More than anything, as with any medeival-ish society specifically, loyalty is set against love. From the very beginning, when Ned Stark takes his boys out to execute a deserter, he leaves them with the lesson: "he who passes the sentence, swings the sword." Ned is known to be a person of wisdom and mercy, but he also executes his responsibilities (literally). His loyalty is never questioned, but it clearly trumps love. He can't do what he might be inclined to do; he has responsibilities. The situation dictates his response.
People are what they do. I think most of us believe this - at least about other people. We might have sentimental feelings now and then or we might know that there's more to someone than just their worst actions, but generally we judge other people by what they do.
Cersei Lannister is set up as the ultimate big baddie in Game of Thrones. This is because her loyalty is to herself alone. She'll lie, cheat, kill, and betray anyone, at any time, for power. The show talks about how her children are her motivation, but only in so much as they are extensions of herself. Cesei's conscience is based on survival and domination. If it helps her, it's right; if it hurts her, it's wrong. This makes her an ultimate villain.
Every other character on the show is grey; they do good and they do bad. One of the major intentions of George R. R. Martin, the author of the books, was to establish a world with some sense of realism. Most fantasy has good guys and bad guys; the sides and stakes are clear. With Game of Thrones you're never sure who to support or for how long. Except Cersei; no one is rooting for her. There's some fleeting attention paid to her affection for her twin brother, Jaime (who is also her lover... yeah, I know, the show goes places), but she never has his best interests in mind, only her own. By this final season, she's even driven him away with her madness and treachery.
Cersei is loyal to no one, so no one is loyal to her. Cersei's actions are despicable as is she; entirely unlovable.
Yet, as we saw on Sunday, Jaime came back. He'd finally escaped and found love with a women (Brienne) he truly respects, one who sees the good in him and genuinely wishes the best for him, someone who is loyal to a fault - essentially the exact opposite of his sister. One of the most heart-wrenching scene in the entire run of the show is Jamie leaving her to return to Cersei. He says, "She is hateful and so am I." It's his rejection of whatever good Brienne sees in him. At the time it feels like weakness, but this week it's revealed as incredible love.
Jaime eventually find Cersei, her city is being sacked and burned by a dragon; any chance she has of power or continued life is gone. He doesn't return to apologize, to justify her actions, or rejoin her team. Jaime returns to Cersei so she doesn't have to die alone. Yes, they're trying to escape and run away to live happily ever after, but no one (not even them) believe that'll ever happen. They came into the world together and they leave the same way.
It's extremely touching. Many fans are upset the show's villain got such a favorable death. Yes, her life was a selfish waste, but she was loved - and that's not nothing.
It's also not loyalty. Jaime had no reason to return, no advantage in this play. No one would even look favorably on him for being loyal in this moment, because Cersei doesn't deserve it. He'd already abandoned her; the family ties were broken. This return was all love. Love for one who is unquestionably unlovable.
That's magic. It's a recognition that there's some part of us worth something regardless of our deeds, attitudes, or intentions. We cannot be utterly irredeemable, because we are human; beneath whatever it is that makes us unique is something that connects us all together, something bigger than ourselves. That core humanity is worthwhile, is valuable, is lovable, even if we are not.
Loving your enemies is the most profound idea in the history of the world. Most everything Jesus said had been said before, but this idea was new. A love grounded entirely outside self-interest and directed entirely towards another - no personal gain. Logically it feels like a love wasted, but it is the only real expression of love.
What's more, Jaime doesn't see Cersei as an enemy, although she is - to him and to everyone else. He might've been her brother, lover, and closest confidante, but she's done nothing to acknowledge his worth or for his benefit. No one else in the entire universe of the show has any reason to mourn her passing and every reason to celebrate. Jaime's in that camp, too, but he doesn't know it. That's because of love.
