Violence, Film, and Nordic Bible(s)

THE NORDIC BIBLE: BIBLE RECEPTION IN CONTEMPORARY NORDIC SOCIETIES. Edited by Marianne Bjelland Kartzow, Kasper Bro Larsen, and Outi Lehtipuu. Studies of the Bible and Its Reception, 24, Berlin; Boston: Walter de Gruyter, 2023. Pp. xi + 321. Hardcover, $140.00. When I was approached to take part in a session at the 2024 Annual Meeting of the American Academy of Religion and Society of Biblical Literature focused on The Nordic Bible: Bible Reception in Contemporary Nordic Societies, I assumed it was a mistake. That is, I don’t work in or research “contemporary Nordic societies.” And frankly, I felt more than a bit inadequate among all my fellow panelists in that respect. Luckily, I do research the Bible and popular culture as well as religion and violence, so hopefully my comments below will make at least some sense. In her chapter on the use of the Bible by far-right figures such as Anders Breivik and Sylvi Listhaug, Hannah Strømmen employs the concept of “assemblages” in an attempt to better understand their use of biblical images and texts. In what follows, I will focus on Breivik, as I am more conversant with him and the English-language secondary literature on him. Briefly put, Strømmen’s work is very useful because standard taxonomies of religious violence (like that of Mark Juergensmeyer) do not know what to do with Breivik’s use of the Bible (Juergensmeyer 2017, 20–23). That is, Breivik is not interpreting the Bible as an immediate justification for violence like Paul Hill did, nor is he a self-identified member of a Christian group in the same way that someone like Michael Bray is (Strømmen, 56 and 46). In his essay, “Defending the Defenseless,” Paul Hill refers to scripture numerous times as a way of both understanding his own motivation and explaining to the reader the basis of his actions. He specifically sees himself through the lens of Abraham’s rescue of Lot in Genesis 14, and uses the story of Esther to frame his “defensive” action, writing that in Esther, “the Jews didn’t passively submit; their use of defensive force prevented a calamity of immense proportions.” Similarly, in his A Time to Kill, Michael Bray draws on Genesis 14 and Exodus 2.11–14 to exemplify “the use of lethal force authorized by God for anyone defending the innocent from the threat of possible imminent death” (Bray 1994, 33). He also points to Jesus overturning tables in the Temple to illustrate what he calls the “error of pacifism” (Bray 1994, 47). Because of their identities as evangelical Protestants, both Hill and Bray see the Bible as a sacred discourse (Lincoln 2003, 5–6), one that contains relevant and immediately applicable paradigms for moral thought and ethical action. As I wrote back in 2008, “the Bible serves as the font of action, belief, and identity for them, as well as providing the matrix through [which] they perceive their own political, social, and ideological location in the world” (Clanton 2008). Breivik, though, uses the Bible differently. Strømmen helps us understand how, and in the process, makes a valuable contribution to both the study of religion and violence as well as reception history. In the aftermath of Breivik’s murderous actions, many scholars attempted to emphasize his identity as a Christian and place those actions in a context of anti-Muslim immigration. For example, both Julie Ingersoll and Juergensmeyer affirmed that Breivik was a Christian. Ingersoll even claimed that he “uses explicitly biblical justification for violence citing numerous Old Testament and New Testament passages,” (Ingersoll 2011) and Juergensmeyer argued that Breivik should be understood as a “Christian terrorist,” just as Timothy McVeigh was (Juergensmeyer 2017, 23). Neither of them, though, delved deeply into how Breivik used the Bible and how that use can help us understand his Nordic context. Strømmen, unlike Ingersoll and Juergensmeyer, maneuvers around the issue of Breivik’s identity as a Christian—an identity that I don’t find admitted or foregrounded—and instead turns her attention to two issues: “which worldview he repeats and propagates in his manifesto and which Bible emerges in this worldview” (44). This worldview consists of the ideas and ideals of “Eurabia and Counter-jihadism.” The former is focused on the claim that “the ‘Islamization’ of Europe through immigration is taking place as a conscious plan, aided and abetted by European governments, academics, journalists, banks, and religious leaders” (44). Counter-jihadism, then, is “characterized by the view that Islam and the West are at war, with Islam considered not a religion but a totalitarian political ideology” (44). Isolating these components of Breivik’s worldview helps us see that it’s not Christianity as a religious practice or set of sacred beliefs that conditions his use of the Bible (as we saw with Hill and Bray); rather, Breivik seems to use the Bible as a way of reinforcing his far-right views. As Strømmen puts it, “the biblical verses that are cited in the manifesto do not function on their own. There is not a straightforward embrace of Christianity or the Bible in general in the pages of the manifesto The Bible, then, becomes one tool for the ‘Christian West’ to use in its conflict with Islam” (46). Put differently, the