When I was a kid, Saturday morning was for cartoons, and every other week, hot donuts that my dad picked up on his way home from the fire station. That was in the days before Fox and Adult Swim made cartoons an acceptable form of adult entertainment here in the U.S., pre-South Park and The Simpsons, back when only kids bought comic books down at the Five and Dime, when Archie and Veronica were goofs rather than the angsty young adults now on a steamy television network.
Americans only knew Japanese animation from the rare instances when they penetrated the U.S. children’s market, characters like AstroBoy. Even Hello Kitty wasn’t yet a thing…
But animated films and television programs, called anime, and comic books, called manga, had always been platforms for serious adult entertainment in Japan, something I learned in the mid-90’s.
At a time when there was little queer representation in U.S. Media, and what representation existed was either tragic or psychopathic, the Japanese had an entire genre of positive queer romance in manga and anime. Often, these romances would tie back in to more mainstream productions, which is how I first discovered the series “Neon Genesis Evangelion.”
The anime industry had fallen into a bit of a rut in the early 1990’s, the start of Japan’s current decades long recession. Hideaki Anno, a noted creator of anime, was severely depressed and doing nothing. One night, while drinking, he was pressured by a colleague into producing a new series. Evangelion was the result, premiering in October 1995. It became a smash hit, credited with refreshing the art form itself. The initial 26 episodes in the series generated hundreds of millions of dollars in revenue.
Though there are nuances in translation, especially across language groups, the English language title of the series is close to the Japanese, which itself borrows a word from the Biblical, or Koine, Greek. That borrowed word, evangelion, means “the proclamation of good news,” though we more often use the English language equivalent, “gospel.” The title on the series, then, might well be translated as “The Proclamation of the Good News of a New Creation.”
Evangelion is a mélange of borrowed and sometimes misappropriated religious ideas and imagery. It is set in 2015, twenty years in the future at the time it was released, in a world scarred by a cataclysmic event called the Second Impact. Humankind finds itself fighting a sequence of monsters they call “angels,” the only hope the mysterious giant fighting robots piloted by teenagers. The protagonist of the series, Ikari Shinji, is one of those teenage pilots, and the estranged son of the sociopathic commander, Ikari Gendo.
Like the U.S. hit series “Lost,” the end of Evangelion left many confused and angry. But unlike “Lost,” the end of Evangelion was not intentionally left open to interpretation. Hideaki Anno himself was not sure how it should end. Responding to public pressure to bring the series to a conclusion, he soon released two feature films that re-worked the ending. These satisfied no one, not even Anno.
It is sort of amazing that the controversy and outrage around the confused non-endings did not lessen the series as a cultural and financial juggernaut. But there was unfinished business.
A decade later, Anno went back to the drawing board, re-conceiving the entire narrative arc, adding and redacting, and, over the course of four “rebuild” films, the last released just this March, finally bringing the series to an conclusion, one that was clear in his mind, at least. A month ago, that final film appeared in the U.S. on Amazon Prime.
Trying to explain that narrative would be confusing and probably not particularly interesting to you. But as I said, the series borrows both orthodox and fringe elements of Christianity and Rabbinic Judaism, including kabbalah, a Jewish form of mysticism. The giant robots are called Evas, though there is also a Lilith and an Adam. The battles with the angels always involve giant crosses of light. There is even the Lance of Longinus, the spear traditionally believed to have pierced the side of Christ.
Shinji’s father had sought to force humankind’s evolution, for selfish reasons, but in the end, Shinji re-claims humanity, and resets the world and the timeline. Shinji, carrying his own burdens, his own grief, opts for love. This, then, is a fitting new creation, worthy of a proclamation of good news, a fresh start. His reality of choice is one in which kids get to be kids, not warriors, where humans are not perfect, but are perfectly amazing.
The fourth rebuild film alone made more than $90 million at the box office in Japan, never mind international distribution and merchandising. Not bad for something that started with too much to drink.
Neon Genesis Evangelion, the proclamation of the good news of a new beginning, reflects a tension that exists in the Christian gospel, the tension between aspiration, transcendence… and the reality of our messy human existence, the tension between love and fear, that first and original sin, for unlike our beautiful and amazing animal companions on this planet, human fear is fear squared, a burden too heavy to bear alone.
Today’s reading from Mark is pivotal in the Jesus story, for we believe Mark is the earliest gospel, and this is the moment in that gospel when the Messianic Secret is revealed to the disciples. Peter understands that Jesus is the Messiah, the Christ, but cannot accept that the way of the Messiah is through selfless love, is not imposing a new world order through violence, but is instead found in loving this world, calling out the best in this world, even if that love sometimes leads to suffering. It is the messy imperfect world restored by Ikari Shinji in his “new creation,” not the sterile perfection desired by his father.
Those two poles, destructive replacement or healing restoration, co-exist in the Christian tradition, both recorded in scripture. Apocalyptic texts like the last half of the Book of Daniel, the 13th chapter of Mark, and the Revelation to John of Patmos, take the approach that Creation cannot be repaired. Like Ikari Gendo, they believe that only through violence can the right order be achieved.
But there is another thread that runs through the gospel, a thread the connects back to the prophets of justice like Amos and Micah. This is that constant message of Jesus that the realm of God is already present in the world, that it is a treasure in a field, that we can opt-in. Jesus repeatedly announces that the in-breaking kingdom of God is at hand. And that, right there, is good news.
So many have opted for destructive and violent replacement. Convinced, in their hubris, that they are somehow exempt from corruption and destruction, they pursue a politics of apocalypse. And I am not convinced that this is the way of Jesus.
The Way of Jesus is not the replacement of creation, but is instead the fulfillment of creation. As our sisters and brothers in the Mishnah tradition of Rabbinic Judaism describe it, we are about “Tikkun Olam,” acts that contribute to the repair and healing of the world.
Acts that contribute to the repair and healing of our sisters and brothers, our brown sisters and brothers, our non-binary sisters and brothers, our non-human siblings with whom we share this floating jewel of a planet, acts that contribute to the repair and healing of the planet and all that is God-touched in it.
The good news is that we do not need to destroy and replace. We can repair and love. We can contribute to the fulfillment of creation. We can choose the kingdom of love, not as some fancy tale told in a children’s book, but as a way of being in the world.
The good news is that you have a choice, this day and always. Like the Samaritan, you can choose to see the woundedness, choose to believe in wholeness, and then, in small acts, be a part of it.
God IS with us.
The realm of our mysterious Creator isn’t coming through violence.
It is already here, proclaimed by an un-credentialed rabbi from Galilee who caused good trouble.
May we do the same.
Amen.