You see, the trick is not really loving your enemy. That's the goal; that's where it starts. But the love at the core of Christian teaching can't be love of enemy, it is a love that so transforms us that we have no enemies. Even those who act like enemies to us are not enemies in our eyes. Loving our enemies is still passing judgement on them. There's a magnanimity that is, in the end, self-serving.
Some people look at the call to love our enemies and believe they have to be kind to everyone - a sublimation of our natural responses. I don't think that's true. The command to love our enemies is, in my mind, a reminder that everyone, all of us, are worthy. We are called to love our enemies because there are no enemies - even if people sometimes act like it. That doesn't mean we ignore the consequences or somehow aid in people being selfish and evil, we simply refuse to believe (and thus act) as if those actions are all they really are.
Our actions define us, but they are not all of us. I think this reality is the only way to find hope in the midst of suffering. I suspect it's the only way to imagine something beautiful in the midst of the dirty chaos that is Game of Thrones. It's one small example of love in a story about loyalty. I suspect this lesson was not the one the show's creators planned to communicate, but I'm glad it was present, even if they rest of the episode left something to be desired.
Part of the criticism was answered because it's a show set in the fantasy past, in the midst of a darker time and a strong patriarchy. Women are treated poorly because that's been the lot of women in history. That doesn't hold a lot of weight for a show that features zombies and dragons; historical accuracy is somewhat malleable. There's only ever been one woman in the writer's room and it's easy to tell what perspective reigns.
The controversy returned again this week with a short conversation between Sansa Stark, a scion of one of the noble houses, and Sandor Clegane (known as The Hound). As a child, Sansa had been sent to the capital and betrothed to a lunatic sadist would-be king. The Hound was the personal bodyguard of said prince and bailed when it became apparent the guy wasn't worth defending. He offered to take Sansa with him, to bring her home, but his reputation wasn't the greatest at that point and she was very afraid to speak up for herself or act in her own best interest.
One of the arcs of the show has been Sansa's growth and maturity, most of which comes in the midst of terrible sexual and emotional violence.
She spent years being used and abused as pawns of more powerful people. She survived and has become a wise, ruthless, powerful player in her own right. It's a triumph of resiliency - at least as much as can be in a fictional universe.
The conversation in question has Clegane reminding Sansa that he could've saved her from the terrible suffering that has been her life. She reminds him that she's also achieved incredible success in the midst of that suffering and says that without her suffering, she would not be the wise, self-assured person speaking to him.
Obviously, it's problematic to have a woman give credit for her success to the horrors of her life, as if she didn't already have this potential within her that could've been brought out in other (less miserable) ways. This is sound criticism, but I'm not sure that's really what's being implied. I saw her statement as recognizing the importance of adversity. Yes, she could have realized her potential without rape and abuse, but perhaps she could not have realized her potential without suffering and struggle. The coddled, sheltered life meant for her, cushioned by a safe, protected, familiar environment likely would not have given her the tools to navigate an otherwise dangerous and ruthless world.
Our children need to be challenged - to stumble, fall, and fail - allowing them to do so is one of the most difficult parts of parenting. Protection is a natural instinct that's reinforced by cultural pressure to remove obstacles from our children's paths to success. We make fun of parents showing up to job interviews with their twenty-something children or negotiating grades with college professors, but that's just an extension of the social pressure towards supervised play dates and baby wipe warmers.
It's not that any of those things or those instincts is bad on its own merits, but to the extent we keep our children from failing, we're failing them. I'm the father of an almost-seven-year-old only child. She's as spoiled as they come - or at least it feels that way. I'm not talking about dropping them off at boot camp or taking away their bike helmets. It's hard enough to make my daughter (and remember, she's seven) buckle her own seat-belt.
I see how easy it is to quit when things are difficult. From tying her shoes to pouring a glass of milk, simple tasks still take practice - which usually means failure, at first. A lot of things came easy to me in life; those things gave me space to just avoid the things that didn't come easy. I don't know that I learned hard work as well as I could have. I'm pretty sure I could've used a little more perseverance in the face of failure; I suspect most of us could.
