For we, like children frightened of the dark
Are sometimes frightened in the light–of things
No more to be feared than fears that in the dark
Distress a child, thinking they may come true.
—Lucretius, On the Nature of Things, c. 50 BC, tr. Ronald Melville.
Forbidden fruit: The new Receiver tries to do some giving.
The other week, I watched The Giver on DVD with my wife and a few of
my kids. It’s a 2014 film adaptation of Lois Lowry’s 1993 book about a
future collectivist society that does away with all but a bland,
utilitarian remnant of human emotion and ambition. “The community” has
even eliminated history from the minds of its people, with one
significant exception.
A single chosen individual, the “Receiver of Memory,” is designated to
take care of recalling past civilizations and events. This exalted
and burdened person is set apart with an exclusive collection of books
and memories, which he keeps to himself except to cryptically advise
the Elders in their decision-making.
Eventually, the Receiver takes on an apprentice, to whom he passes all
that knowledge and memory. The selection of a new Receiver “is very,
very rare,” as the community’s Chief Elder tells her community at the
Ceremony of Twelve, where young people are being assigned their
occupations with much fanfare, and without any say in the matter. “Our
community has only one Receiver. It is he who trains his successor.”
The story’s hero, Jonas, is named as that successor. “I thought you
were The Receiver,” Jonas tells him during their first teaching
session, “but you say that now I’m The Receiver. So I don’t know
what to call you.” Call me The Giver, the old man says. And from
him Jonas goes on to learn some amazing and troubling things. His life
will never be the same again.
———
Around the end of 2010, one of my daughters had been assigned the book
in school, and I wound up reading it myself. At the time, I was in the
early stages of researching the doctrine and history of my old church.
The things I was starting to learn would turn my own life upside-down
and result in my first book, An Examination of the Pearl, about a
year later.
I was stunned by the parallels between Lowry’s sheltered,
intellectually stunted community and the “Kingdom of God” in which I’d
been struggling. After a lifetime as one of “God’s children,” I’d
finally started to look at my odd little church in a clear-headed
way. What I was seeing disturbed me a great deal, and so I put
together a listing of church writings with footnotes stating some of
my concerns. I had it printed and bound into a dozen softcover copies
that I shared with a few friends in the church. Oops.
In September 2010, I was hauled before the church board of trustees
and preachers for a stressful, coercive, and emotional meeting about
my little copy-shop book. “Are you really believing?” I was
asked. Beyond some concern about how I could dispute what “God’s Word”
teaches regarding Adam and Eve and Noah’s Ark, there wasn’t much
substantive discussion of what the book actually had to say. It was
mostly about me for having said it.
Repent or Else
They told me the book was an expression of my doubts, which would have
been best kept to myself or private conversations. It could be
dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands, they said. It would leave
the impression among outsiders that there are differences of opinion
in “God’s Kingdom.” And it is certainly not something that believers
should be reading. After over two hours of this, the meeting concluded
with the understanding that I was to retrieve copies of the book.
Just a few months after that experience, here I was reading about a
closed community of myriad rules and “appropriate remorse” and public
apologies, where uncomfortable history was extinguished from memory,
where intractable rule-breakers were released to “Elsewhere.” And I
was seeing a frightful near-future version of myself in Jonas, not
some lofty hero but simply a wide-eyed seeker of truth–unable to
tolerate censorship and propelled by an irresistible call to look at
reality, at long last, come what may.
Comparing Lowry’s all-controlling community with Christian
fundamentalism doesn’t seem to be a universal or even a common
interpretation of her book, but she would be happy to let me keep it
as my own. “A book, to me, is almost sacrosanct: such an individual
and private thing. The reader brings his or her own history and
beliefs and concerns, and reads in solitude, creating each scene from
his own imagination as he does.” And I was certainly interested to
see her recall a “man who had, as an adult, fled the cult in which he
had been raised” telling her “that his psychiatrist had recommended The Giver to him.”
———
The first thing that jumped out at me was the rigid structure of rules
that govern life both in Lowry’s dystopia and for the “believers” in
the Laestadian Lutheran Church. Community members are careful to
maintain “precision of language,” while believers do not swear, tell
dirty jokes, or speak light-heartedly about faith matters. Each family
unit of the community receives two children–no more–while believing
parents are to accept as many children as they are “given”–no
less. Community girls are instructed to keep their hair ribbons
“neatly tied at all times” while believing girls are instructed not
to wear earrings, make-up, or spaghetti straps.
Even a minor rule like the one against bragging (there is “never any
comfortable way to mention or discuss one’s successes without breaking
the rule against bragging, even if one didn’t mean to”) is best
followed by steering clear of occasions where breaking it would be too
easy. Thus believers have restrained themselves from playing violins
in orchestras where they might get “puffed up” in their talents, even
if they would just be one of many players helping to produce one of
the few types of music to which they can listen in good
conscience. Thus many an athletic Laestadian boy has walked home while
his unbelieving sort-of friends go off to football practice. God’s
glory must not be given to another, and the world cannot become too
close.
