Because everyone loves a good story
“We earnestly desire consummation for the healing of our broken hearts and the drying of our tears. We want to live where ‘goodbye’ isn’t even in our vocabulary. We long for all things to be made new. And this is the consummation that the Bride of Christ will receive! Hallelujah!”
Last week we looked at longing through the Biblical analogy of marriage—a bride longing to be united with her protector, lover, and friend. We pulled a lot of that beautiful imagery from Revelation, but I did promise that we’d look at Romans 8, so here we go!
First, let’s look at this longing in non-Christians. In Romans 8, people who don’t long for Christ are described as desiring the things of the flesh, which means the body and the physical world. “For those who [live] according to the flesh set their minds on the things of the flesh” (Rom. 8:5a). You know what it means to set your mind on something: to make a habit of thinking about it until it becomes an obsession. Why would people set their minds on temporary things like that? Because they think it will fulfill them. They’re longing for satisfaction and completion—for consummation—just as much as anyone else, but they don’t know how to get it. They believe that rebelling against God’s order will help them find what they were made for, but tragically they don’t realize they’re sawing off the branch they’re sitting on. There is no ultimate satisfaction apart from God, its Source. Their longings will never find completion outside of Christ.
Now, most of us have experienced the kinds of longings that we’ve looked at up to this point—a bride and groom or an obsessive thought. These are strong desires, and they communicate important aspects of this yearning that we feel. But for the rest of the examples in Romans 8, Paul draws our attention to a new analogy, one that is far more intense and dramatic. He wants to make sure we know he isn’t talking about a sweet, storybook wish for a “happily ever after” someday. He’s talking about a desire so strong that it makes you groan with intensity, longing for immediate completion. Brace yourself, because the analogy he uses is that of childbirth.
He begins this poignant section with verse 18: “F
or I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that is to be revealed to us.” And that, folks, is the story of childbirth in a nutshell. Although I haven’t yet given birth myself, I’ve had the privilege of supporting my sister two different times as she delivered beautiful, healthy babies at home. I’m so thankful for these experiences, because they gave me an unforgettable picture of the strongest human desire and of its joyful consummation.
Now, if you’ve ever watched a mother give birth (especially if she’s fully aware of all the sensations going on in her body), you know that Paul is putting it delicately when he describes it as “groaning.” A laboring mother is completely focused and committed, but she’s completely at the mercy of her body’s timetable. She can’t rush it, but neither can she delay it. When it’s time, that baby will come, but there will be plenty of groaning until then. By the end of labor, there is one thing and one thing only that this mama wants: to get that baby out of her! Now, before I scare you away, let me show you how Paul uses this analogy to make a powerful, beautiful point.
Verse 22 begins the analogy this way: “For we know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together until now.” What an odd thing to say! How could creation feel an intense longing like this? The previous verses clue us in to what Paul is talking about. “For the anxious longing of the creation waits eagerly for the revealing [or final consummation] of the sons of God. For the creation was subjected to futility…in hope that the creation itself also will be set free from its slavery to corruption into the freedom of the glory of the children of God” (Rom. 8:19-21). To put it another way, creation wasn’t made for corruption; it was made for perfection. But when Adam and Eve sinned, the whole created universe suffered the consequence of death.
But this won’t always be the case. Remember Christ’s promise that we looked at last week? After He returns to gather his Bride, Christ will make all things new. This includes creation! Somehow, God has given creation this innate knowledge that things are broken now, but they won’t always be so. When God’s children are completed, creation will be, too. In the meantime, Paul says that creation groans for that day with an intensity that we can’t even perceive.
Just after he shocks us with the fact that creation is groaning like a mother in labor, Paul then announces that believers are feeling the same way. “Even we ourselves groan within ourselves,
waiting eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our body” (Rom. 8:23b). Creation wasn’t made for corruption, and neither were we. Our hearts know this, don’t they? When we face sickness, sin, and death, our hearts recoil at the discord. When we see injustice or suffering, our hearts cry out for deliverance.
And that word is perfectly apropos. We want to be delivered.
I hadn’t really thought of this before, but why is it that we say the mother delivers the child? If you’ve seen a mother suffer and groan through the birthing process, you know that she is the one who wants to be delivered! But she endures with strength and courage because she knows that her pain and groaning will result in unspeakable joy. True, she can’t see her precious baby yet, but she knows that all this pain must be leading somewhere. Verse 25 says it this way: “But if we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it.” Believers know our consummation is coming, but until that day, we groan for it and eagerly persevere.
