This Way Out

When I was 12, I went on vacation with my family to a place called Iguazu Falls. Not many people in this country have ever heard of it. It’s only the second biggest waterfall in the world, after Niagara. It’s only the second highest waterfall in the world, after Victoria Falls. It’s at the top NE corner of Argentina, where it it borders Brazil and Paraguay, where the Parana River, flowing down from the center of Brazil, pulls in more water from rivers on both sides until it all comes crashing down together over the edge of the southeastern highlands into the beginning of Argentina’s most fertile central valley.

It was an incredible experience to go there and see it. There are more than a dozen different falls, and over half of them will kill you if you slip and fall. El Garganta del Diablo, which is Spanish for "The Devil’s Throat," is the most dangerous, because the suction of the falling water will pull you right over if you get too close. The tour guides didn’t tell us until later how many tourists they’d lost, when the boatmen who made their livings taking people up to the best viewpoint misjudged the currents, because of course a family of six represented a pretty good day’s wage, and the risk - to them - was worth it. And of course it makes a great story for us, because we came back, and the photographs are simply incredible. But I’ve never forgotten it.

So when I went to see The Mission, a movie which came out about 15 years ago, I was absolutely transfixed. The movie opens with sight of the falls, and it all came back to me... the rush and thunder of the river falling over the edge, the cold pull of the wind following the water downwards, the spray flying upwards into our faces in brief defiance of gravity, and the deceptive feeling of safety we felt as we watched, as if we were somehow immune from the awesome forces swirling around us. I could almost feel it all again as I watched the camera move closer to the falls, and focused in onto two men who were climbing up the rocks to the right of the falls. I could almost feel the slipperiness of the wet rocks under my hands, almost smell the damp patches of moss which made what little footing they could find treacherous and unstable. I could feel my breath coming faster and my muscles tense each time either man reached out for a new handhold.

But there was something I couldn’t understand. One of the men was traveling light, carrying only a pouch attached to his belt, while the other had an large, lumpy, and obviously very heavy bag slung over his shoulders. It was clearly pulling him back away from the rock, and making the climb even more more dangerous than it already was. The other man shouted down to him, but you couldn’t hear the words over the sound of the water. The man carrying the bag slipped. You could feel the whole theater gasp. And the lightly burdened man, above him on the face of the cliff, moved back downward, drew a knife, and cut the other man free of the ropes tying him to the weight that had nearly pulled him to his death. You could practically see the tension in the theater melt away as everyone relaxed, expecting both men now to make it easily to the top. But no. The suddenly unburdened climber went back to the bottom and tied the bag on again.

You see, this scene was - in addition to a look at the very real journey taken by two men who were going to take Christ to the Paraguayan Indians - a metaphor for the burden of sin. Because the bag the man Miguel was carrying contained helmet, armor, sword, and guns, symbols of a violent past which he had given up - but which still haunted him. Miguel had given up his former life as a mercenary and slaver after killing his only brother in a fight over a woman. He had joined the priest Bernardo in a desperate attempt to earn absolution for something he could not live with. Miguel did not understand forgiveness.

This scene is a metaphor for sin and forgiveness, with Bernardo offering forgiveness and Miguel refusing to accept it. It’s a good metaphor. We can look at Miguel and see how ridiculous and futile is his attempt to atone for his actions by punishing himself. We can see that Miguel didn’t understand forgiveness. But how how many of us really do either? How many of us live in the freedom that comes from knowing and following Christ? How many of us still carry around the burdens of our mistakes and failures, weary with the weight of guilt or shame? The forgiveness of Christ is not an easy thing to accept, when we cannot even forgive ourselves.