And then there are those Stirrings, which begin for young Jonas with
a dream about a girl his age. He describes it to his parents during a
“sharing-of-feelings” rap session they are expected to do over dinner
each day. (“Be free,” the board members would tell us during the many
congregational meetings of my youth.) In the dream, he and the girl
were in front of a tub in the House of the Old, where the elderly get
cared for in their final days.
“I wanted her to take off her clothes and get into the tub,” he
explained quickly. “I wanted to bathe her. I had the sponge in my
hand. But she wouldn’t. She kept laughing and saying no.”
His father asks Jonas about the strongest feeling he experienced
during the dream.
“The wanting,” he said. “I knew that she wouldn’t. And I think I knew
that she shouldn’t. But I wanted it so terribly. I could feel the
wanting all through me.”
His parents look at each other and Jonas is then told about the
Stirrings.
He had heard the word before. He remembered that there was a
reference to the Stirrings in the Book of Rules, though he didn’t
remember what it said. And now and then the Speaker mentioned
it. ATTENTION. A REMINDER THAT STIRRINGS MUST BE REPORTED IN ORDER
FOR TREATMENT TO TAKE PLACE.
In the dystopia of The Giver, the treatment is medication, taken
every day to deaden a person’s natural sex drive until it finally
disappears in old age. In Laestadianism, the treatment is the
forgiveness of sins–dispensed in a sermon every Sunday and, if
parents are following recommended procedure, in the words of
absolution being preached to their children at bedtime every
night.
Believe all sins forgiven in Jesus’ name and precious blood, the
young innocents are told, night after night by parents or siblings.
That proclamation offers redemptive relief for all sins, and does
the job in most cases, certainly from sinful thoughts of providing
erotic bathing assistance to the cute girl or boy next door. If one’s
Stirrings have moved beyond mere fantasy to masturbation or–heaven
forbid–to a little kissing and heavy petting behind the garage where
the yard light don’t shine, guilt pangs may persist despite the
generic assurance of forgiveness. The preachers recommend confession
in such cases.
The assembled community: Looks a lot like church to me.
Confession was a big deal in Laestadianism during my childhood. Most
sins beyond mere impure thoughts, doubts, etc. were considered to
remain on the conscience until one had spoken of them “by name.” It
was not an absolute requirement to confess, but was widely expected,
at least for those infractions falling into a non-biblical category of
“name sins,” a category that was often referred to but never very
specifically defined. A 1978 article from the church newsletter
pretty well encapsulates how things were back then:
It is never an easy matter to repent of sins for the flesh fights
against the Spirit. But sin has a name, and those named sins will not
go away without our speaking of them to a dear brother or sister. We
are assured that we can freely go to a dear one and open our
heart. But those sins that have affected the congregation of God are
to be repented of before the congregation; otherwise we will not
receive freedom.
That last part about repentance before the congregation offers a hint
of the public confessions that people often made after the Sunday
morning service when I was a kid. In my congregation and at least some
others in North America, members would head up to the front of the
church after the sermon and ask the entire congregation for
forgiveness of various sins.
During the congregational “caretaking” meetings that were a regular
Saturday night event, where some issue or person(s) of concern would
be discussed with much emotion, such repentances would go on and on.
I’ll always remember one of them in particular, from a young father
who dutifully walked up to the microphone and asked forgiveness of the
congregation for “reading filthy literature.” Poor guy. It was
probably just a paperback novel with a vague sex scene or two.
With all those memories in my head, you can see why I saw some
Laestadian parallels in Jonas’s recollection of his friend Asher
showing up late to class:
“When the class took their seats at the conclusion of the patriotic
hymn, Asher remained standing to make his public apology as was
required.”
“I apologize for inconveniencing my learning community.” Asher ran
through the standard apology phrase rapidly, still catching his
breath. The Instructor and class waited patiently for his
explanation. The students had all been grinning, because they had
listened to Asher’s explanations so many times before.
“I left home at the correct time but when I was riding along near the
hatchery, the crew was separating some salmon. I guess I just got
distraught, watching them.
“I apologize to my classmates,” Asher concluded. He smoothed his
rumpled tunic and sat down.
“We accept your apology, Asher.” The class recited the standard
response in unison.
“I’d like to ask forgiveness for, er, reading filthy literature,” the
Laestadian Asher stammered, looking down at the floor. Believe all
your sins forgiven in Jesus’ name and blood, replied the congregation
with their standard response, in unison.
———
Back in those bad old days, there was another chilling parallel to
The Giver. It was release from the community, the Laestadian form
of which we called “binding.” Believers would be bound in their sins,
and any requests they made to be forgiven would be denied unless it
was decided that they were being specific and penitent enough about
the issue at hand. Usually, there was some “false spirit” at the heart
of the matter, which needed to be exorcised by being named in the
confession.
