Believing in Dreams

I am going to begin assuming that my dreams are communications to me from God. No more are my dreams merely random or silly. No more are they simply my brain working out the problems of the day, as I heard some dream researchers say. When did we start assuming they were meaningless? Why did ancient kings assume their dreams were divine communications and call together the wise men the next morning to suggest interpretations? In their cases, they were real prophecies or warnings or advice.

All my life I have ignored my dreams. I’ve thought so little of them that I forgot them by the time I was stepping in the shower. I treated them as modern biology would suggests we should. What a concession to the godless 20th century and the as-yet-uncharacterized godless 21st century.

Are we or are we not meaningful beings, seeking meaning in life and finding it? created in God’s image? recipients of special revelation? A skeptic may counter, “Animals dream.”  Yes, of course. “Do they dream of the future or receive warnings from God about approaching predators?” Well, maybe they do. So what? Do you raise this point simply because it sounds foolish to modern ears? Maybe the world and the animal kingdom is more filled with mystery than you thought.

Nevertheless, I have started paying more attention to my dreams lately. And they are no longer meandering, ridiculous farces. Since I started looking and listening, and believing in their substance, they have become less random, and more suggestive.

One that I had a month ago was about me wandering in my underwear, through the house of Derek McCollum, assistant pastor of my church and RUF minister at the University of Texas. I was searching through his house for a Bible. I couldn’t find one. It was early Saturday morning, the sun was filling the house and the McCollum family was still asleep. Mrs. McCollum woke first and came down to find a strange man rummaging through the kitchen looking for a Bible. She screamed and ran away as I tried to explain to her who I was.

Then last week I dreamed I was asked to fill in preaching at a church. I accepted. The service started in a few minutes, and I thought I would just pull up an old sermon on the computer, print it out, and go. But the computer wouldn’t cooperate. I couldn’t find my manuscript; the start time came and went. I was unprepared. When I finally went out to try and wing it, I found that someone else was already preaching and I was too late.

I take all this to mean something unsettling, though I dont know what. I need to gather the wise men together to give me an interpretation. If you are wise, feel free to offer one in the comments section, in typical 21st century fashion.

The Wrestler

I finally get this movie. It took me about 4 viewings, but I finally get it and like it. I bought it after it came out on DVD, after Mickey Rourke and Merisa Tomei were both nominated for Academy Awards. This movie was written by Robert Seigel – not the NPR reporter, but the former editor in chief of The Onion. That’s a little strange, but  encouraging evidence that satirists can also say something important.  AND of course – the reason I bought the DVD - Darren Aronofsky the director:  a guy who is not satisfied until you are on the dirt, fetal, trying to get your breath back, stuffing your eyes back in their sockets, and wiping the boot-print from your xiphoid process. I’ve enjoyed his other films; after I recovered, that is.

Seen it? Should you see it? It is probably necessary to overcome any hang-ups you may have with boobs and stripper culture before you watch this film. I guess boobs are not such a big deal to me any more. Really. I can’t argue with many women who wonder, Why are western men so delighted by boobs? ‘Western’, I say, because we all know that many tribal cultures view boobs in an udderly utilitarian way.  But, back to the film…

Item 1: the title - “The Wrestler”.  Probably the lowest-hanging fruit of this film. Get it?  He’s a wrestler, but he’s wrestling with life and relationships and stuff.

Item 2: seriously, you have to come to grips with the ending. Many (most?) viewers will be asking “What!!? Is that the end?” “Why?” “Huh?” “Ack!” “Ooer?”  and other incomprehensible utterances. I’m joking, but here’s what you have to understand about art films today:  happy endings are mostly dead in art films. Because, in real life, the hero doesn’t really get the girl. The wounded horse doesn’t really win the race. The rag-tag band of brothers doesn’t really take that hill. We all know this. We used to like movies that told us beautiful lies, such as, they’ll get back together, he’ll turn back to good side, Rex will wake up just in time to save the children from the fire. But we all know, it didn’t happen that way in our own lives. We had a moment of truth, some peril or other, and no superhero came in our window, we didn’t stand up against the bully, we didn’t overcome our wounds to love again, we gave in to cowardice, the beautiful girl didn’t change her mind and come back, evil won, our charm didn’t save us, we weren’t quite good enough in the end.

So, happy resolution rings empty for a growing number of viewers. It sounds like a lie. Princess Bride? Yeah, it’s funny. But when my own personal epic struggle was going on, it didn’t work out that way. The growing populace of jaded failures want stories that say what they feel to be true.

But what about the happy ending, you say? What about feeling good? Life is bad enough – I want to feel good after paying $8 for a movie, you may say. On the contrary, those of us dealing with a lifetime of regret would say, “I dont want to be made to feel artificially happy at someone else’s staged triumph. Movie inspiration fades quickly. I want to know that I’m not alone in the world, and that I may have my own sad but attainable vindication.” That’s why art films dont have happy endings today. And those films dont make much money. That’s why Disney doesn’t make art films.

But I watched it again today, and I have to say I get it. I like it. The  Wrestler was, in the words of his daughter, ‘a fuck up’. But in the end, you were glad that he went back to wrestling. It’s where he belonged, though we knew it was dangerous for him. The chance at redemption he might have had with the stripper was just part of the exquisite agony of his plight. It was too late. And all he could do is make that last jump from the top ropes of the boxing ring, and go out in a blaze of glory – you knew, right, that he died at that moment? Yes, in case you missed it, that was what triggered a full, fatal heart attack. Artfully, the director didn’t show it, but that’s what happened.

And for those of you who haven’t seen it yet, if this review hasn’t scared you away, just buy it and commit to watching it a few times over the next 10 months if you really want to understand. Get yourself bored and immune to boobs and stripper sensuality. Be sure you are dejected and alone some night. Watch it after a few drinks at the end of a hard day. Watch it after you have thought deeply about how to speak the language of this generation, how to create art that matters, not just how to make everyone feel good for a few minutes.