Craig Wong
The morning after Christ met me, the first of March in ‘80, on my back on a concrete driveway, my inmost being pondered the miracle of new birth. Draining used oil from under my Dad’s sedan, the implications of the night prior consumed me. I had “prayed the prayer” in a little Baptist church and in one fell swoop, my desperate search for meaning had come to an end. A purposeless existence was suddenly subsumed by a much grander narrative. Jesus had radically upended my young life. A new day had dawned and, as the old hymn goes, there was no turning back.
This teen testimony gave me at least a small taste of what Mary experienced while visiting Elizabeth (cousin perhaps?) somewhere in the Judean countryside. Mary finds herself swept into personal, social and political drama, none of which she would or could have asked or imagined. She is told by a mysterious, otherworldly messenger, Gabriel, that she is going to give birth to a child of salvific consequence for the whole world, at which Mary protests, “But how? I’ve never even slept with a man!” As the story unfolds, we come to realize just how much is at stake for this woman living an otherwise pedestrian life in humdrum Nazareth: Being pregnant while legally engaged had severe consequences. She risked being stoned to death under Jewish law. She was vulnerable to public shame and at risk of being exiled from her own village. And all this while under the thumb of King Herod and, above him, Tiberius who subjugated and taxed her people into perpetual poverty.
The dramatic arc of Mary’s journey deserves more than can fit in a column, but we can observe at least four movements in Luke’s opening chapter: God crashes into Mary’s world when she least expects it, Mary’s plans are summarily disrupted, God creates something new through Mary’s faith and openness to change and, finally, Mary’s song, known to us throughout the ages as The Magnificat, rehearses her understanding and full embrace of God’s grand narrative for her life and that of her people:
“My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has looked with favor on the lowly state of his servant.
Surely from now on all generations will call me blessed,
for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name;
indeed, his mercy is for those who fear him
from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm;
He has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones
and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things
and sent the rich away empty.
He has come to the aid of his child Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy,
according to the promise he made to our ancestors.”
-Luke 1:46-56
Through the song, Mary rejoices because the Lord is mindful of the Anawim, the Hebrew word for the poor or lowly, and that her humble life will somehow reverberate into future generations (v. 48), that He has the back of all who look to Him (vs. 50, 53), and that He holds authority over those who deem themselves great, occupying lofty positions of state power (vs. 51-52). In short, Mary rests in knowing that God will be found victorious over all pretenders to His throne and that His Spirit is at work, often behind the scenes, ensuring that justice is ultimately served. This reality changes everything for Mary.
Which takes us to Andor. A year ago, I had no idea what Andor was, let alone have much interest in the Star Wars franchise. However, I do remember waiting in a long, long line for the opening of the first Star Wars film in 1977. It was at the fabled Coronet Theatre on San Francisco’s Geary Boulevard. I will never forget that opening iconic scene, shot in a galaxy far, far away. In the midst of the vastness of space, the underbelly of a massive spaceship, an Imperial Star Destroyer, suddenly looms into view, as if hovering ominously over our heads. It was jaw-dropping cinematography, the likes of which none of us had ever seen before. The movie immediately hurled us into the throes of a battle of galactic proportions between the Empire and a much smaller, rag tag band of rebel forces. The Empire, of course, is a formidable foe, and made for a cinematically epic universe that floods the imagination of millions around the world to this day.
But those early films comprise the extent of my interest in Star Wars. So when friends started urging me to watch Andor, I was initially annoyed. However, these were trusted ministry colleagues and their incessant prodding was rooted in emphatic claims of the show’s relevance to recent sociopolitical developments. Finally, after a few months, I gave in and fired up the first episode of Season One. Suffice to say, I was quickly hooked.
Andor, as many of you already know, is a Disney+ TV series that chronicles the messy rise of the rebellion, along with the Empire’s consolidation of power, in particular, the highly secretive construction of the iconic Death Star. The series does a great job of capturing the complexities of coalescing disparate leaders and factions around a shared mission. To name a few, you have Vel Sartha and Kleya Marki, foot soldiers who work for Luthen Rael, a mastermind who largely operates incognito in the shadows. There’s Saw Gerrera, a radical freedom fighter whose tactics tend to divide rather than unify. Then there’s Mon Mothma, a member of the Imperial Senate who secretly funnels resources to the resistance at great political and personal risk. There’s Maarva Andor, a dying matron who sees and calls out what the Empire is trying to do to her beloved Ferrix community. And lastly, there’s Maarva’s son, Cassian, who’s simply scrapping along, trying to make a quiet living, and wanting nothing to do with the political goings-on of the larger world. As it were, Cassian goes on to become the heroic leader we see in the movie Rogue One. Truly fun stuff.
But there’s another character in the Andor series that cannot be overlooked. Plot-wise, he is a minor figure, a grunt in a rebel infiltration team. In fact, Karis Nemik gets eliminated early on in a freak accident. But as the story unfolds, we’re made increasingly aware of Nemik’s profound impact within the grand narrative. Just prior to his death, he records words of encouragement for his fellow compatriots, a brief monologue that would come to be known to rebels everywhere as Nemik’s Manifesto. In a nutshell, Nemik identifies with his colleagues the temptation to be overwhelmed by imperial power, but reminds them that they are not alone and, in fact, are joined by countless others (“we have friends everywhere”) in a resistance that will ultimately triumph because “the imperial need for control is so desperate because it is so unnatural. Tyranny requires constant effort. It breaks, it leaks. Authority is brittle. Oppression is the mask of fear.” Conversely, Nemik explains that “freedom is a pure idea” that “occurs spontaneously and without instruction.”
