The Passion

I did it. Despite my misgivings, I went to see Mel Gibson’s “The Passion” on Monday night. The parking lot at the theater was nearly empty, but the theater was half full. I walked in as the movie opened with Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. I came prepared with a pocket full of tissues and didn’t even stop at the concession counter as I usually do.

I was surprised to hear the crunching of popcorn during the opening scenes. How is this “entertainment”? I didn’t intend to be entertained, but to be stunned and shocked and horrified. And when I prepare for those emotions, I don’t need popcorn.

I didn’t cry until Mary, the Mother of Jesus, was portrayed. On a much smaller scale, I know that feeling of wanting to protect your child and of wanting to avoid the inevitable. I also realized with a shock that part of Jesus’ agony was knowing that those he loved had to endure his loss–I’ve thought before that I just cannot die and cause my children that kind of loss.

The violence was as graphic and horrifying as reported, but overall, I found the movie more moving and intense emotionally than I expected. Using a visual representation of Satan was effective.

All in all, I am glad I viewed it, even though afterwards my head hurt from crying and from the tension. I knew how it would end–with the Resurrection–yet the journey up the hill to Golgotha was agonzing to watch. I heard in my head Mel Gibson’s description of the movie–“it’s about the Passion of Christ–and twelve seconds of the Resurrection.” So, as soon as the final scene came on and the credits began to roll, I bolted out of there. I sat near the front of the crowd, yet I was the first one out the door.

I cried in the car, then decided I really had to get myself together so I could stop by the store and pick up some milk. That’s exactly what I did. I suppose the people in the store thought I was having a crisis of some sort with my blotchy face and red eyes.

When I got home, my husband and I fell into our usual routine of sarcastic humor. He complained about there being too many pillows on the bed and I made a comment about him being overly critical. He said, “I can see that movie really changed you.” And when he made another critical comment, I called him Mr. Critical and commented that the movie really changed him, too.

Seriously, there is no way you could live in a constant state of hyper-awareness about Christ’s sacrifice for mankind. You would surely implode. But it is good to venture to the outside of your self occasionally to glimpse the greater reality.