This was a sad outcome of many “caretaking meetings” that were
commonly held to discuss the spiritual state of individual
congregation members. Such a meeting was considered the third step in
Jesus’ instructions regarding the rebuke of a brother who has caused
offense (Matt. 18:15-16). Offense was taken not so much for individual
actions against another member but as a result of the wayward one’s
observed sins (e.g., acquiring a television) or erroneous doctrinal
views.
In a 1971 newpaper article, the Finnish counterpart to my North
American Laestadian church had set forth the binding procedure in no
uncertain terms: “If the ones spoken to do not humble themselves to
repentance, consider them pagans and publicans and refuse them
membership in the association. The disobedient are not to be greeted
with the greeting of God’s children.” My old church took “precisely
the same stand in America” three years later.
“For a contributing citizen to be released from the community was a
final decision, a terrible punishment, an overwhelming statement of
failure.” In The Giver, release was just to “Elsewhere.” Nobody
but the Planning Committee knew exactly where the released person
went. We readers, along with a wiser and sadder Jonas, come to
realize that release actually involves death, not mere departure.
The horror and injustice of the community killing off its members–not
just for disobedience, but for perceived unfitness at birth or just
running out the clock on one’s old age–is what propels Jonas to take
drastic action as the apprentice Receiver. Obviously, it would be a
stretch to draw much of a parallel there, but it’s worth mentioning
what a sad impact the Laestadian practice of binding did have on
people.
Beyond the gate: Actually a good place to be. [Flickr page] I personally witnessed it several times as a youth. It is quite
unforgettable to see people ask the congregation for forgiveness at a
meeting held concerning their spiritual affairs and receive only cold
silence as a response. Sometimes they would sit gamely at their table
at the front of the church while the meeting continued to the bitter
end, often late into the night. And sometimes they would reach their
breaking point and storm out of the building, ending the meeting of
their own accord. I saw it go either way. Both outcomes were
heartbreaking to the subjects as well as the congregation members who
sincerely believed that the soul of their brother or sister hung in
the balance that night.
There could be a good deal of secret resentment even when one had
jumped through the hoops set before him. Grumbling behind the back of
the church elders was the only possible relief. To approach them with
concerns about their activities carried the very real danger of
seeming unrepentant and becoming subject to yet another
meeting. Instead, for a couple of years to come, the public face
remained one of compliance and thankfulness for the opportunity of
correction. In many cases the corrected one was probably so beaten
down by the experience as to feel a Stockholm-syndrome sense of
gratitude.
The last case of binding I’ve heard of happened ten years ago, and
that’s quite a late anomaly. The Finnish counterpart to my old church
issued an apology of sorts in 2011 for “errors [that] were able to
expand almost everywhere in our Christianity,” though it puts the
blame on individuals rather than the supposedly inerrant community,
er, Mother congregation. But the trauma and collective memory of
it still lurks behind the rebukes taking place in every private board
meeting with a wayward believer. There is usually no alternative but
to accept what you are told and repent of your supposed sin if you
want to continue being considered “heaven acceptable.”
———
One “morning, for the first time, Jonas did not take his
pill. Something within him, something that had grown there through the
memories, told him to throw the pill away.” He has gotten some of
the forbidden knowledge into his head, and a bit of color has started
seeping into his black-and-white world.
It hasn’t been an altogether pleasant transformation:
He found that he was often angry, now: irrationally angry at his
groupmates, that they were satisfied with their lives which had none
of the vibrance his own was taking on. And he was angry at himself,
that he could not change that for them.
He tried. Without asking permission from The Giver, because he
feared–or knew–that it would be denied, he tried to give his new
awareness to his friends.
The reactions are mixed. Asher gets uneasy when Jonas tells him to
look at some flowers very carefully, wondering if something is
wrong. In the film adaptation, Fiona (the girl of Jonas’s bathtub
dream) takes more readily to this scary new Jonas and his crazy
ideas. “There is something wrong. Everything’s wrong. I quit,” Jonas
tells her in response to the same question Asher had asked. He
persuades her to quit taking her own stirring-stopper medication, too,
and some difficult consequences ensue.
Ultimately, the Receiver of Memory cannot remain in the community. He
knows too much. He feels too much. The community insists on keeping
itself ignorant of what he has learned. It will not raise up its eyes
from the safe grey sameness of doctrinal familiarity to look–really look–at the world he now sees all around.
“Listen to me, Jonas,” the old Giver tells a sobbing Jonas. “They
can’t help it. They know nothing.” And then Jonas leaves the
community of his birth and upbringing, to a new and scary but
joyous place–outside for the first time, inside never again, and the
better for it.
———
The film (
IMDb page) hasn’t been highly rated by critics or viewers. But I loved it, and not just because of the connection I felt with the story. The book is a Newberry Medal winner and has sold more than 10 million copies.
The three screenshots are from
The Giver film, reproduced under “fair use” for purposes of review and commentary. The photo is Copyright © 2013 Edwin A. Suominen. Click to enlarge, or check out my
Flickr photostream. You may freely use it for non-commercial purposes, with attribution, under the
Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.
Notes
