“Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God. On it you shall not do any work, neither you, nor your son or daughter, nor your male or female servant, nor your animals, nor any foreigner residing in your towns. For in six days the Lord made the heavens and the earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but he rested on the seventh day. Therefore, the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy” (Exodus 20:8-11).“I gave them my Sabbaths, as a sign between them and me, that they might know that I am the LORD who sanctifies them” (Ezekiel 20:12).Satan’s main objective as God’s enemy is to work against God. He hates God, and he hates God’s people. Nothing delights Satan more than when he successfully tempts believers to disobey God’s statutes. The fourth commandment is no different. Satan is keenly aware that our participation in worship—singing and hearing the Word of God preached—is integral to our spiritual growth and to building up the Body. He will stop at nothing to prevent that, including raising up obstacles and distractions, and even using our own selfish desires.Photo Credit: ©Getty Images/fizkes

The title card that begins Christopher Nolan’s epic telling of Homer’s Odyssey is a distinctly Nolan way of setting the scene: “A time of apparent magic.” Indeed, “apparent magic” could be the defining two words of Nolan’s entire filmography. Nolan is a materialist whose films may seem magical but are grounded in realism, at times reflecting Arthur C. Clarke’s maxim “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” Nolan sees cinema as an illusionist’s canvas—a technology so adept at contorting time, conjuring impossibilities, and transcending the laws of space and time that it can feel supernatural. But it’s merely smoke and mirrors (not CGI). And whether he’s demystifying superheroes (Dark Knight), aliens (Interstellar), or magic itself (The Prestige), Nolan delights at being the wizard behind the curtain, conjuring immanent wonders for audiences hungry to be wowed. How, though, does Nolan get around the supernatural elements so pivotal in Homer’s ancient epic poem? What sleight of hand could possibly render The Odyssey in a way that’s faithful to the source material but also at home in Nolan’s “secular magic” milieu? What sleight of hand could possibly render The Odyssey in a way that’s faithful to the source material but also at home in Nolan’s ‘secular magic’ milieu? Perhaps unsurprisingly, given his unrivaled command of the art form, Nolan pulls it off. His Odyssey is peak cinema in every respect—a tightly edited, well-acted, stirring triumph of sight and sound. It’s as grand as movies get (his biggest opening-weekend box-office hit). Nolan manages to capture most of the iconic scenes and eye-popping thrills of Homer’s 2,700-year-old story. Yet he also modernizes it to fit with a psychological interpretation in place of the supernatural. It might be Nolan’s most impressive magic trick yet. Storytelling Sleight of Hand Nolan’s version of The Odyssey is storytelling par excellence (I’ve rarely been as engrossed in a three-hour movie). But it’s also a meta reflection on the nature of storytelling as myth-making, magic-making, and transcendent meaning in (to Nolan) a materialist universe. Nolan’s script frames The Odyssey through a series of interweaving stories being told from one person to another. These include Menelaus (Jon Bernthal) telling the story of the Trojan Horse to Telemachus (Tom Holland), Agamemnon (Benny Safdie) telling the story of his own death to Odysseus (Matt Damon), and an Ithacan bard (Travis Scott) giving a drumbeat spoken-word about the Trojan War exploits of Odysseus (“A face / a fleet / a war / a man / a thought / a trip”). But much of the film—importantly, all the supernatural episodes of sea monsters, one-eyed giants, and sorcery—consists of stories Odysseus tells to Calypso (Charlize Theron) while his mind is clouded by the lotus flowers she constantly feeds him. Is he a reliable narrator? This is the workaround for Nolan to plausibly situate The Odyssey in the realm of disenchanted materialism. All the wild supernatural stuff—Circe (Samantha Morton) turning men into pigs, Cyclops biting off soldiers’ heads, Sirens wooing men with their songs, Scylla grabbing men with her serpentine clutches—could just be hallucinations or half-remembered dreams of a tired, battle-worn, PTSD-burdened Odysseus. In some ways, Nolan’s Odyssey feels like a close cousin to Inception in its exploration of labyrinthine psychological terrain. It’s