Bible is used as “a prop, alongside weapons, crusader costumes, and bombs, to justify righteous warfare” (54). The Bible is invoked as a pure possession of a European people. It becomes a way of defining Europe in the West in stark opposition to Islam with its Qur’an–as if the two scripture-cultures are antithetical. The Bible is treated as a symbol of the Christian roots of Europe and of its Judeo-Christian culture and can therefore be mobilized in opposition to what is deemed an “other” culture, namely Islam. In this way the Bible becomes a component of the anti-Islam agenda of the far right (54). For biblical reception history, it might be useful to think of Bibles as assemblages. There is no Bible, there are only biblical assemblages, no beings but only becomings. Bibles are multiplicities.... ‘The Bible’ is a changing entity made up of different and shifting parts–some of which are textual and some of which are not.... Bibles are made up of different, heterogeneous matters brought together temporarily to form assemblages (58). By paying attention to how the biblical library is used in a prismatic fashion—only focusing on portions of the refracted colors—Strømmen helps us see Brievik’s partial and politically contextual use of Bibles in his manifesto. More broadly, the conjoining of theories of religion and violence and reception history allows us to be more precise in our understanding of the function of sacred discourses in justifications for religious violence.1 Now, let’s move from the political to the esthetic and focus on Mikael Larsson’s chapter on Lars von Trier’s 2018 film The House That Jack Built. Larsson’s stated goal is to “explore the significance of biblical traditions in the film’s conceptualization of masculinity and to discuss its broader gender political implications” (253). Larsson admits that he understands “biblical traditions” broadly, even beyond focusing on specific texts. This is in keeping with his claim that “biblical reception is often implicit and mediated through popular culture” (254). This is an important claim for him, as he specifically frames his chapter as “an example of reception criticism,” noting, “It investigates how sexual politics, as they are evidenced in the film, are shaped by biblical themes” (254). He lists two specific foci of examination regarding “biblical traditions.” “First, The House reworks Dante’s The Divine Comedy ... a western classic imbued with canonical material” (254). “Second, biblical traditions permeate the movie through concepts (guilt, forgiveness), practices (confession, allegorical reading), and artifacts (icons, Bible illustrations)” (254). Of these, he focuses mainly on practices, and mainly on “confession” (264–270). The “biblical traditions” that Larsson discusses consist of three topics: the “protagonists and the setting,” “the call,” and “allegory.” In his discussion, he concentrates on the final topic (“allegory”) and mentions what I see as the dominant influence in the film: Dante’s Divine Comedy. These two aspects of Larsson’s examination—confession and Dante—seem to me to be the most important, as they work to demonstrate what I understand to be the central theme of the film. Let me explain. I found Larsson to be far more confident than I am about the presence of the “biblical traditions” he sees in the film. For me, these aspects weren’t as apparent, or perhaps they were overshadowed by what I saw as the overall reliance on Dante. So, let me say a few words about that reliance, and then mention the work of some other scholars that might be helpful. Man must first descend in humility before he can raise himself to God. Before man can hope to climb the mountain of salvation, he must first know what sin is. The purpose of the Pilgrim’s journey through Hell is precisely this: to learn all there is to know about sin, as a necessary preparation for the ascent to God ... His spiritual development is the main theme of the entire poem (Dante 1984, 49–50). The emphasis on humility and development here is key, as these are significantly absent in the character of Jack. I say “significantly” as I think by depicting Jack as he does, Von Trier is attempting to show what an anti-pilgrim would look like by providing Jack with none of the pious qualities of Dante’s Pilgrim. That is, he’s using his film to critique one of the most influential religious and literary texts in world literature and, thereby, the religious culture underlying it. If religion can give new meaning to movies, can the opposite also be true? That is, can movies give meaning to religion? The answer is that many movies seem to provide a critique of religion.... A critique of religion may either be positive or negative. A critique can criticize religion or religious practices for the harm they do to human beings or for the false view of the world that they present.... But a critique can also provide an interpretation of religion that helps us to understand religion or see religion from a different perspective (Blizek 2009, 39). carefully crafted speech here becomes the means for transformation. In contrast to a confession of sin, however, the transformation is not about eradicating guilt. Rather, the sought metamorphosis consists in exalting ignoble crimes to the level of great works of art, thereby