Because life is hard. Well, life for many of us could be pretty easy. I'm an educated straight white male; the stars have aligned to make coasting through life awfully easy for me and people like me. I guess I should say making a worthwhile life is hard. It's difficult to accomplish things that really matter, no matter how gifted you are. Maybe I'm dead wrong and the writers of Game of Thrones really do believe that everything happens for a reason. Rather than justifying abuse, I hope they're simply trying to point out the value of adversity in general. We could all use the reminder from time to time.
As a Christian, I allow the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ to be the measure of my beliefs. I try to be challenged by scripture and the work of God’s Holy Spirit to align my life (my actions) with the life (and actions) of Jesus. The struggle comes in exploring the distance between those beliefs and my reality (both my actions and the actions of others that impact me).
But you don’t necessarily need a “faith” per say, to engage in this exploration. I’d argue no one has a choice. Willful ignorance or obliviousness might minimize the tension or limit your discomfort, but you can’t ever eliminate it entirely.
Even an extreme nihilist, driven by the belief that nothing matters will, on occasion, encounter some experience, some moment of meaning, that challenges this core assumption. Life will give you pause to doubt its ultimate meaninglessness the same way it will give a person of faith and belief pause to doubt its purposefulness.
I’d argue Jesus’ life and teaching were not intended to start some new religion, but to challenge the concept of religion. He deftly illustrated that a system of beliefs and practices cannot be the solution to our existential angst. We may ultimately come to find ourselves within a particular religious tradition, but that only happens because we’ve come to believe those beliefs and practices are worthwhile in our search to reconcile the truth in our heads with our reality.
This is why I can say our “church” is a gathering of people with no required set of beliefs. If whatever Christian perspective on life and belief I happen to have is actually true, others will be convinced on the merits, on its practical value in making life bearable (if not enjoyable), not because of some inherent authority or coercive fear.
I’d argue those religious leaders who appeal to authority or fear as the basis of belief don’t really believe in anything except power. They are religious leaders, but theirs is not the religion they claim to represent.
This is the perfect example of how a “church” built on this tension between belief and reality can be beneficial. It allows us to think about our own beliefs and our own actions and the relationship between them without the shame of having to live up to some imposed religious standard. The very religious standard, I’d argue, Jesus came to topple.
The twin questions of “Why do we do what we do?” and “What do our actions say about our beliefs?” allow us to examine this gap in ways that lead to growth. It doesn’t require us to have the same answer to questions like “What is true?” or “What is right?” in order to be supportive and helpful to each other.
I know this all sounds very relativistic, as if all beliefs are equally valid, but that could not be further from the truth. It’s merely a recognition that our beliefs can only truly change when we’re convinced they need to change. It’s a belief that truth wins out in the end. If my beliefs are right, that will become apparent. If my beliefs are wrong, that will become equally apparent.
The job of the “church” is then not to convince someone to change their mind, but to help people explore that gap between belief and action.
That gap gets exposed in two ways. The first is when we’re made aware of a gap that exists. It’s quite likely we’ve got beliefs that aren’t reflected well in our actions, but we simply don’t notice them because they aren’t supper impactful or they’re so commonly accepted as to never be questioned.
The “church” should be a place where we’re sometimes awakened to belief-action gaps we never knew existed. “The way I treated my co-worker this morning does not reflect the value I believe she possesses.” You may not have been aware of that gap at the time – she messed up, you got angry, it seemed appropriate – but when that awareness comes, either through your own self-reflection or the loving words of a friend, the “church” can be a place that helps you work through it.
The second way our belief-action gap is exposed is through a challenge to our beliefs. Ideally this wouldn’t be a direct confrontation – “Your belief is wrong” – although that happens all the time in life, but a realization that our belief just doesn’t add up. This is the stereotypical mid-life crisis: “I thought job success and money were supposed to make me happy and they don’t, am I missing the point of life?” It’s a question you need to work through for yourself, but a process you shouldn’t do alone.
