Tolkien had a word for the moment a story turns and saves everyone who had no right to be saved: eucatastrophe. The sudden joyous turn. The eagles come. The tomb is empty. He thought the Gospels held the greatest one, with one difference: it happened.
So the ache a good movie leaves in you isn’t sentiment. It’s recognition. You’ve heard this story before, somewhere underneath the ones you’re watching.
Watching a movie theologically isn’t hunting for a Jesus figure in every frame. It’s watching for the shape. Every rescue, every sacrifice, every undeserved love that wrecks you is borrowing that shape from one true Story.
I spent ten years making films before I came back to ministry. I know every trick that makes you cry in a dark theater. They still work on me. That’s not manipulation. It’s homesickness. We’re wired for a story we can’t yet see the end of.
The parable ends with the older brother outside the party, and the father out in the dark, begging him to come in. Jesus never tells us whether he goes inside. That ending is still ours to write.
Maybe thin places aren’t rare destinations. Maybe they’re ordinary ground we walk past because we’re not paying attention. New piece, written from Ireland.
This is the first piece in a new season on reading the signs: the art, films, and places that keep speaking when no one assigned them as Scripture. https://t.co/x8UKMSxv4o
A tag is never only paint. It says: I exist. I was here. Do not erase me. And I can’t read that without hearing Scripture, where God says he’s engraved your name on the palms of his hands.