changing the rules of the game.... Jack’s laborious speech act serves as a plea for acceptance, and for redemption from a life of insignificance (267). As such, Jack “dies without recognizing any fault, as the anti-hero par excellence,” that is, “His character undergoes no development,” which is the purpose of the Pilgrim’s journey in Dante’s work (270). This depiction of a discordant pilgrimage is also in keeping with the theory of secularization and religion posited by Conrad Ostwalt. Briefly, Ostwalt postulates that secularization takes place in two interrelated directions in modern society. One direction is the “secularization of the sacred,” and Ostwalt describes it as “a tendency for religious institutions to employ secular and popular cultural forms like television and the movies to make religious teachings relevant for a modern audience” (Ostwalt 2012, 28). That is, traditional religious institutions are losing their hard power as their congregations shrink and gray.2 As such, it’s natural to expect they’ll use popular cultural products and forms to reach out to younger generations. Second, Ostwalt notes that with the loss of authority experienced by traditional religious institutions, “religious concerns find expression in other cultural forms so that cultural products perceived to be secular can carry authentic and meaningful religious content and deal with sacred concerns” (Ostwalt 2012, 28). Ostwalt terms this the “sacralization of the secular.” Put differently, Von Trier’s use of film to offer a critique (see Blizek) of the central Catholic practices of confession, contrition, and penance—filtered through the structure of Dante—exemplifies Ostwalt’s “sacralization of the secular.” Of course, these Catholic practices within a Christian culture certainly relate to “biblical traditions,” but only in a very broad sense, in my opinion. Therefore, by framing the film as I’ve done, I believe we’re able to understand better what Von Trier seems to be up to in the film. Another way to approach this film via scholarship on religion and popular culture is to talk not about content, but about impact. More specifically, my own admittedly subjective experience of watching the film highlighted two issues for me. First, in the fourth chapter of his book Religion and Film: Cinema and the Re-Creation of the World, S. Brent Plate examines “the ways the audio-visual experience of film works to move viewers’ bodies,” that is, “when particular film images and sounds strike the senses and cause the body to move in response to a formalized liturgy of symbolic sensations” (Plate 2017: Kindle edition, Chapter Four). And when Plate turns to examine horror films, he writes that this is a “genre in which the very definition is bound up with the affect: the film is calculated to shake up the audience in specific ways.... Horror may be unique among film genres in that affective reception stands at the basis of its definition” (Plate 2017: Kindle edition, Chapter Four). And I experienced this affect while watching the film. I felt as if Von Trier purposely tried to slow-shock the viewer, not with jump-scares or leading musical cues, but to lead us along with Jack as he dehumanized and dismembered his victims, all in the name of masculine violence and aesthetics (266–268). The key example for me of this was when we’re shown a flashback of young Jack casually snipping the feet of a young duckling, then putting it back in the water to observe it struggle to stay afloat. This leads to the second issue raised by my own viewing, namely, the evergreen discussion among those who engage religion and popular culture as to whether you have to like or admire the objects of our study. Because I’ll be honest: I really dislike this film. Like, really dislike it. Nevertheless, I do find it interesting as a case study of Blizek, Ostwalt, and Plate’s theories. I don’t know whether Larsson likes the film (that’s a subjective term, after all), but I do think he’s spot on when he describes the film as “a distorting mirror for our time, where toxic masculinity proves to be far from dead, no matter how many times we pronounce, or imagine, its fall into the deepest of hell” (272). It is my hope these comments and critiques do not belie what I feel are the positive contributions of Larsson’s work to the field of religion and film, the most obvious of which is found in his emphasis on interrogating the ideology of gender and masculinity in Von Trier’s film. I believe we would all benefit if more work on religion and film followed Larsson’s lead and foregrounded issues of gender justice and violence. To return to the focus of the book in which they appear, both Strømmen’s and Larsson’s chapters call for an enlarged understanding of reception studies, one that is more rounded and inclusive. And while my reading of their work is both appreciative and critical, I found it intellectually stimulating and pedagogically helpful. For example, I have already used Strømmen’s reading of Breivik’s manifesto in my Religion and Violence class and look forward to having an opportunity to incorporate Larsson’s work in my research

Hebrew Bible · History of religions · Kierkegaardian Philosophy and Influence · Media, Religion, Digital Communication · Violence, Religion, and Philosophy