BECOMING A JEDI

Every English major I knew in my undergraduate years had a story of how they came to love books. I often suspected, though could never prove, that some of these stories were untrue--it was hard to believe that Gothic novels were anybody’s first step into Literature. But for as much as these astonishing origin stories lacked realism, so much more did a sense of shame haunt the truth. Sure, I said my love of lit began with an earlier-than-appropriate reading of Bradbury--that was edgy and cool. But it was also a cover for the fact that in my heart I knew my journey as a reader really began with an inordinate passion for Star Wars Novels. 

In particular, I loved a series called Young Jedi Knights, which was about kids a little older than me who were training to be the new generation of force-wielders. I was enthralled. More than anything, I wanted to go off and join their quasi-monastic boarding school on an alien world and learn, through intensive training, how to master the potential within me. To their credit, the authors of the series made learning seem like the coolest thing in the world--that the hard work of self-discipline and the pursuit of timeless wisdom were the doors to integrity and peace while shortcuts and overwrought passions were the path to a broken soul.

Looking back, the narrative of light and dark in the Jedi’s adventures provided an important counterpoint to what I was learning in Sunday School. I must admit my debt of gratitude to my Sunday school teachers. They taught me the Bible and the basics of the faith with skill and dedication. What was missing was the life-ethic. Like so many Sunday school and youth group kids, we got a lot of important but disconnected rules, but missed the thing that gave them connection and life: the thing that we at St. Matthew’s call a Rule of Life. 

Here’s an example. From Sunday school, I learned that a Christian should not lie. It was unquestionably the truth. From my Star Wars novels, I learned that a Jedi doesn’t lie because it divided a person in half--part of them dwelling in reality and part of them in a fantasy--that half of life was lost. Both said the same thing, but in the second I understood the formational dimension in terms I viscerally grasped. As Martin Thornton would say, my moral theology regained ascetical theology, a way of narrating my formation. Stories have this incredible power, they do something that propositions alone cannot do: they give shape to the truth in a way that moves head and heart and hand all at once.

Apart from building my stamina for reading that later transferred to works of objectively greater quality, I’ll always be grateful for those Star Wars novels because they built a box in my imagination and inspired a longing in my heart to lead an intact life. They were a fiction that aided the truth in my Christian life. As a teen, they helped me to look for something beyond myself. In a later season, they helped me recognize the truth and power of the Rule of Prayer at the heart of the Anglican tradition. Without them, I might not have studied Literature and Theology as an adult and I might not have become a priest. Those little stories became part of a much bigger story and forever shaped my story. And so I’m no longer embarrassed to credit Master Skywalker as one of my first teachers and an instrument of God’s grace.