I can certainly relate to the temptation to be overwhelmed. I often find my soul despairing in the tumult and darkness of the current, sociopolitical moment in which we find ourselves. There is much to despair about. In my own congregational circles, Latino brethren have been arrested and deported without due process. Close friends in civil service are losing their jobs. Asian American brothers and sisters are experiencing the stresses of rising hostility. And young people, like my four Gen Z children, have become understandably cynical about the role of institutions (especially that of government), of marriage, of education, of the “American Dream” and the safety nets that have been bedrock for generations before them. There is corruption at the highest levels, and the wealthy are becoming stratospherically wealthier. Meanwhile, as a society, depression, anxiety, social isolation and related mental health crises are on the rise, including suicide and mass shooting that have become terrifyingly normalized.
However, the perspectival impact of Nemik’s manifesto within the Andor narrative has been metaphorically compelling to me. There is power in words, especially when rooted in truths, in this case, that coercive systems of domination eventually collapse while sustained, collective resistance on the side of a pure or universal ideal is unstoppable. Whichever side one honestly identifies with, there is much here worthy of reflection.
Avoiding the Star Wars dualism of good-vs-evil, both of which run through every human heart (as Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn aptly asserted), I want to speak of the Church’s “collective resistance” as its calling to live faithfully to the gospel as Christ’s community in the world until He comes again. This is, at once, the hope and the rub. We strive to embody and proclaim this gospel hope, but it is a long slog, fraught with dangers, setbacks and human frailty. We are “prone to wander” as the hymnist Robert Robinson reminded us long ago. We all too easily lose perspective in the trenches of ministry. Leaders especially feel the heat, and the loneliness of the task.
I have the privilege of leading New College Berkeley (NCB) in its mission to be a “third space” (outside the conventional structures of congregation and academy) for Christ-followers to discern gospel faithfulness together, across cultures, generations and theological traditions. It is a lofty ideal, but also a tedious and hazardous one. It involves lots of networking, envisioning, planning, organizing, inviting, and gathering, often without knowing who will actually show up. The ministry gathering can also get messy, with different opinions about the burning questions, who should be in the room, and how to communicate goals and objectives that do not succumb, inadvertently or otherwise, to the prevailing polarities and ideologies of the surrounding culture. And finally, the pursuit of gospel faithfulness eventually, and invariably, invites opposition.
But as Mary and Nemik rehearse in their Magnificat and manifesto, respectively, we each are part of a much larger picture. By the grace of God, I have been able to taste this reality through NCB with increasing regularity, to name a few examples: (1) Presbyterian, German Lutheran, Anabaptist and Eastern Orthodox believers studying the Theological Theses of Barmen together, (2) Latino and Asian church pastors getting theological and practical about current immigration challenges, (3) growing collaboration with seminaries in Pasadena, Holland, Seattle and Berkeley, (4) partnership with campus parachurch ministries, (5) co-creating intercongregational conferences with local pastors, and (6) growing affiliation with a global network of urban, missional entities. For me, these have been visible signs of the invisible God, superintending the Spirit’s work in and among the people of God in the San Francisco Bay Area and beyond. When I seize time and space to ponder these developments, I am humbled and awestruck by what the Lord is up to.
Last month, the Tacoma-based Leadership Foundations (LF) graciously invited me to share a scriptural reflection with a cohort of Gen Z leaders called The Barnabas Project. Engaging Luke’s narrative, the reflection formed the basis of the column you’ve just read. Per LF’s template for Bible meditations, I included a pop-culture YouTube video of Nemik’s final words for the cohort to watch. But additionally, I decided to craft a creative rendition, incorporating ecclesial language rooted in gospel hope. Changes to the manifesto’s imperial language were deemed unnecessary. In closing, here is my paraphrased version (all text changes are italicized) of Nemik’s Manifesto:
“There will be times when the struggle seems impossible. I know this already. Alone, unsure, dwarfed by the scale of the enemy. Remember this: God’s love is a pure idea. It occurs spontaneously and without instruction. Random acts of gospel resistance are occurring constantly throughout the empire. There are congregations, faith communities, everyday disciples and people of peace that have no idea that they’ve already enlisted in the cause. Remember that the work of the gospel is everywhere. And even the smallest act of faith pushes our lines forward. And then remember this: The imperial need for control is so desperate because it is so unnatural. Tyranny requires constant effort. It breaks, it leaks. Authority is brittle. Oppression is the mask of fear. Remember that! And know this: the day will come when all these skirmishes and battles, these acts of defiant love, will have flooded the banks of the empire’s authority and then there will be one too many. One single thing will break the siege. Remember this: Keep the faith. Keep on keepin’ on!”
Dr. Craig Wong is the Executive Director of New College Berkeley (NCB), a theological “third space” to help the Church discern and contextualize the gospel in the San Francisco Bay Area. He recently completed a DMin at Western Theological Seminary in Holland, MI, after completing an MA at the same institution. Before NCB, Wong served on the staff of a Presbyterian church in San Francisco’s Mission District where he formed and led a congregation-based, community nonprofit that served immigrant families from Latin America and Asia. He also served for over 12 years on the board of the Christian Community Development Association and the corporate board of Dayspring Partners, a gospel-centered technology company in the Bayview Hunters Point neighborhood of San Francisco. He and his wife Tina have raised four children (now adults) in San Francisco’s Excelsior neighborhood.