If you are a Star Wars fan—or even just a general movie enthusiast—you likely have an opinion about Star Wars: The Last Jedi. It was a controversial film, in no small part because of how director Rian Johnson decided to depict the legendary Jedi Master Luke Skywalker.
The Luke we meet in this movie is not a spiritual wizard nor a laser-sword-wielding warrior. He’s a grump and a loner. He’s cynical, having given up on making the galaxy a better place. He has abandoned his efforts to rebuild what he now deems a failed institution: the Jedi Order. The Luke we thought we knew from the original trilogy has soured, and the man we meet on the islands of Ahch-To appears to be little more than a betrayal of all our hopes.
Perhaps most disappointing of all, we never get to see Master Skywalker take up his lightsaber and do battle with the forces of evil. The best we get is a fight with no stakes, as Luke projects himself across the galaxy to distract the trilogy’s big baddie, Kylo Ren.
I liked The Last Jedi and this depiction of Luke. I am drawn to this caricature of a man who is forced to wrestle with his legacy, take a hard look at himself, and realize that he is not all that the legends make him out to be.
Aren’t we all tempted in moments of failure and in times of great distress to pull back and remove ourselves from the equation? Who among us hasn’t been disappointed by mentors, friends, institutions, or family?
We come to a moment in our stories when we face a hard truth: We cannot do it all. We can only do one small part, which is ours, so can we let go of the image we hold of ourselves that says we can and must be the savior of all things, the one with the answers and the experiences and the insights?
I wonder which spirit is whispering in our ears in such a moment. St. Ignatius Loyola tells us that it is the false spirit who inflates our pride and insists we can do it all and need no one else.
We often turn to the cannonball moment in Ignatius’s story, and well we should. This is a hinge moment, a time of testing and struggle. But I am struck by the role that pride plays in this moment. It was pride that insisted Ignatius continue the fight and refuse the terms of surrender. Ignatius’s pride led to the deaths of his fellow countrymen.
And it was Ignatius’s pride that insisted he break his leg again during his days of convalescence. How else could he return to his courtly life? How could he continue to wage wars and woo women with such an unsightly limp?
But the Good Spirit impressed upon Ignatius the foolishness of such a path. Ultimately, Ignatius, in listening to that same Good Spirit, allowed his imagination to expand. He could do more and be more than he had previously thought possible. He could do something great for God and God’s people.
Ignatius’s legacy would change. His failure would never go away. He would always carry his wounds with him. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be what the moment needed and the person God was calling him to be.
That’s why I love the scene in The Last Jedi when Luke distracts Kylo Ren. The battle is boring and over quickly, if ever it really happened at all, what with the Jedi Master’s illusions. But that simple, sacrificial act, built on the back of failure and disappointment, allowed for others to take up the mantle. Had Luke clung to his pride, he would never have given his life so that others could be great and do great things.
So, too, for Ignatius. His story ends behind a desk, writing letters to those who had gone to the ends of the world on wondrous adventures. This was not the legacy he had wanted for himself. Yet we still talk about him and learn from him today, because he didn’t insist on serving himself and his story. He put himself at the disposal of God and God’s people.
Star Wars, like the spiritual life, is often reduced to a tale of good versus evil. It is that, certainly, but it is so much more. Star Wars, like the spiritual life, weaves a story of sacrifice and second chances, of redemption and hope. We make room for others, recognizing that ours is but one chapter in a long and unfolding saga. We do not need to be the only character; we simply need to tend to what God has given us to do.