Now, if you thought it was crazy to consider creation groaning for completion, think about the Holy Spirit Himself groaning for the same thing! Check out verse 26: “In the same way the Spirit also helps our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.” The Spirit of God is living inside believers, groaning for our completion! Our hearts are breaking over the fallen nature of the world and of ourselves, and we long for it to be made right. But how often have we come to God in prayer about it only to find we aren’t even sure what, exactly, to pray for?
This is where the Spirit steps in. He intercedes to the Father on our behalf, expressing our deepest longings for us—longings so deep that there aren’t even words for it. And what is it that we long for? Just what we talked about last week: completion and consummation. Verse 29 describes it as
becoming “conformed to the image of His Son,” Jesus. This is what we were made for! Until our hearts beat in unison with His, we will keenly feel the arrhythmia. But verse 30 assures us that all who are in Christ will be glorified one day, and creation itself will be made new. The groaning will be over, and the joy will begin. We will finally be delivered from this fallen world, and all creation will rejoice to see the Father welcoming His children into their eternal home, perfected and complete. The miracle of birth is just a small glimpse into the joy that is to come.
Just as a laboring mother is at the mercy of her body’s timetable, we too are not in control of our consummation. Therefore, we will persevere despite our groaning because we have a hope that we cannot yet see. But the day is coming when Christ will return, and we will be delivered.
Even so, come quickly, Lord Jesus!

…And, as it turns out, I need another week to wrap up Romans 8. I mean, have you guys read the end of the chapter? It would be a travesty if I skipped it! If you’re not too traumatized by all this birth talk, come back next week to see even more good news!
Check out the next post here!
We’re all longing for something. No matter what we have or how happy we feel, we probably still have an ache, a yearning deep in our hearts for…something. Sure, we may not verbalize this all the time, and maybe we haven’t even stopped to think much about it. After all, it’s just part of the human condition, right? Well, yes and no. I’d like to use the next two posts to look at this topic of longing, so I hope you’ll come along with me!
Lately I’ve been spending some time in Romans 8. That’s the mid-point chapter of a really dense and wonderful book in the New Testament, but it doesn’t feel like mid-point content. In fact, if feels like the grand finale of fireworks, the crescendo at the end of a musical masterpiece, the absolutely-perfect last bite of pie. (Yes, those are in ascending order of importance to me.) The chapter ends in a cascading fountain of glorious reassurance, but the majority of the chapter before it focuses not on completion but on longing.
But longing for what? I mentioned earlier that we’re all longing for something, and maybe you knew exactly what I was talking about. Maybe you could immediately pinpoint something you desire, something you ache for: a relationship, a healing, a change. These are longings that we’ve all had at different times, and they can be very strong, but I would submit to you that even that is not your ultimate desire. There is something deeper.
See, I believe Romans 8 is pointing out that the deepest longing in the universe is for completion.
And yes, I did mean “in the universe.” That’s why it’s not simply part of the human condition; it’s the condition of everything. Let me explain what I mean by “completion,” and next week I’ll try to show that the desire is universal (or bigger!).
By “completion,” I don’t just mean a desire for things to end. I mean true, deep, and ultimate fulfillment, redemption, fruition, perfection, consummation. Maybe “consummation” really is the better word, despite (or perhaps because of) its romantic connotations. Remember that elsewhere in the Bible, Christians in the Church are referred to as the bride of Christ. If this is a strange concept to you, just hear me out.
In Jewish culture, engaged couples could be separated from each other for long periods of time before the wedding so that the groom could make preparations. The last book of the Bible foretells of the Church—then perfected and sinless—as a bride beautifully dressed to meet her groom on their wedding day. They have been apart for ages. He has been busy sacrificing Himself to provide perfection for her, and she has been yearning to be united with him in love and thankfulness. Finally, on that day of consummation, they will sit down together and enjoy a marriage supper celebrating their long-awaited union. And then, forever.
“Let us rejoice and be glad and give the glory to Him, for the marriage of the Lamb has come and His bride has made herself ready…. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven
from God, made ready as a bride adorned for her husband” (Rev. 19:7, 21:2). This description is so relatable. On the morning of my wedding, I needed lots of help adorning myself, that’s for sure. One girl did my hair, another did my makeup, and several more zipped me into my dress and strapped on my shoes. But—judging from my husband’s face—the adorning was well worth the effort. The Bride of Christ has been adorned with the holiness of her Husband and the “righteous acts of the saints” with which she has served Him (Rev. 19:8). She is ready.