Where “church” has failed in the past is where it’s heaped shame and scorn on the recognition of these belief-action gaps, rather than comfort and acceptance. We feel a natural shame when we recognize our beliefs and actions don’t match-up. We feel inadequate, guilty, sinful, even though what we’re experiencing is both deeply human and deeply healthy. Until and unless we face up to these belief-action gaps we’re never going to be able to grow.
Too often the “church” adds to the guilt, making us feel like these gaps, these tensions and discomfort are wrong. Let’s say you believe generosity is important, but find yourself saddled with debt and obligations that making giving generously impossible. Recognizing that gap brings with it a sense of failure and hopelessness. Too often the “church” compounds this with guilt and feeds a cycle of regret that prevents us from addressing the gap.
What if “church” were a place of comfort? What if the “church’s” response to this generosity gap was mourning and reassurance. “I’m sorry you’re feeling this discomfort and tension, but it’s an opportunity to grow. There may not be readily available solutions, but we’ll walk through this tension with you, and support you as you try to find balance.” What if “church” were the place you could go when you’re feeling lost and find assurance that you’re not lost alone?
This requires us recognizing the difference between internal and external pressure. It’s easy, especially in a religious setting, to feel pressure to change beliefs we’re not ready (and maybe don’t need to change). If everyone else thinks drinking alcohol is wrong and you don’t; it’s easy to feel an imposed shame, a challenge to your belief that is entirely external. This is bad and unhealthy.
At the same time, we pay feel a tension between our beliefs and the beliefs of others that is genuinely real within us. We might be convinced that our belief really does need to change – maybe it’s because we’ve been exposed to the alternative beliefs of others, but not because they’re imposing those beliefs upon us.
It’s a tricky thing to parse, of course, whether your tension is real or imposed. The “church” should be constantly policing itself in this regard. This could easily lead to a timidity that finds to discussion of beliefs at all out of fear we’ll make someone uncomfortable. The problem, of course, is not the discomfort, but the source of that discomfort.
There’s a real difference between saying “violence is evil and must be avoided at all costs,” and saying “I must avoid violence; I don’t like what it does to me.” When we can consider a belief outside of ourselves, it gives us the distance necessary to maybe consider it for ourselves. Does Ryan’s rationale for this belief make sense in my life? A healthy “church” is one where either answer to that question is genuinely acceptable.
I keep using quotations around the word “church” and I do that for a very specific purpose. We have a lot of ideas that come into our heads when we hear that word “church.” It means vastly different things to people. Usually it has some specific religious context. “Church” is the Christian version of the word; other religions use different terms: temple, mosque, gurdwara, etc.
I think, at their heart, all of these are attempts to be communities of care and concern. You don’t need to be affiliated with any particular religion to do this, either. As human beings we’re all searching for communities of radical acceptance, where we can be loved and valued regardless of our actions and beliefs. To me, this is what “church” means. I don’t think it has to be a place of songs and pews and preaching, although I don’t think we should necessarily throw those things out either.
If Jesus came to show us and call us to radical love – a love that is willing to die for its enemies – than any community can be a “church,” if it has this practice as its goal. Honestly, you don’t even really have to be willing to love your enemies; you really just have to be willing to love the people in front of you.
I know all of this requires some underlying beliefs that not everyone will agree with: a belief in radical love, in the ultimately victory of truth, in the importance of other people, etc. Someone who specifically disagrees with those things might not be capable of participating in “church” as I see it. That’s regrettably true.
Of course, if beliefs in love and truth and ultimate reality are in fact real and true and ultimate, those people incapable of participating won’t necessarily always be incapable of participating – in the very same way none of us are really capable of participating and never will be. That doesn’t mean we don’t try.
After all, we’re stuck with that gap between our beliefs and our actions whether we like it or not. Whether we embrace love and community or self-interest and individuality, we’re all going to face doubts and challenges and discomfort. If you want to do that alone, it’s fine by me. I’d rather do it together.
