The Book Thief

I went with a pal tonight to see The Book Thief.  It's the story of a little girl, raised by adoptive parents in World War II-era Germany.  It's a quite simple story; at it's heart, it relates the dawn of the girl's love affair with books and the power of the written word.

There has been a lot said about all that happened in Europe during those years, the late 1930's and 1940's - so many books have been written, so many movies made.  This one was a little different from some of the others - it lacked the grand scale or sweeping perspective of Schindler's List, Saving Private Ryan, or even The Pianist.  This was a much more intimate story - told from the perspective of a child, and offering a glimpse into what the life of an ordinary German family might have looked like during that time.

Still, though; it's nigh to impossible to come face-to-face with the horrible reality that was Hitler's Germany, even in cinema, without doing some serious soul-searching.  It's quite a thing to see an entire community, a whole nation, really, stand shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting in agreement as their leaders spew messages of hate and violence.  It's perhaps not such a surprise when death and destruction is perpetrated and endorsed by the vile and the weak, but to witness the average and upstanding among the citizenry stand idly by, ignoring or excusing evil rather than risk standing out from the crowd; it just never ceases to stop me in my tracks.  Imagine a world where an entire lifetime of belonging can be swept away in but a moment; where friends turn away one by one, preferring the safety of betrayal to the risk of loyalty; where simply acknowledging one's neighbor becomes an act of selfless heroism.

I think we all tend to do things like read the Bible or hear stories of the Holocaust and assure ourselves and the ones around us that had we been there, we never would have stood for it.  We would have recognized Jesus for who he was; we would have refused to stand idly by while our loved ones were dragged to their deaths.  It's interesting how time and distance lend a certain clarity to these things - how obviously, glaringly, horribly wrong were those who crucified the Savior, or who allowed the wholesale murder of innocent civilians?  And yet, sometimes, while we do such a great job spotting the huge failings of those who came before us, those same shortcomings can lurk, hidden in our daily interactions, and we don't even realize it.  Sure, nobody's dying now, but if a person lacks the guts to refuse to participate in casual mockery, or can't speak up when unjust accusations are being bandied about, or drops the head rather than acknowledge a less-than-popular friend, one starts to wonder where the great burst of heroism that would supposedly stop a more dramatic carnage would come from.

I'm left feeling pretty sober.  If I intend to fight and win the big battles, I sure as heck better make sure I nail these smaller, everyday skirmishes.  Every single time.  Until making the right choice becomes as natural as breathing, a part of the very fiber of my being.  There's a lot of work to do.  But one thing is certain, I want to win, with everything I've got.  When I'm faced with the choice of whether to honor or deny my Lord, I want to stand straight and tall, and call His name without fear or shame.  So I think I'll start by caring for my brother and my sister, straight and tall and without shame.  It'll be good, good practice.

Anyway, feels good to vent a bit.  It was a great movie.