When they are finally united, it will be time to celebrate with a feast. It’s a common tragedy that, after
all the deliberation, planning, and purchasing of the wedding food, most modern couples probably don’t get to enjoy the meal at their own weddings. They’re too busy taking pictures, greeting guests, and tossing garters. I, for one, tried to pack in as much food as I could, but I will always regret not eating more cupcakes. They. Were. Divine. But we were on a schedule, and we had people to talk to. Not so with the marriage of Christ and the Church. All who are invited will have forever to enjoy the feast…literally.
But the consummation or completion that we long for most is not the wedding itself but the marriage and all the blessings that will come from it. It would be a very disappointed couple who
looked forward only to the wedding and thought nothing about the marriage. Before my marriage, I really had no idea what to expect. Would I feel peaceful? claustrophobic? protected? frustrated? No one really knows what they’re getting into with marriage, but I can say that I’ve been more blessed (and spoiled) than I could ever have expected.
But when Christ marries the church, He tells her exactly what to expect: “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there will no longer be any death; there will no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain.” Jesus says, “’Behold, I am making all things new” (Rev. 21:4-5). What a promise! And this, friends, this is what we’re longing for. We earnestly desire consummation for the healing of our broken hearts and the drying of our tears. We want to live where “goodbye” isn’t even in our vocabulary. We long for all things to be made new. And this is the consummation that the Bride of Christ will receive! Hallelujah!
If you’ve felt a longing in your heart for something, don’t disregard it; instead, try tracing it back to its root.
Do you long for a relationship? You were made to be united with Christ. Do you long for healing? Your heart knows that sickness and sorrow are the distortion, not the design. Do you long for change? Behold, He will make all things new.
I will leave you this week with food for thought: this consummation is what everything longs for: non-Christians, Christians, creation, and even God Himself. Does that sound crazy? Come back next week to find out if it’s true. Until then, just hold on. Completion is coming.
Check out the next post here!
Here we are at long last! Can you believe it? IT’S THE TWELFTH AND FINAL STAGE OF THE HERO’S JOURNEY! If you’ve been tracking with me throughout this series, I applaud you. Whether you’re an aspiring writer, an avid reader, a movie connoisseur, or a faithful friend who’s been plodding along just to humor me, I really do thank you. I hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I have!
Anyway, enough with the sentiment. Let’s get down to the business of Stage Twelve: Return with the Elixir. What does the word elixir conjure up in your mind? Maybe a magical potion or a rare medicine? Maybe your crazy aunt who gets a little too excited about her essential oil concoctions? Well, I don’t have much to say about the last mental image, but the first examples are pretty close to what the hero brings home from his or her adventure. Vogler says, “If they are true heroes, they Return with the Elixir from the Special World; bringing something to share with others, or something with the power to heal a wounded land.” (221)
Remember, the hero probably began the journey in the first place because something wasn’t right at home. Maybe a loved one was very sick or the family was struggling with poverty. In a fantasy story, someone could have been taken away or placed under a curse. Maybe the whole town was in trouble or even dying, as in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. While this is my least-favorite Indiana movie (excepting the most recent travesty that should never have happened), it does provide a great example for this stage of the journey.
By a strange twist of events Indy, Willie, and Short Round end up in a remote Indian village that is dying. The villagers’ children have been taken away, and their sacred Sankara stone has been stolen. The fields are brown and brittle, and the people are destitute and heartbroken. When Indy finally returns—after some creepy adventures involving human sacrifice and voodoo dolls—he brings with him the children and the stone. The village is revived: fields are being harvested, flowers are blooming, water is flowing, and everyone rejoices to be reunited with their children. He has not returned emptyhanded; he has returned with the elixir.
While this stage provides the solution to the main problem introduced at the beginning of the adventure, it should also provide resolution to the smaller issues. Sure, Frodo threw the ring into Mt. Doom and saved Middle Earth, but does the Fellowship get reunited? Is Aragorn crowned king? Does everyone return home? Does anyone trick his friends by hopping on a boat to the undying lands at the last minute? These questions would bother you if Tolkien had finished the story at the edge of Mt. Doom. Instead, he provides answers in the denouement.
