Contact: Curt Harding, Thomas Nelson, 615-902-2246, charding@thomasnelson.com
MEDIA ADVISORY, Feb. 5 /Christian Newswire/ -- We sometimes have difficulty predicting what will be really hot with the buying public and why. Twenty years ago, who would have called teen vampire high school romantic fiction? That kind of thing is just flat unpredictable. But there are other themes in popular entertainment that might seem just as unlikely, but which are actually a staple of our storytelling. I refer to the disaster story--whether it comes in the form of fiction, as the recent movie "2012," or in the form of ostensible science, like "An Inconvenient Truth" --there is something in the purchasing public that thrills to the thought of absolutely everything coming unstuck. And they are willing to pay ready money to get that thrill.
In my recent study of five cities--Jerusalem, Athens, Rome, London, and New York--one possible reason for this presented itself. It is a matter of empirical observation that cities and regional civilizations die. There have been countless Ozymandian figures in history, and where are they all now? It is arguable that at least four of the five cities mentioned above have already seen their high water mark. So it is the simplest thing in the world to look at this common process, and render general by induction.
If cities and regional civilizations die, then why not macro-civilizations? Why not worlds? To take this up to the next level is hardly an exercise in squaring the circle. Stories about the end of the world are a commonplace in our history--from Armageddon to Ragnarok and back again. This means that if Al Gore comes along to tell a new story about the pending disaster, it is simply a variation on an old, old theme. Only this time dying polar bears are included.
Part of the energy for this can come from the hubris that afflicts civilizations when they are on top of their game. It seems so natural for power-brokers to equate this civilization with civilization generally, and everybody they know "who matters" thinks the same. Meanwhile the disgruntled heirs of yesterday's lords of the earth are still muttering about their loss--and are acutely aware of the fact that what happened to them yesterday will likely happen to somebody else tomorrow. And telling stories about it helps to salve the resentment--some day "those who replaced us will be replaced by others." And if the hopes are fueled by resentment in the nickel seats, a glorious disaster on the screen is far better than a slow glide.
A third possible reason is the reality of an uneasy conscience, collectively speaking. Deeply embedded in the genre of disaster fiction, no less than in blues standards, and still again in St. Paul's letter to the Galatians, is the notion that a man reaps what he sows. The prelude to a monster eating Tokyo is some girl dispensing with certain essential articles of clothing. In this kind of set-up, the morality that is offended is the old-fashioned kind, the code we all learned at our mother's knee. Someone stole something, or ran off with somebody else's wife, or trespassed where he clearly shouldn't have. And then the world blew up. E. Michael Jones has shown in his Monsters from the Id that disaster movies have an inexorable and unbending code of justice, as severe and inflexible as Moses in Pilgrim's Progress.
The offending transaction might also be of the Frankenstein variety, where we were recklessly messing with--you name it--delicate environmental balances, genetic engineering, weapons of spectacular destructive capacity, indigenous natives on other planets, or artificial intelligence. And then everything spins out of control.
But why is the disaster story popular? Why do we like them so much? It is inviting to consider them as attempts by our prophet-artists to warn us all, and this places us in the supporting--and flattering--role of a people eager to hear what the prophets say. But when has that ever happened? It is just as plausible to say that we are actually looking for cheap catharsis--we can experience the end of the world and the relief it gives to that uneasy conscience of ours, and all for the price of a movie and popcorn.
As the fellow said, the only thing we learn from history is that we don't learn anything from history. But reading the biography of a city like Jerusalem, or of civilizations built around other cities like Athens and Rome, can still be a salutary experience. We can learn that cities and civilizations, like individuals, have a life span, and that certain things can be predicted about stages within those life spans. The words decline and fall come to mind. Perhaps we don't need a political-messiah. Maybe we need a gerontologist.
Douglas Wilson is the minister of Christ Church in Moscow, Idaho, and a senior fellow of theology at New St. Andrews. His most recent book is "Five Cities That Ruled the World."
