Brokenness and Hope in Hugo

Robert Mckee says, "Every effective story sends a charged idea out to us, in effect compelling the idea into us, so that we must believe."

Hugo does this and more! I never see a movie twice, but this was worth it both times around.

The obvious theme of the movie is brokenness. Little orphan Hugo, who lives in a clock, desperately tries to repair his mechanical automaton against all odds... as a means of fixing himself (his loneliness, the pain of his father's death and his lack of purpose).

Then there's the blue jacketed train station inspector who finds sick pleasure in locking little orphan boys up in the orphanage. And finally, there's George: by appearances a toy shop owner, but really a famous film director in cognito who hides his identity because memories of the past hurt too deeply.

These 3 characters reveal 3 main ways people deal with their brokenness.

1) Accept and inflict: The inspector was orphaned himself as a child. His life of hardship led him to believe that the world is a cruel, cold place where you don't need family to survive. His world is reduced to functionality. "We're here to get on trains or off them. That's it," he says. With no hope for healing, he accepts life as it is and inflicts the same calamity he endured on others.

2) Ignore and keep moving: George lives in quiet resignation. Life dealt him a bad card, and so he resents anyone who reminds him of it. With no hope for healing, he bitterly shuts out the world and manages his toy shop.

3) Confront and hope for healing: All three characters acknowledge their broken condition, but Hugo is the only one who believes he can be fixed. In tearful desperation, he finally admits that if he fixes his automaton, maybe it will write for him a message from his father and "he won't feel so alone anymore." This hope makes him risk his reputation, his life, his health, everything. And it changes him. Halfway through the story, Hugo finds his purpose in fixing George, not just himself.

The beautiful felt idea of this movie is that healing only comes through hope. To me, the most moving part of the story was when Hugo was having awful night terrors, but every time he woke, he'd look at the automaton sitting there next to his bed: motionless, silent, "waiting." Earlier in the movie, Hugo's friend says, "Why does he look so sad?"

Hugo replies, "I think he's just waiting."

And I thought, wow, that's exactly what hope is like. While our fears (anchored in irrationality) are warring and tearing at our hopes, our hopes (anchored in reality) are unwavering, unchanging, and waiting to bring us healing. Not only for us, but for the other broken people in the world we're meant to encourage through the process. And this is life: one person's brokenness lends to another person's healing. When you admit that you are broken, you become more sensitive to the brokenness in others, and when they've lost all hope, the hope that carries you on carries them on.

Hugo was the reason why George came alive again, and if it wasn't for his brokenness--or his hope--George would have went on living a life of quiet resignation. At the opening of George's magic show, he thanks Hugo with the words:

"I am standing before you today because of one brave boy, who saw a broken machine, and against all odds, he fixed it. It was the kindest magic trick that ever I've seen."

Lets be that for each other.

Loneliness

I'm beginning to think that loneliness is our natural condition--even though there's nothing in the world that feels more unnatural. We keep the curtains open, people nearby, and the lights glaring on as often as possible, so that eerie, sinking sensation doesn't settle in.

Distractions seem to help. Especially infatuation. Finding someone magical and feeling that exotic rush in your bones. Until years go by and you're lying next to your soul mate, still feeling lonely.

Having a baby, doing drugs, going shopping, constantly volunteering - there are a million ways to drown the ache of loneliness.

It's a cruel outlook, right? Humanity wanders aimless, pushing, wanting, and striving to believe in its own fulfillment for happiness... wherever it can get it.

And then there's friendship. CS Lewis says that "true friendship is the least jealous of loves." Where lovers are exclusive, friends are inclusive. The more the better. Spending time with friends that you have deep affection for brings you outside of yourself in a manner that seems ordinary, but is so divine. Old couples sitting on a park bench, two friends discussing their passion for poetry, kids riding bikes, families eating together, telling stories, taking walks...

But even these substitutes are temporary because friends betray us and lovers cheat on us. People die. Dreams die. Sometimes you sit on a park bench alone. Hand holding doesn't fix some things.

The ache can be subtle, like a sore or bruise, but sometimes it's excruciating, like needles in your heart and throat. You can't eat. Your dream too much and sleep too little. You're sick even though there's nothing wrong with you. I think this state of heart, soul, and mind is what Ecclesiastes calls "The House of Mourning."

It is better to go to a house of mourning
than to go to a house of feasting,
for death is the destiny of everyone;
the living should take this to heart.

It's a bizarre statement. Is it really better to attend a funeral than a wedding? Better to cry than to laugh?

For death is the destiny of everyone, the living should take this to heart. Feeling hopeless, unsatisfied dead-ended, and alone does strange things to you. You begin asking harder questions. You take a step back and wonder about the destiny of human life.

You get perspective.

In the house of mourning, we become convinced the strongest hands can't help us and the deepest wells are still too shallow. Our substitutes aren't working.

The house of mourning is the place that you become fully alive because it brings you to a raw place of trust. You don't have to be the circus act coordinator of your own happiness. You find rare jewels like contentment, thankfulness, joy, and peace that can sustain you in the hardest seasons.

Loneliness is an incurable disease on this side of heaven, but it leads us to the house of mourning, where we are reminded that our natural condition is not so much loneliness as it is dependance.

Goodbye Doubt, Hello Hope.

My beautiful, undignified friend Jessi Marquez is starting a "Kick the Habit" campaign for the month of August. The idea is to get rid of some nasty mind trap you've got yourself in and overcome it.

So I'm kicking doubt.

When doubt shows up, it manifests itself in mental and emotional states of fear, worry, and self-centeredness that weigh on me and suck up my time and attention. Time and focus are precious things that should be guarded--not hoarded selfishly, but protected--because they are vehicles through which your life is poured out on others, through love, sacrifice, and work. I'm tired of watching amazing opportunities pass me by because I have given doubt the authority to dwell in my mind.

Over the past few weeks, I've been slammed with it (as well as all of its crippling corollaries). BUT, for the first time in my life, I've experienced the reality of invisible arms of strength coming alongside and beneath me, giving me the ability to stand firm and not be shaken. That strength, I believe, is rooted in hope.

I've been intrigued by the concept of hope this whole summer. The virtue of hope isn't emphasized much, but it's right up there with faith and love in Corinthians 13. Faith itself is described as being "sure of what we hope for." What do I hope for? How can I be absolutely sure of what I hope for?

...by anchoring it somewhere solid.

We can set our hope on things that are momentary and flaky, or continuous with promise. Hope deferred can "make the heart sick" when it doesn't come through, or it can regenerate the spirit with sureness and confidence. So, growing in the virtue of hope means to rightly divide between the real deal and it's smiling counterfeits.

Practically, kicking the habit of doubt means standing on the promises of God when my whims and emotions tell me to do otherwise. I give Christ full control over my thought-life. I'm putting time in my schedule to remind myself what it is I'm hoping for--by reading things that inspire me, remembering God's call on my life, and moving in that direction with the small lamp set in front of me.

"No eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love him."

HOPE-fully (ha), by the end of this month, I won't be the slave to doubt I was at the beginning.