Denouement (pronounced “day-noo-MAH”) is a French word that means “unknotting,” so it’s often used of the unknotting of various plot problems that became tangled throughout the story. Does this mean that when the hero returns with the Elixir, the story must be all wrapped up with a neat little bow on top? Not necessarily. “It’s all right for a Return to raise new questions,” Vogler says, “…but all the old questions should be addressed or at least restated.” (222)
So does every adventure need to have a physical elixir solving a physical problem at the end? Not at all. Vogler mentions several kinds of Elixirs, or “gifts” that the hero can bring back from the Special World of the adventure. Some examples include romantic love for the hero, change for the world around him, responsibility toward those he had neglected earlier, and wisdom in the face of mistakes. See, the elixir could be as intangible as a lesson learned or a heart won. “The best Elixirs,” Vogler points out, “are those that bring hero and audience greater awareness.” (227)
Our old friend, Bilbo Baggins, is no exception. While Bilbo’s treasure from the mountain is one part of his reward, I think the lessons he learned and the person (or hobbit) he became on the journey is his true elixir. He may have lost his reputation as a well-mannered, respectable hobbit, but he has gained far more. He has seen the world, and it has changed him for the better. He passes on to Frodo this elixir of experience—along with that blasted ring—and we all know how that turns out.
Whew! When we first began the Hero’s Journey, it seemed like we would never reach the end. But look at us now! Our journey is over, and our adventure is done. So what’s next? That’s what I want to know. I’ve got several ideas cooking, but I would love to hear from you. If there are any topics you’d enjoy reading about, then please feel free to leave me a comment below. Thanks again for following this journey, and I’ll see you next week!
Today’s Question: What do you want to talk about next? Give me some topics you’re interested in!
Sources:
Tolkien, J.R.R. The Hobbit. New York: Ballantine Books, 1937.
Vogler, Christopher. The Writer’s Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers, Second Edition. Studio City: Michael Wiese Productions, 1998.
I sat in the big, squishy chair, my shoulders tense and my eyes dilated. My brain was racing like an out-of-control semi truck on a mountain road. I had thought I was at least marginally intelligent, but now that assumption was dangling by a spider’s thread. In the partial darkness, my husband leaned over and said, “Well, what did you think?” I couldn’t even formulate an answer as I sat staring at the screen, watching the credits roll by for the movie Interstellar.
Now, I’d love to write a whole post on that movie and my love/hate relationship with its premise and plot. I’d enjoy telling you how it drove me to scour countless articles and scientific videos for any explanations of relativity. But instead, I’ll save that for another day and choose to focus on the motif of death and resurrection in Interstellar.
I do believe this death-and-resurrection motif was intentional, as the beginning of the movie makes clear in a conversation between Cooper and Dr. Brand. The Professor mentions to Cooper that a previous mission had already been sent out to look for other habitable planets: the Lazarus Mission. Cooper replies, “That sounds cheerful.” The professor reminds him that Lazarus came back from the dead, to which Cooper quips, “Sure, but he had to die in the first place.” So with this foreshadowing in mind, let’s look at the death and resurrection of Cooper as an example for Stage Eleven: the Hero’s Resurrection.
By the way, if you haven’t watched the movie yet, you might want to take a sec and go do that. Otherwise the examples won’t be as enjoyable for you. But I will tell you that, at this stage of the movie, Cooper’s death seems imminent since he has detached himself from the main spacecraft, ejected himself from his small shuttle, and ended up trapped in a black hole. Eventually, the black hole itself seems to unravel, and he is left stranded and unconscious in space, floating around near Saturn. For all intents and purposes, he is dead.
Now, I acknowledged in Part One that we often see the hero undergo a version of death (or at least near-death) and resurrection during the Ordeal. But this final stage of Resurrection—of climax and resolution—can take on many forms, Vogler points out. It can range from a complex series of resolutions for several plot points to a simple but critical choice for the hero to apply what he or she has learned.
The ending of Interstellar does both; it ties up many loose ends of the plot such as Cooper’s black hole predicament, his estrangement from his daughter Murphy, the impending suffocation of earth’s inhabitants unless Murphy solves a complicated equation, and even the solitary heartbreak of fellow-astronaut Amelia Brand. But the movie also gives Cooper a chance to apply some of the lessons he’s learned throughout his adventure. One of the best examples is his choice to sacrifice his chance to see his family again in order to save Amelia Brand and thereby, he hopes, humanity itself.
