Mega Man X

Sometime in the last five weeks, I developed self-concept problems. It might have to do with the fact that I am a writer who is writing seemingly little. Even more likely, it is part of my inescapable annual cycle, augmented by the fact that Mediterranean winter is too much like Michiganian November. I am in a time of critical challenge and opportunity. The shock-waves finally reached the surface this week when I found myself crying over Skype.

It is time to embrace a new narrative for myself. I noticed Beit Sahour activist and fellow Michigander, Samantha Young, had embraced Under-dog as her facebook profile picture. It suited her; after speaking to an ‘Educational Opportunities’ group, I mused about who my cartoon super-hero avatar could be. Mega Man seemed to be the answer, by sheer exposure: I used to play Mega Man X on SNES every time I visited my parents during college – for the expressed purpose of blowing-up stuff. The character “X” became my sliver of fictional involvement.

The more I dwelled on “X” the more I saw reasons to embrace his narrative as my own. X wakes from a long-nap in a time-capsule to discover a terrible development: the other robots are driving the humans out of the region and fundamentally altering the landscape. The game begins as X runs, past the last carloads of people leaving, toward a legion of other robots. Playing from the beginning, I ran into that city over a hundred times, through the gauntlet, to challenge a foe in a reinforced metal-suit. The game is designed in such a way that X cannot possibly win without being rescued by an ally, Zero.

This brings us to the first parallel: the self-hating robot. Down on his little, blue knees, X laments that he was not strong enough. X already knows he’s a self-hating robot in another, crucial way: he denied himself the blossoming privilege of robot-supremacy to defend a hated minority. I am sure the other bots had something to say about that. Yet, he has no doubt about his mission, except for the doubts he has about himself. He is inadequate. Zero leans over and says to him... well, I scoured the internet and could not find it but I can paraphrase: “Dude, you have not reached full-power yet. Once you acquire all the tools you need, you can rise to the occasion.”

St. Paul advises in Ephesians 6:13* to “Put on every piece of God’s armor so you will be able to resist the enemy in the time of evil. Then after the battle you will still be standing firm.” I have been reluctant to embrace Mega Man as emblematic of my own purpose for fear it would expose my warrior dichotomy, wanting peace but moved to resistance. I remain committed to nonviolence but my self-deprecation has been an assault on my purpose as much as on my self. I have been unwilling to stand tall and say “I am a prophet,” for fear that I will seem arrogant or combative. I have continued fighting on the outskirts of the city, popping plasma blasts at drones to stay alive rather than tapping into my legacy.

X finds a capsule left to him by his creator with a hologram message explaining that he had hope X would be allowed to choose a peaceful life but left X a legacy in case the world demanded a new champion. The super-boots in that capsule give the power to slide quickly and make long jumps but they are only the beginning. There is body armor (much like the breast-place of righteousness) that gives X the ability to stand under-fire and spare energy tanks to extend his stamina. A metaphor is in each piece of equipment; the general idea is that X discovers parts of Dr. Light’s vision that were specially designed to make him strong in conflict. It takes some time and sweat but going into conflict situations is the only way for X to fully realize these gifts.

Foremost of those gifts is his own sword-of-truth, a booster that turns his modest plasma cannon into a powerful, versatile weapon. Added to that are the spoils of war: a new gun taken from the corpse of each boss he slays. The weapon enhancer enables X to unlock secret power in each of these, as well. That sword might be double-edged: if I gave myself over to blasting my way through every conflict, I fail the principles of Wi’am. The key to weapon-enhancer is that it must charge to full power – it is a waiting weapon. Speaking to groups on several occasions, I closed my eyes and remembered the sound of Mega Man powering-up that weapon. I used to charge it before I faced a boss, whether I needed it or not, to put myself at ease. “I’ve got this—thanks for the power-up, Spirit.” Discharged at the right time, it is super effective.

Mega Man is emblematic of a new self-concept, for me, because of his dynamic growth and intrinsic goals. There is no princess or treasure waiting for him in Sigma’s fortress. Mega Man is neutral on issues of pride because his unprecedented power and skill is not for the sake of prowess or accolades but to respond to the increasing level of difficulty. It would be easier to fall in-line with the global domination agenda, letting humanity and culture go to the trash-bin. However, it is inconceivable that X would allow such a thing to occur. Indeed, my world has not allowed me to choose another path, either. I feel as if I was in my own cryonic freeze in Creston, recalling the inscription on X’s capsule: “Warning: this robot is free-thinking and may rebel!” X and I share an important component: Mission. Though we are both free-thinking, and capable of denying our gifts, on our root level we cannot escape Purpose forever. We must go into battle. It is not because our programming was fail-safe but because our paths have shaped our potential. Only the blue, self-doubting X from the first stage could have become the imposing X who eventually bests his opponent from earlier in the game. The upgrades were specially made for him by his creator to be used for his Mission. If they become badges later, that is no reason to be ashamed—as long as they are tools first.

I will keep that in mind as I meditate.

*With respect to the limitations of Paul's world-view that are grossly apparent earlier in the chapter, I think I can take that with a grain of salt and continue to explore what he was driving toward with the armor metaphor.

That Moment...

