In case you haven’t heard the news, Aron Eisenberg, the actor who played Nog on Star Trek: Deep Space Nine​, has died. Aron was the star of the episode "It's Only a Paper Moon," which I discuss in my latest entry for Trektember 2019. Many consider it his greatest performance in that role. They may be right. Watching and writing about the episode days after his death was emotionally difficult for me, but an honor I could neither have planned nor requested.

There have been a lot of Star Trek deaths in my lifetime: Leonard Nimoy, Majel Barrett, DeForest Kelley, Jimmy Doohan, Grace Lee Whitney, Anton Yelchin, and of course Gene Roddenberry, to name a very few. Countless cast and crew members have died over the past 53 years. I’ve been saddened by them all, including ones, like Jeffrey Hunter, that occurred before my birth. But Aron’s was one I grieved. 

He was 50 years old, just ten years older than me, and I admired him greatly. He took a goofy, little, raspy-voiced Ferengi kid who liked pulling pranks and getting into trouble and made him a multi-layered, textured, fully developed character. This was due, of course, to changes in how the character was written, but such changes would not have been possible if the writers didn’t trust their actor to deliver, if Eisenberg himself hadn’t begun to show that he could give depth and humanity to an alien character who could have been little more than a comic irritant. 

I’ve never seen Eisenberg play any role but Nog (save his appearance on Star Trek: Voyager). I don’t know how good he was in other contexts. But I wouldn’t be surprised if this was his finest work. Some actors are limited by heavy makeup. Others, like Ron Perlman, Michael Dorn, Doug Jones, Armin Shimerman, and Max Grodénchik (all Star Trek performers) shine behind latex. Aron was one of those. And I have no idea if his acting skills translated as well when he didn’t have pointy teeth and giant ears. But behind and through all that rubber and the inherently comical nature of his character (recall his “growly dance” at Jadzia’s bachelorette party in Season Six), Aron Eisenberg made something deeply human and genuine in Nog. And that feat--that overcoming of a deck that seemed to be stacked against him as an actor--showed the skill and the soul he brought to his work and to his life.
​
Aron had health struggles all his life and was living on his second transplanted kidney. (Transplants save lives. Be a donor. #DonateLife) But his spirit and his energy were indomitable. By inhabiting the life of a weird little alien kid on Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Aron Eisenberg has inspired countless people who similarly feel the cards of life are dealt against them. But, as Vic tells Nog at the end of the episode, “All I can tell you is that you've got to play the cards life deals you. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, but at least you're in the game.” Aron played the game, by all accounts, with passion and vigor, making the most of everything he had. May the rest of us be inspired by him and Nog to have the courage to do the same.

Nog lives his life by the principle, “The river will provide.” Now, unlike Nog, I don’t particularly believe in the river of the Great Material Continuum. But I do believe in the River of the love of God and the presence of the Divine in this world. And I believe that where humanity is at its best, its brightest, and its most loving, the River flows. I see the river flowing in the work of Aron Eisenberg, as I do throughout Star Trek and so many of our creative human endeavors. And I know that, through the work he leaves behind, the river that flowed through Aron Eisenberg will continue to flow for generations to come. 

Please contribute, if you are able, to the fundraiser for Aron's funeral costs, in support of his widow, Malíssa Longo.

You can also read my post on "It's Only a Paper Moon" at Reel World Theology, or start with my introductory post on the episode.

On Ash Wednesday, those of us who participate in the traditional liturgy will hear these words (or some version thereof), "Dust you are. To dust you will return." It's an awfully morbid feeling to hear those words, especially when spoken while your pastor or priest smudges ashes on your forehead--and especially for someone like me who did not grow up with this tradition. Why would a minister who constantly encourages, challenges, and affirms my humanity and my soul want to tell me I'm dust?

It certainly is a contemplation of physical mortality. But the fact that it occurs in a context that is intended to nurture the soul points to a dual purpose.

There are two things the "dust you are" line always remind me of. One is Star Trek: Nemesis. I know it's not everyone's favorite Trek film, but stay with me. In the opening scene, we witness the assassination of the entire Romulan High Command by means of thalaron radiation. As the radiation is released, within seconds, members of the High Command begin disintegrating and we watch as the are reduced to dust.

The scene sets up the central question of the film: Are we merely bodies or are we more than the sum of our DNA? This horrifying image--perhaps the most gruesome in Star Trek to that point--of people in agony, turning to dust, speaks to the frailty of physical form. Undo the DNA and a whole person is no more. Dust.

However, the film ultimately affirms the idea that we are indeed more than our physical makeup. Picard's central crisis in the film is, essentially, a crisis of the soul. Is he defined by his genetic makeup or is there something more to his existence? If so, what is it?