The thing about this stage of an adventure is that it’s often emotional. If it’s a comedy, the situation has reached its highest point of absurdity, and the audience is probably busting a gut with laughter. If it’s a drama, then someone we’ve come to love is either dying, watching a loved one die, or is at least coming to terms with an important lesson. Either way, the audience may be crying at this point.
While I, personally, struggle to feel comfortable expressing emotions like this, I’m told that it’s cathartic. Christopher Vogler explains the term catharsis in this way: “This Greek word actually means ‘vomiting up’ or ‘purging,’ but in English has come to mean a purifying emotional release, or an emotional breakthrough.” [210] I’m also deathly afraid of vomiting, so maybe there is a connection here.… But before we get carried away psychoanalyzing me, let’s re-focus on the point: a good story, whether comedy or drama, should reach its climax at this point, allowing the audience to experience a catharsis for the tension that the previous struggles introduced.
Now, after enduring a move as tense as Interstellar, you would be justified in demanding some pretty serious catharsis at the end. For example, you want peace and resolution for the broken relationship between Cooper and his daughter, Murphy. Although you don’t get the full satisfaction of a long-lasting relationship, you do get to release the fear that one or both of them would die without seeing each other again and make things right. You also want the assurance that the human race isn’t going to suffocate in the dust of a dying Earth, and the movie provides that for you as well.
When a hero returns home from an adventure, his family and friends may have a hard time believing what happened to him unless he’s managed to bring back some sort of proof.
Vogler says that “providing proof is a major function of the Resurrection stage….A common fairy-tale motif is that proof brought back from the magic world tends to evaporate…. The real treasure from traveling is not the souvenirs, but lasting inner change and learning.” [215-216]
Cooper himself is the greatest proof of the adventure he went through. Physically, he has aged an inconsequential amount compared with the people back on earth (thanks to relativity, a mind-bending property of time). Internally, however, he carries more proof in the form of an expanded mind and a softened heart. He has experienced unfathomable situations with gravity and time and has learned the secret inner workings of a black hole. But he has also learned that logic may not always be the best decisive factor. He comes to see the importance of love after all.
I studied creative writing in college. While I don’t remember most of the information that I took notes on and wrote essays about, I do remember a crucial piece of advice from one of my professors: he said, “Don’t tell us what the character is thinking. Show us.” And this, as it turns out, is much easier said than done.
Vogler echoes the same advice, saying, “The trick for writers is to show the change in their characters, by behavior or appearance rather than by just talking about it.” [203] If a hero has resurrected from the Special World back into the Ordinary World, he may find himself feeling out of place, a changed man in an unchanged world. It’s the author’s job to display this in reactions and interactions. The resurrected hero won’t be the same as when he left.
When Cooper wakes up after having been rescued from space, he is actually a changed man in a changed world. He finds himself living on a space station simulated to look like Earth; however, he isn’t comfortable in his replica farm house or his seemingly-pointless life. The script doesn’t philosophize about his inability to re-assimilate; instead, Cooper simply states, “I don’t care much for this pretending we’re back where we started. I want to know where we are, where we’re going.” After making peace with his daughter, he decides to strap into a spaceship once again and head out in search of Amelia Brand and a new planet to colonize.
After all that talk about Interstellar, will it come as a shock to your system to talk about Bilbo’s Resurrection in The Hobbit? Probably, but it’s tradition by now, so let me simply say that Bilbo’s reappearance at home actually does seem like a resurrection to the folk of Hobbiton. They had presumed him dead and had begun auctioning off all of his belongings! After all he’s been through on his adventure, Bilbo finds that there is one last hurdle before he can get back to normal: he must reclaim his property.
In fact, he has to convince them he truly is alive, and some hobbits considered that fact doubtful for quite some time afterward. And it’s no surprise that they didn’t recognize him; he is a changed hobbit. Gandalf remarks on this just outside of Hobbiton when he says, “My dear Bilbo! …Something is the matter with you! You are not the hobbit that you were.”
So whether a hero is simply resurrected in the minds of his fellow hobbits or even brought back from near-death in the vacuum of space, Stage Eleven is a vital part of the hero’s journey. But what has the hero gained from this journey? Find out next week in our final installment of the Hero’s Journey: the Return with the Elixir!
Today’s Question: I’d love to hear your thoughts on the movie Interstellar! It doesn’t even have to be about resurrection, but it certainly can be.