The past week has been jarring not because of its events but because of its under-currents. Today’s moment of dislocation took place, of all places, at the point of dislocation in the West Bank: next to the apartheid wall. I had managed to escape the office on the pretext of taking pictures of the massive group of American undergraduates that Usama was leading on a short walk through Aida refugee camp. The short-cut to the refugees camp passes along Apartheid Wall and through a Palestinian graveyard. I still cannot fathom that on the other side of that wall, almost adjacent to where I work every day, is Rachel’s Tomb. Thanks to the giant concrete-gerrymander, I have never seen it.

What I have seen twice is the giant key and ‘key hole’ that leads into Aida; the camp is three generations old. The first generation inhabitants set their tents there in the late forties after being internally displaced decades ago. There were two ideas behind the giant key and key-hole shaped gate: first, Aida residents keep the keys to their homes in “Israel” as a symbol of their eventual return. Second, they were hoping that the Guinness Book of World Records would recognize it as the biggest key in the world (which did not happen). Usama has a friend in the camp who lets him take tour groups onto a high roof-top in order to get the lay of the land: Rachel’s tomb, an olive grove lying fallow, the illegal Israeli settlement and the Wall that makes it all possible.

While half the group was on the roof, I was spending time with the rest of the group. Children from the camp were flocking to us, finding various ways to amuse themselves with the big pack of tourists. Little kids are little kids anywhere in the world. One little boy asked to borrow my camera. I fought my reluctance and let him figure things out on my Canon~ I watched him closely for monkey-business but instead he began to painstakingly frame some graffiti on the Apartheid Wall, working hard to stabilize the shot.

Later, a shop-keeper came and recruited some of the young Americans to buy things from his mini-mart. He came up and introduced himself to me in broken English. I responded in broken Arabic. We were both smiling and shaking hands, trying to understand each other over the buzz of vehicles coming in and out of the camp. Our second-language skills were a match: he was as terrible at English as I was at Arabic. We never got beyond exchanging names and clarifying that I had no money. Yet, it was a warm exchange overall: we had good non-verbal communication.

One of the internationals was a man named Andrew, who looked like he could be five to ten years older than the rest of the group, perhaps a graduate-level resident advisor or something similar. Andrew carried a well-worn, leather-bound Bible under one arm, wore small glasses but looked to be in excellent shape. We started talking about how I came to be working with Wi’am. Then, we came to the point of dislocation, where I found myself dealing not with the issues I think about every day in Palestine but the issues that brought me here: concepts of mission.

“Do you think Wi’am has a good ministry here?” asked Andrew.

“Oh yes,” I said, without hesitation. In my mind, Wi’am has an excellent ministry—they are an office filled with overt Christians doing good work in the name of caring for their community.

“So, do you lead a Bible Study there?” began Andrew, “What kind of work do you do with the Gospel?” “What is your missionary role, here?” I can only assume, in hind sight, that he was trying to unearth a kernel of evidence that matched his ideas of ministry so he could start to build an understanding of what I do. The awkward moment came, as we realized that the kernels he searched for were not there. I do not lead a Bible study—I study a little in the morning but I am not teaching lessons. It came out that I am a word-nerd, proof-reading grant proposals and making newsletters, occasionally taking photographs or ghost-writing an e-mail.

“When I think about it, though, everything I do here relates back to the Gospel,” I said. I getting ready to segue into Mark 12:31. “Love God with all of your heart, mind and soul and love your neighbor as yourself—and if it was me, living here in Palestine all my life, I would want my stories to be heard.” That is a perfectly understandable Gospel connection for the other Young Adult Missionary personnel but I could feel a small disconnect between myself and Andrew.

Pressing onward, I said “...actually, I have seen some of the Gospel here in the radical hospitality. Everyone has made me feel so welcome, in spite of whatever circumstances...”

The conversation continued in this stilted vein:

“...I said that Wi’am has a good mission but it covers the social aspects of mission more than the theological aspects... everyone there is motivated by their beliefs even though...”

“...I am really trying to take-on the receiver role so I can return to the United States and...”

“...I really wanted to connect people where I come from to these struggles so they can have compassion...”

“...well, you know, Christianity has been here a pretty long time, huh?” (epic fail)

Eventually, Usama came down from the roof and called for the next group to ascend. I could tell that my statements about the Gospel had defied Andrew’s expectations and I had to admit to myself that I embraced that purposely in my attempt to reframe my mission. I did not feel like I should have to say “well, I am just doing support work,” when I feel like I am working for the unification of humanity through better relationships. The fact of the matter is that I do occasionally engage in some theological reflection but my message is not for Palestinians. I think Andrew assumed I was preaching the Gospel to Palestine when I want to preach Gospel from Palestine.

Another dislocating feeling was realizing that Andrew was doing something right: he listened to me. He was really listening to me and trying to understand and that gives me hope. There could be hundreds of Disciples like that: people who mean well but are having trouble getting the new wine into the new wine skins, as Jesus might put it. Paradigm shifts. I felt humbled and even a little edified by his ability to listen. I need to ‘catch’ some of that.

I did catch something on my way back through the refugee camp. I noticed how neatly and elegantly constructed the tower next to the camp mosque was, especially as the sun was setting. It seemed beautiful to me, all at once, to understand how much it might mean to some of the Aida’s residents to have a respectable place of worship: the highest point in the whole camp. Later, the call to prayer rang-out across the graveyard and reached Wi’am – and the Wall adjacent.