The other thing I'm reminded of is a line from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "Dust thou art . . ." It comes from the poem "A Psalm of Life," in which Longfellow explores this tension between the temporary and fleeting nature of our existence and our desire to live for more than mere survival.
​

As the season of Lent begins, it is helpful to remember that our mortality need not be morbid. Instead, as Longfellow illustrates, contemplation of our mortality ought to lead us to action. The grave, indeed, is not the goal. But neither is the goal what lies beyond the grave. Instead, the life we live now is our calling and our investment. Remembering that it doesn't last should call us to pursue it ever more fully because therein lies the nurturing of our souls.

Watch the video below for more on Star Trek and the soul.

     Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan begins on March 22, 2285. While this is not stated explicitly in the film, when Star Trek historians Michael and Denise Okuda later officially established the Star Trek timeline, the year of this film was determined to be 2285.[1] Importantly, the film takes place on the occasion of Admiral James T. Kirk’s birthday, which is similarly established as March 22, probably because it coincides with actor William Shatner’s birth date.[2] In the Western Christian liturgical calendar,[3] Easter is a movable feast, occurring on a Sunday anywhere between March 22 and April 25.[4] March 22 is the least common date on which Easter can fall (a 0.483% likelihood), most recently occurring in 1818. Amazingly, the next time Easter will fall on March 22 will be in the year 2285.[5] Therefore, Star Trek II begins on Easter Sunday.

     Further, it begins on the very next Easter Sunday to fall on the birthday of James Kirk and the only one that will do so during his (fictional) lifetime. This fact cannot possibly have been in the mind of anyone connected with the creation of Star Trek II, as these dates had not yet been established in 1982 and would not be established for more than decade. Even still, in Star Trek history, the fact remains that a film that begins on Easter Sunday is the first in a cycle of films concerning death, resurrection, and restoration, a trilogy that inaugurates one of the most visible and potent icons of pop culture—Spock—as a Christ figure.

     In his audio commentary for Star Trek II, writer and director Nicholas Meyer says, “You get an idea and you say, ‘Oh my God, this is great,’ and you know it’s great, but you can’t say why. Other people will tell you why.”[6] Star Trek II is great—and I humbly suggest that I know at least one reason why: It tells the story of Jesus. In conjunction with its two following sequels, in perhaps the greatest unplanned trilogy in film history, it tells that story very well and in surprising detail. The fact that all of this is entirely unintentional is perhaps the most amazing part of the story, and may in fact indicate that something sacred is at work here.
​
(Excerpted from The Gospel According to Star Trek: The Original Crew with the permission of Wipf and Stock Publishers.)

“The primary philosophy in Star Trek, stripped of everything else," David Gerrold once wrote, "was 'Love one another.' I think Jesus might have said something like that once too."

Indeed he did (John 5:12, John 5:17).

And the really important part of that is the words "one another." In The Gospel According to Star Trek: The Original Crew, in the chapter entitled "Last Battlefields and Neighbor Love," I wrote about the importance of moving from "othering" to "one anothering," from an embattled, competitive mentality to seeking to create a reciprocity of love by being the first to choose the way of Love.

Love is often thought of as warm, snuggly, happy feelings, or romance, or attraction, and all those things can be a part of it. But Love is a choice. It is active. Love is a commitment. Feeling love, or the emotions we associate with love, is fine, but failing to act on those feelings--or to act in spite of our feelings--is not love.

When Paul talks about love, he talks about what love does, how it behaves. It exercises patiebce and kindness, avoids envy, doesn't brag or boast, turns away from rudeness, refuses to serve itself, moves away from anger and resentment, rejoices in the truth, bears, believes, hopes, and endures. 

​Jesus began this narrative, saying that the greatest love is defined by the action of self-sacrifice. 

I posted last year about why the death of Spock is perfect for Christmas. "As we celebrate the coming of Christ," I wrote, "we celebrate not only his birth, but the bringing of salvation--a salvation wrought through sacrificial death. Certainly, his birth takes precedence during this season and his death and resurrection have their times of remembrance as well. So, it could be said that this is perhaps a more appropriate Easter (or at least Palm Sunday) ornament."

Surely, this stands as an ultimate depiction of love. But maybe it's easier to think about sacrificing ourselves in this way because we'll probably never be called upon to do it. We can feel pretty self-assured in our loving nature when we can say to ourselves, "I'd die for someone I love." But how would it be if we gave ourselves in the sense of not getting what we want? Of sacrificing our comfort, our self-importance, our security, or--and this is particularly salient in our current cultural climate--the idea (or illusion) that we are right?

What if loving meant, not doing good things to those for whom we already have warm feelings, but doing good to those who we dislike or disagree with, to those who annoy or irritate us? Jesus calls us, not to just love those who love us, but to love our enemies. It's amazing how much of an enemy we can make of opposing viewpoints, or those with whose words we take offense. 