Sources:
Nolan, C., Nolan, J., Thomas, E., Obst, L. R., McConaughey, M., Hathaway, A., Chastain, J., … Warner Home Video (Firm),. (2015). Interstellar.
Tolkien, J.R.R. The Hobbit. New York: Ballantine Books, 1937.
Vogler, Christopher. The Writer’s Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers, Second Edition. Studio City: Michael Wiese Productions, 1998.
I re-watched the movie Interstellar a few nights ago. It hurt my brain again. But if you’ve been keeping up with the Hero’s Journey posts, you might want to watch the movie by Friday so you can fully enjoy my upcoming post about Resurrection. If you’ve never watched it, be forewarned: it’s a little intense, but I think it’s worth it. See you Friday, friends!
We interrupt your regularly-scheduled series about the Hero’s Journey to bring you this vital, time-sensitive article about one of my favorite children’s books. Also, I needed another week to research the next Hero’s Journey post. It’s gonna be a good one.
As you may remember from my previous post about children’s books, I am a firm believer that a well-written children’s book is a delight not only to kids but to adults as well. An adult who turns up his nose at a good children’s book probably has lost a piece of himself that he would be better off having retained: a sense of fun, of wonder, of enjoyment in the small things, perhaps. More’s the pity.
Contrast this attitude with the feeling I hope you get when you read Winnie-the-Pooh, by British author A.A. Milne. Now, if your only experience with Pooh was watching the old cartoon or the recent movie, then you probably don’t have an adequate perspective on the charm of the books. See, the magic is in the telling.
The small, hardcover book that I am looking at right now was first published in England in 1926. I already love it for that fact alone. British writers from that era have a certain style and sense of humor that gets me every time. For example, Chapter One, “In Which We Are Introduced to Winnie-the-Pooh and Some Bees, and the Stories Begin,” is already off to a great start just because of the title itself. The chapter begins,
Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it. (1)
Christopher Robin requests that Milne tell a story—you know, because Winnie-the-Pooh wants to hear one—and so begins the first tale of Pooh’s quest for honey from a hive way up high in a tree. And, guys, I actually giggled out loud just now when I re-read how a tippy-top tree branch snapped out from under Pooh. You probably think I’m a cruel person now, but this is actually a great example of how the magic is in the telling.
[Pooh] was nearly there now, and if he just stood on that branch…Crack!
“Oh, help!” said Pooh, as he dropped ten feet on the branch below him.
“If only I hadn’t—” he said, as he bounced twenty feet on to the next branch.
“You see, what I meant to do,” he explained, as he turned head-over-heels, and crashed onto another branch thirty feet below, “what I meant to do—”
“Of course, it was rather—” he admitted, as he slithered very quickly through the next six branches.
“It all comes, I suppose,” he decided, as he said good-bye to the last branch, spun round three times, and flew gracefully into a gorse-bush, “it all comes of liking honey so much. Oh, help!” (2)
Now, maybe it is a little morbid of me to have enjoyed Pooh’s misadventure so much, but isn’t that delightful writing? It’s so understated, so wry and wonderful. But while he is charmingly funny, Milne also excels in sweet, simple observations such as children might say without realizing they’re profound. On one occasion, Pooh remarks,
“‘Well,…what I like best—’ and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn’t know what it was called.” (3)
I could go on and on, quoting sweet or quirky lines from Winnie-the-Pooh, but I think you’d be better served by picking up one of the books yourself. Read it to children, simply enjoy it yourself, or do both! But if you start to giggle out loud, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Sources:
Milne, A.A. Winnie-the-Pooh. New York: E.P. Dutton, 1926. Chapter 1, p 3.
[Ibid] Chapter 1, p 9.
Milne, A.A. The House at Pooh Corner. New York: Dutton Children’s Books, 1994. Chapter 10, p 336.
I know what you’re thinking. “Wait a second; hold up. Resurrection? This is a repeat! A mistake! Resurrection is so three stages ago.”
Now, I can’t contest the fact that we witnessed our hero die (literally or figuratively) and come back to life in Stage Eight: The Ordeal. All I can say is: just keep reading. You’ll see that both stages are good and necessary. And to prove that I have your best interest in mind, I’ve broken this into a two-part post so as not to overwhelm you.
Ready to dive in? Wonderful!
