This priest, Father James, is a good priest. He is quiet, calm, reserved, loving, and most of all, he cares about his parishioners.
In the opening scene, this priest is told he will be killed because he is in fact, a good priest. The killer confesses to the crime before the act is committed. He confesses his motive as well: he was abused by a bad priest, over and over again, the entirety of his childhood. He tells the priest it would be of no use to kill the bad priest because he is already dead; and besides, this would be expected. Revenge is the natural response to injustice. Killing a bad priest would do nothing, but killing a good one, a priest who loves, “that’d be a shock,” the killer declares. “I’m going to kill you, Father, because you’ve done nothing wrong.”
Given a week to get his house in order, we watch as he wrestles in prayer, with his fellow clergy, with his many and blatantly sinful parishioners, his estranged and suicidal daughter, and with himself as he dwells on the nature of life, death, and what it means for a good priest to die on behalf of the wicked. Hence, Calvary.
Silence, a film similar in faith though different in era, forces us to suffer along with Friars Rodrigues and Garupe as they are cast headlong into another dilemma of faith: facing suffering and persecution for their beliefs.
Martin Scorsese’s beautifully shot film pairs so paradoxically well with the violence, suffering, heartache, and death his subjects endure and in which we, the audience, are asked to bear witness to.
These two works of fiction, though both grounded in the ugly reality of Japanese persecution of Roman Catholic missionaries and sexual deviancy in the priesthood, are telling us through lives that feel so real we know they are true, the life of faith is one that must be lived in both the head and the heart. Two films, packed with so much weight in their own right that must be considered, are almost too much to bear when viewed in concert. Yet that is what we five friends did one August night.
The plan was hatched a few weeks prior when I knew my wife, Jesse, would be out of town on a Friday night and I wanted to fill that time with a guy movie night.
It went as such.
The five of us, Quentin, Ben, Paul, my brother, James, and myself, enjoy discussing films. We were in the middle of another discussion after Sunday worship one day – this one concerning films of the faith-based variety – when the films Silence and Calvary were brought up. Most faith-based films go awry because their makers have not been able to fully understand that what makes a sermon powerful does not necessarily translate to a good film. Silence, Calvary, and First Reformed, were offered as examples of a proper way to translate faith to film.
Because we five hold to the truth of who humans are, who we were created by and for, and thus, the chief end of man (to glorify God by enjoying him forever), we know there is unlimited – and mostly untapped – potential for faith-based films that delve deeper than the secular films. Most films that attempt to tackle faith are either films whose directors are stuck in the immanent frame of existence or are too jaded and hostile toward faith to honestly explore the transcendent reality found in Christianity, or whose directors only go ankle-deep in the ocean of stories to tell over the life of faith.
The five of us often lament this oft-neglected and relegated to the realm of PG uplifting film genre. This is not a complete criticism of those faith-based films; however, when you believe the gospel is the answer to all of humanity, it’d be a shame to keep it within the sole realm of family-friendly.
Therefore, our discussion that day led to the few good faith-based films, and inevitably to Silence and Calvary, two films I had already seen separately, and two of which none of my other friends had. We decided to meet together at our friend Paul’s house for this faith-based double feature. His was chosen for the seating arrangement, and more importantly, his large, hi-definition projector.
We began the viewing with Calvary and watched as Brendan Gleeson became this good priest who is given a death sentence in the opening scene of the film by one of his parishioners. We do not know who this parishioner is; he does. The rest of the film explores his inner turmoil of wanting to live, but knowing that by his death, he may perhaps save the very one who wants to murder him.
Midway, Gleeson’s character, Father James, is called to perform last rites on a young man in a hospital. His wife is standing over the bedside when James walks in. Father James administers the last rites, then walks with her to the nave to pray. She spoke about the fairness of a life taken so young. Her words, spoken through tears, filled Father James with hope, “We loved each other very much. And now he has gone. And that is not unfair,” she said. “That is just what happened. But many people don’t live good lives. They don’t feel love … I feel sorry for them.”
Another parishioner, the surgeon who attempted to save her husband, and also an avowed atheist, jokingly observes how attractive the now-deceased man’s wife is and muses that he’d always wanted to try a widow. In juxtaposition, these reveal the brokenness of a physically healthy man and the fullness of a widow mourning her husband; sorrowful yet always rejoicing.