Last night, driving home too late in the cold, I was nearly sideswiped by someone who had decided that my desire to not drive 20 miles per hour above the speed limit was inexcusable. I can't tell you the hostility I felt at such gall, such recklessness. Why would someone endager another human being because they were obeying traffic laws? I don't know how to love that person. I may never know.

It's exceptionally difficult to love in spite of anger--to show patience and kindness to someone who is awkward or irritating, or infuriating, even in very small ways. How can we ever, as Star Trek VI invites us to do, love our enemies? How can we sit down to dinner with the Klingons and not fight? How can we put aside cultural differences? How can we be civil, let alone (gulp) forgive?

Like all real love, it isn't easy. It takes work. But if Love can be born among us, can live fully with us, can endure mocking, shame, disgust, torture, and death, then maybe Love can be born in us too. 

This time of year, many of us gather with our families. This can be a particularly difficult place to show love. Maybe it's hard for a parent to not be critical of their adult son or daughter. Maybe it's difficult to hear a passive agressive comment and not lash out. Maybe political, cultural, or religious differences are in tension around the dinner table. But, whatever the difficulties, sometimes love looks like enduring them in all the kindness and peace that we can muster. Sometimes it can be far more difficult than loving our enemies to love our own families.

Even harder may be forgiving ourselves for the hurt we cause and feel.

All we can do, whether for friend, enemy, family, or even ourselves, is remember that Love is a choice we make. Love is doing good to others whether we think they deserve it or not. It's having the heart of a servant and a peacemaker, as best we can muster it. Becase, in the end, none of us deserves love, but all of us badly need it. Rather than focusing on our own need, though, the best way to have love is to engender it.

As I've contemplated this week's Star Trek Advent theme of Joy, I started wondering (a little flatly) what examples of joy we have in Star Trek. Two moments came to mind. (Here there be 35+ year-old spoilers.)

The first was the climactic scene at the end of Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home as the whales are released into the ocean. It's a moment of absolute celebration such as we rarely see in the somewhat emotionally restrained worrld of Star Trek. Spock even smiles and laughs, for goodness' sake! In my chapter on the film in The Gospel According to Star Trek: The Original Crew, I liken the scene to a kind of group baptism, recalling this gloriously joyous scene from the 1973 film, Godspell. The scene in Star Trek IV is a celebration of the salvation, restoration, and renewal of the Earth. In that sense, it also recalls the culmination of salvation through the gospel of Christ. 

But, as I thought further, the next scene that came to mind was less loudly celebratory, quieter, more reverent, but nonetheless joyful. At the end of the previous film, Star Trek III: The Search for Spock, the crew stands silently as Kirk talks with a newly resurrected and restored Spock, hoping for some sign that their friend has truly returned to himself. "Jim," Spock says, after a brief re-enactment of the pair's then-final conversation from the previous film, "Your name is Jim." At this moment, a smile spreads, slowly, but surely, across Kirk's face. Spock remembers him. The joy Kirk experiences here is the reward for the sacrifice og his career, his ship, and his son. He sees recgnition again and the light of life in his dearest friend's face.

This joy of restored relationshop spreads as the entire group gathers around Spock. As the camera pulls back and the film comes to quiet, serene completion, the feeling of joy is as palpable as it will sequel.

The disparity of tone in these two scenes, combined with their remarkable similarity of feeling, caused me to think again on what, after all, joy is. Is it happiness? I don't think so. I think joy is something deeper, something more fulfilling. It can come at a time of exuberance, like the Star Trek IV scene, or in quiet stillness, as in Star Trek III. I also sense something more than an emotional moment to joy. There is a liveliness, a vitality in joy that causes us to celebrate, to resonate with the goodness of something that is truly, deeply good.

And it also occurred to me that these two scenes involve people--a kind of family--coming together. This seemed to illustrate to me that joy often (if not always) has something to do with togetherness, with a communion of the spirit. That joy can come in the presence of other humans, or as we find it alone, in the presence of God. Really, in both instances, God is present. And I can't help but feel that it is the interwoven working of the Spirit of God that energizes and gives life to joy.

How, then, does Joy become a theme at Christmas? The word "JOY" adorns at least as many lawns at Christmastime as the words "Peace" and "Merry Christmas" and "The Reason for the Season," if not more. But the images that bear this word are often quiet and peaceful, not exuberant and festive. But joy encompasses both of these expressions. It is the delight, the relief, of knowing that we are recognized, we are seen by God. We can have Hope. We can be at Peace. Love has come for us. Not just to be found by us, but to pursue us. To seek us out and to save us, though we are lost.

"Long lay the world," the great Christmas hymn "O Holy Night" says, "in sin and error pining, till he appeared and the soul felt its worth." That knowledge, that understanding of the soul feeling its worth is the knowledge that we are not alone, that God has not forgotten us. "We're not momentary specks in an indifferent universe," Benedict Cumberbatch recently told Entertainment Weekly, "We're momentary specks within a very caring, loving universe."