The modern “gospel of action” is an inversion of how Christians should judge what to do

Reflections on the decision-making of heroes in modern narrative, and how this disciples our own moral calculus.

In Star Trek: Into Darkness, there is a moment that reveals the heart of our modern “gospel of action.” The Enterprise is disabled by a superior foe, leaving only one obvious course of action: infiltrating the enemy ship, to take it from within.

But this means allying with a condemned war criminal.

Spock discerns Kirk’s intent to do so, and remonstrates with him; Kirk’s response summarizes the gospel of pragmatism we have all been discipled into. He justifies the legitimacy of his actions by what he thinks is possible:

“I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. I only know what I can do.”

This is the opposite of the Christian moral calculus. It is an inversion of the wisdom that judges all actions by the fear of God, and by reflection upon his perfect law:

I have no idea what I can do. I only know what I am supposed to do.”

To put it more starkly, I have no idea what’s possible; only what’s right.

With God, all things are possible. But not all things are right.

To draw from another equally geeky franchise, modern heroes disciple us unironically in the philosophy that Portal’s “Still Alive” song treated as a dark irony, placed in the mouth of the villain:

“We do what we must because we can.”

For Christians, it ought be:

“We do what we must, because God can.”

We shouldn’t underestimate how much we have been conditioned by movies and television to believe that our imagination, our assessment of the possibilities, dictates what “must” be done. We have been assiduously discipled by thousands of films and shows where the hero follows this “gospel of action” and the providence of the screenwriter makes it work out in the end. Wisdom is justified by her children — and the screenwriter therefore teaches us that this way of judging what to do…is wisdom.

I am not, of course, speaking of situations where the villain does something evil, intending it for an evil end — but the providence of the screenwriter turns it to a good end (cf. Gen 50:20). I am speaking of situations where the hero does something evil, intending it for a good end — and the providence of the screenwriter justifies it, by achieving through it that very same good end.

A great example of this — one that shows the potential for Christian storytelling — occurs in Enterprise season 3. In one episode, Archer is “forced” to plunder an innocent ship for parts, leaving them stranded, so that he can continue his own mission of stopping the Xindi from destroying earth. The show plays it as a hard but necessary action, depicting how even a principled man is reduced to piracy out of desperation.

But of course, it works out in the end — and wisdom is justified by her children.

What if a Christian had written this arc? Indulge me a little foolishness; obviously Star Trek is innately anti-Christian, being created by a utopian humanistic atheist. But suppose you were to reform the Star Trek universe to be governed, as it should be, by the Triune God; and suppose you gave the Enterprise a God-fearing captain.

How could you turn the story of Archer’s piracy around?

Archer’s moral failure should lead to mission failure — or at least the credible threat of it. Perhaps the very ship he disabled turns out to be instrumental in later stopping the destruction of earth. Perhaps if he had simply prayed and waited, providence would have presented another and better solution (why does it seem awkward to suggest that we depict a starship captain praying?; it should not). Perhaps the consequences are subtle, and his moral failure sets up an almost insurmountable threat to completing his mission — so looking back, it is discernible as a judgment. But perhaps a more overt approach would have better narrative potential in the world of Star Trek: the only possible way for him to succeed becomes undoing his previous actions through time travel. There is already a time travel episode adjacent to this, so it’s hardly out of the way.

These are nerdy examples; I use them because I write what I know, but also because they are especially clear. But you will find similar narrative decisions across the gamut of media, and they become more obvious and more egregious as we turn the century, and fictitious leaders drift away from even the pretense of living under God. In the original series episode The Ultimate Computer, the rogue M-5 is defeated because its programming contradicts its actions: “murder is contrary to the laws of man and God.” But we’re a long way from that now.

Are modern Christians capable of reforming our culture and our stories? It will require them first to have the faith to adopt the biblical method of decision-making for themselves — in the teeth of the wisdom of the world. Refusing pragmatism looks like utter foolishness absent true faith. And if we can return to this — “I don’t know what I can do; I only know what I am supposed to do” — we will still need to figure out how to integrate this faith into stories, without turning them into sermons.