By film’s end, we were ready to entertain these questions: What would I do if I was given a week to live? What would I do if I knew how to stop it? And what would I do if I knew that by dying, my death would perhaps save some?
We took a few minutes to discuss, stretch our legs, grab food, and prepare ourselves for what came next.
The crisp picture and booming surround sound immersed us into 17th Century Japan and held us captive for its near three-hour runtime.
“Ferreira is lost to us,” Says Father Valignano to the two young Jesuit Priests, Rodrigues and Garupe. These two young men refuse to believe the man who raised them in the faith would depart from it, even under severe persecution in Japan. Thus, they asked for the mission to find out if their father in the faith still lived; and if so, could they still call him brother?
In Japan the two face more than they ever believed themselves capable of enduring. Suffering, heartache, betrayal, and death. And worse, for the film explored more than these. Enduring suffering for the sake of your own faith is an intense trial. But the Japanese authorities found a far more powerful – and insidious – way to persecute Roman Catholic Missionaries: they forced these men to watch their converts in the faith be tortured and killed before their eyes, and would continue to do so until the missionaries apostatized.
Even for a non-Christian these scenes demand sympathy for Rodrigues, masterfully played by Andrew Garfield. But for the Christian, the emotional resonance went further, into the core of suffering and faith: how much do you love your Savior? How much are you willing to endure? Many would endure their own suffering and death for the sake of Christ, but what would you do if others are tortured on your behalf?
We felt the convulsions of Rodrigues’ faith and very essence of his being when he saw those whom he loved die these terrible deaths; we heard his ardent prayers to Christ on their behalf; we watched as he inevitably apostatized, being convinced that Christ Himself told him to do so for the sake of others. And we could do nothing to prevent it. All we could do was ask, what would I do in that situation?
The screen went black and silent, followed by the director’s card and a few crickets chirping. Minutes went by; none spoke. The mood of the room was one of somber satisfaction: we knew we had born witness to a veritable masterpiece.
Though I am not Roman Catholic (I adhere to Protestant Christianity) I can appreciate the questions raised and answers given by the two films; I can still appreciate the emotional depth both directors had in addressing these works; and I can still appreciate their willingness to ask and answer questions few directors ever have the willingness, or honesty, to work through on film.
Minutes later, one of us stood and exhaled, breaking the silence. We turned the lights on, cleared the coffee table of our food and drinks, and moved to the kitchen, discussing the film as we walked.
“Where is the place for a weak man in a world like this?”
This question, uttered hopelessly by the tragic and treacherous, yet pitiable character, Kichijiro, became the center of our discussion while we stood in the kitchen.
It is still relatively easy, depending on which state, to live as a Christian in America. This is not the case for Christians in many other nations. What would I do if I ever lived in a nation hostile toward Christianity; would I endure persecution? Would I persevere? Would I question God’s goodness and love?
There’s a line from my favorite trilogy, The Lord of the Rings, spoken by the wise Gandalf to Frodo, during a scene where he despaired of finding the ring, wishing “none of this had happened.”
To which Gandalf replied, “So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”
I hold to the doctrine of the Reformed Doctrine of the Perseverance of the saints, meaning my faith will persevere because God Himself will preserve me even in the darkest of hours. We cannot choose the times and circumstances of our when and where we are born, or what governments and regimes we are born under. God does, however. In His wisdom, God determines the boundaries and times of our lives. I hope, trust, pray, if that day ever comes, God will hold me fast. I do believe he will.
Days, even weeks, later, I find myself returning to that night. It has affected my thoughts and flavored many of my conversations, including ones with friends who have not seen it, and given rise to a depth and richness to our discussions on the merits of faith in film that few other movies ever could.
Films such as these are not made often. And in this ever-secularizing world, films that deal with the reality of the transcendent, wrestle with the meaning of life and death, suffering and hope, and the end of all men, are the only ones that can combat the malaise and hopelessness rampant in film. More, though not all, faith-based films need to be dark, need to wrestle with suffering, heartache, and death, and need to deal with the realities of life, because we understand that Christianity has the only consistent, logical, and emotionally satisfying answer to a world lost in hopelessness and despair.