These are the words of pastor Jim Jones, spoken to the congregation of People’s Temple in the new documentary film, Jonestown: The Life and Death of People’s Temple, a heartbreaking portrait of how susceptible we all are, in contexts of seeming hopelessness, to latch on to notions of heaven on earth. Jim Jones, as we all know, was not the man of God he claimed to be, but a power-mongering villain who distorted biblical principles to the extent that 900+ people built a church in Guyana where they killed themselves in 1978’s famous mass-suicide. And yet something in his message resonated deeply with many disillusioned souls longing for some sort of utopia amid the malaise and uncertainty of the ‘60s and ‘70s, when America was reeling from the chaos of the Vietnam era, civil rights strife and a host of other social upheavals. Director Stanley Nelson charts the rise of the People’s Temple in a way that demonstrates the appeal of the utopia Jones preached (“It truly had the potential to be something big and powerful and great,” said one commentator in the film; “It seemed so beautiful,” said another), offering an important lesson for anyone who’s ever longed to live in, or believed in the possibility of, a “perfect” world.
“I do not run for the presidency merely to oppose any man but to propose new policies.”
These are the words of Bobby Kennedy, spoken in March of 1968 when he announced his candidacy for the democratic presidential nomination. They are words highlighted in the new film, Bobby, which captures the feelings of optimism, idealism and ultimately heartbreak that defined RFK’s political potential and untimely assassination. The film, with it’s massive ensemble cast, preaches a gospel of collectivism that insists that the saving of the world will not come from one single man (even if men like Bobby lead the charge), but rather from a diverse, united and activist humanity. Like Jonestown, the film captures the deep human need for hope. The two films are chronological contemporaries in that they are set, in part, in 1968: a year when hope seemed more needed—and more within reach—than any other year in that era. They are also like-minded in their representations of the possibility of a sort of post-millennialist utopia on earth, emphasizing the importance of universal brotherhood, destroying race and class barriers, etc. It is interesting to compare the rhetoric of Jim Jones to the speeches of Bobby Kennedy. Though the former was certainly more polemic and probably less sincere than the latter, they nonetheless shared similar visions of a world without strife and disharmony.
“Together we will live forever”
These are the words of Rachel Weisz, spoken as Queen Isabel of Spain in Darren Aronofsky’s The Fountain. The film, however weird and artsy it may seem to some, is to me a rather profound meditation on the human longing for heaven on earth. In this case it is manifested in Hugh Jackman’s obsession with discovering the fountain of youth—both literally (through modern science) and symbolically (in the mythical quest of the “fountain of youth”). The film’s heart is in the notion that man’s ultimate existential dilemma is his inability to harness death. His entire existence is spent making his life comfortable and surviving, and yet in the end it proves futile. Death wins out. Jim Jones died, Bobby Kennedy died, Rachel Weisz’s character in The Fountain dies. Our evanescent lives are constantly under threat of extinction. And yet, as reflected in the films mentioned above, our culture is still obsessed with the possibility of achieving heavenly notions—immortality, lamb/lion peace—in this world.
It’s this tension—between this-worldliness and otherworldliness—that seems to come up again and again in human art, philosophy and discourse.
“On those living in the land of the shadow of death, a light has dawned.”
These words, from Isaiah 9:2, prophesied a hope for a messiah who would bring peace and justice to earth, increasing the power of the weak and giving strength to the weary. In many ways, the entire Old Testament is like one big idealistic exposition—the Act I of a very epic script—setting up the world, in all of its sin and error pining, for a climactic holy night in which redemption would take flesh. Indeed, Jesus’ arrival on earth kicked off the greatest story ever told, because this was the one point in post-fall history when there really was heaven on earth. What beautiful imagery the gospel accounts give us in the star and “heavenly hosts” of angels, to remind us that the babe in the manger represented the glorious clashing of the heavens/eternal and the earth/mortal.
It seems to me that all art, whether it knows it or not, is part of this same “glorious clashing” that the birth of Christ embodied. For when God came to earth and took on human form—what we call “the incarnation”—humanity was never the same. In this moment—what C.S. Lewis calls “the Grand Miracle,” upon which every other miracle prepares for, exhibits, or results from—the majestic palette of heaven was bestowed on the lowly flesh of humankind. The intersection of humanity’s hopeless, death-haunted incapacity and an indescribably hope-filled divinity did more than just give us a reason to celebrate every December; it gave this world purpose and redeemed its theretofore hopeless condition.
That God would come to earth, experience the sin-tainted creation-gone-wrong, and then sacrifice His son for it, proves that there is in this world something worth fighting for. How can we only look heavenward, when we have this life and this world, both of which Christ experienced, and—through His death—justified?
I think our constant heavenward glance, and—as some of these current films represent—our maneuvering to receive heaven even as residents of this earth, is a natural inclination that came about when the baby grew up, died on the cross and preceded us on the journey to the mansions in the sky. I think we all feel the words Jesus spoke to his disciples in John 13:36: “Where I am going, you cannot follow now, but you will follow later.” It is this later part that is tough to swallow, and which inspires so many artistic, spiritual and scientific quests to turn later into now.
The philosopher Martin Heidegger eloquently expresses man’s position of being “stuck between” the glory of the divine and the pain of a mortal all-too-aware of the immortal. “Man, as man, has always measured himself with and against something heavenly,” wrote Heidegger. “Man’s dwelling depends on an upward-looking measure-taking of the dimension, in which the sky belongs just as much to the earth … In poetry the taking of measure occurs.”
Essentially Heidegger is making the point that man defines himself, his being, through art and poetry—which alone are the devices by which we can take measure of the dimension where the sky (heaven) touches the earth (our world); or, as we have seen, where the eternal star met the little town of Bethlehem. Art is born, like Jesus, mystically at the intersection of this-worldly being and that-worldly mystery. As George Steiner says, “There is language, there is art, because there is ‘the other.’”
And so we see, through films like Jonestown, Bobby and The Fountain, that man is still wrestling with this notion of where heaven is (or, how much of Eden can be recovered) on earth. We are always negotiating our place between earth and sky: if we cannot live forever, then what does it mean to live at all? What purpose and plans are entrusted to us while on this planet, and are we or are we not to long for heaven above and apart from where we are now?
The questions are tough, because our instincts often seem to come from both directions. The physical pulls us toward this world, while the inner spark and soul pushes us toward that which we were made for.
In the end, we must treat the world as Christ taught us to—to love people and spread His world to all nations. As Christ prays for us, so should we understand the meaning of life this side of heaven:
“My prayer is not that you take them out of the world but that you protect them from the evil one. They are not of the world, even as I am not of it. Sanctify them by the truth: your word is truth. As you sent me into the world, I have sent them into the world. For them I sanctify myself, that they too may be truly sanctified.”
-Jesus (John 17:15-19).