Now, down to business. We know that the hero already faced death and resurrection in the Supreme Ordeal, so what’s with this second resurrection? There are several answers, but Christopher Vogler emphasizes one of the most important ones with the fact that “heroes must be tested one last time to see if they retained the learning from the Supreme Ordeal of Act Two.” [205]
Remember, somewhere just after the midpoint of the story, the hero was faced with what he thought was his biggest fear or foe. He probably had to give up something very important here, whether a friend, a treasure, his safety, or even his own life. But after this, the hero was miraculously “reborn” in the sense that he returned and was able to gain the prize he set out for in the first place. He grasped his reward and began his journey home.
This journey leads him once again to a threshold. When he faced the First Threshold, if you remember, the hero paused to weigh, consider, or even reject the offer of the adventure. He seemed scared or non-committal; he was his own barrier. Eventually, he was motivated to embark, but now we see him halted in his journey back to the Ordinary World.
This time, however, he is probably paused by an outer rather than an inner force. The purpose? A final transformation.
Christopher Vogler explains it this way: “Heroes have to undergo a final purging and purification before reentering the Ordinary World…. Just as heroes had to shed their old selves to enter the Special World, they now must shed the personality of the journey and build a new one that is suitable for return to the Ordinary World. It should reflect the best parts of the old selves and the lessons learned along the way.” [203-204] The catalyst for this shedding of the warrior-self may be a choice, a confrontation, or even a battle, but the hero’s response will determine his fitness to reenter civilian society.
A great example is Neo’s transformation at the end of the first Matrix movie. He is blocked from returning to the real world by Smith, the antagonist. He is soon killed by Smith’s bullets, but he is resurrected by Trinity’s love for him. When he resurrects as his new, enlightened self, he has left behind his weakness and instead has tapped into all of his previous teachings. He has been purified.
Often, the purging takes the form of one last battle. In earlier battles, the hero may have been foiled by a character flaw. Maybe she forgot the advice of her Mentor or was distracted by an obsession. Maybe she fought valiantly, but the enemy managed to escape. No matter the outcome of her earlier Ordeal, she has a chance to settle things once and for all here on the Threshold.
Often the final faceoff has higher stakes than the previous fights. Earlier, the hero may have been fighting for her own life or for the right to continue her quest. This final ordeal, however, is the climax of the adventure, and the stakes are as high as they can get. It’s not just about the hero; it’s about her family, her friends, her community, or even her world. For example, all the battles and trials of The Lord of the Rings culminate with the final battle inside Frodo himself. He is no longer fighting to survive against orcs and spiders; he is now battling for the fate of Middle Earth, and he is his own worst enemy. Thankfully, when the stakes are highest, the obsessive desires of Gollum save the world. Nice work, Sméagol, you pathetic little creature.
Now, it would be lovely if good causes were always rewarded with a happy ending. Often, this is the case, and it’s very satisfying indeed. In these stories, the hero will fight to the ultimate edge of death, and just when we despair of his survival, he will surprise us all with one last blow that finishes the enemy. Maybe he calls on the advice of his Mentor or consciously releases what held him back before. Harry Potter chooses to let go of his fears and die in order to save his school and the world as he knows it. However, once the shard of Voldemort has been obliterated from his soul, he is given the chance to return; he is resurrected.
Sometimes, however, a good cause costs the ultimate price. In these stories, the hero comes face to face with death and, instead of triumphing, is overcome. This can still be in harmony with the lessons of his Mentor and the rejection of his previous flaws; often, it’s a conscious decision on the part of the hero to sacrifice himself for the cause. Although it’s tragic, it is fitting. In the movie “Batman vs Superman,” Kal-El chooses to end the monster Doomsday, even though he knows it will be the end of himself as well. He does it to save the one he loves and the world he has come to love. When the dust settles, we see him stretched out in the shape of a cross, a clear reference to a sacrificial savior’s death.
But if this is about resurrection, then how does the hero live on? Vogler believes that “doomed or tragic heroes are Resurrected in the sense that they usually live on in the memory of the survivors, those for whom they gave their lives.” [207] The tragic hero also lives on in the memory of the audience. That may seem like small consolation unless you like depressing stories. Or, in the case of Superman, unless you go on to watch the next movie.
And speaking of cliff hangers, I’ll leave you here for this week. Don’t forget to tune in next week as we wrap up this all-important stage of Resurrection!
Today’s Question: Think of a story in which the hero must fight one last battle before going home. Was he or she spared, resurrected, or sacrificed?
Sources:
Vogler, Christopher. The Writer’s Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers, Second Edition. Studio City: Michael Wiese Productions, 1998.
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