true that our brains can conjure great wonders that look and feel like fantasy. We can imagine great mythologies and traverse entire worlds—all within our heads. How much of the surrealist drama of Odysseus’s journey home really happened, and how much is trauma-induced delusion? That’s the question Nolan raises, sowing seeds of doubt about the realities behind the “apparent magic” taken for granted in the ancient world—and by scores of religious people even today. ‘Defy the Gods’ Nolan’s critique of the mythologies of divine intervention runs throughout his filmography. The “miracle” of Dunkirk, in his telling, isn’t a supernatural saving but a rousing triumph of human solidarity and the will to survive. Similarly, in Interstellar, Hans Zimmer’s cathedral-organ soundtrack reinforces Nolan’s suggestion that scientific prowess is a priestly vocation and that humanity saving itself (without divine aid) is the truest source of transcendence. The Odyssey’s marketing campaign tagline, “Defy the gods,” is an extension of this theme. It’s not that Nolan dislikes Greek mythology. He seems to appreciate it as a beautiful story that helped build Western civilization. But Damon’s version of Odysseus doesn’t particularly need the gods. He often feels skeptical of them (“Why can’t God speak in ways we understand?”) and puts faith more in himself than in deities. When he tells his crew that “the gods help those who help themselves,” or that he’ll “defy the gods,” he basically admits his belief in human agency as a more powerful force than divine sovereignty. When Calypso tells Odysseus to “give [himself] to the storm . . . give up control and live,” it sounds less like an appeal to resting in divine protection than like a therapist’s advice to be less controlling and more accepting of circumstances. In this and other examples, Nolan reinterprets Homer’s supernatural gods as therapeutic allies or voices in our heads. ‘Gods’ Inside Our Heads The gods of Greek mythology are everywhere in Homer’s epic, prominent characters who show up often and engage with Odysseus and others. But in Nolan’s movie, they’re a quieter, mostly unseen presence. Zeus is mostly inferred from the sound of thunder. Poseidon is alluded to as the source of stormy seas. Completely absent is Hermes, who plays a big role in Homer’s poem. Athena (played by Zendaya) is the only “god” visibly depicted as a character, appearing often to Odysseus in visions as his patron and advocate during his long journey home. But her presence mostly feels like a manifestation of Odysseus’s troubled conscience (she often simply looks at him, shaking her head) or a friend who pats him on the back in his moments of discouragement. Nolan reinterprets Homer’s supernatural gods as therapeutic allies or voices in our heads. In a notable sequence near the end, this “Athena” character turns out to be a young priestess (also played by Zendaya) in Troy who was brutally beheaded by the Greeks. This moment reframes her role throughout the film, suggesting she’s merely a ghostly visage who haunts Odysseus’s memory and gives voice to his lingering guilt. And what is that guilt? In one of the more blatant modernizing elements of Nolan’s Odyssey, Damon’s Odysseus is guilt-stricken over his Trojan Horse idea, which he comes to see as a betrayal of xenia. A sacred obligation of mutual hospitality, xenia is referred to often in the film as “Zeus’s law.” It’s reminiscent of Hebrews 13:2’s call to show hospitality to strangers who might actually be angels (or “gods in disguise,” in the ancient Greek view). In the moment, the Trojan Horse felt like a brilliant secret weapon that succeeded in ending the long and bloody war (similar to the atomic bomb in Nolan’s Oppenheimer). But later, Odysseus comes to see it as a turning point he wishes didn’t happen (much like Cillian Murphy’s Robert Oppenheimer). “To burn the walls of Troy was to burn the world entire,” he says. It’s an act that perpetuates the breaking of Zeus’s law everywhere—unleashing sin, war, and death like the opening of Pandora’s box. Here again, it mirrors Nolan’s point with Oppenheimer (“Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds”). But the apocalyptic judgment unleashed by this weaponry of war is, in The Odyssey and in Oppenheimer, self-inflicted. In Nolan’s worldview, humans are capable of greatness and of saving themselves from destruction (see Dunkirk or The Dark Knight). But they’re also capable of destroying themselves and the world. Either way, it’s human agency—not divine power—driving the outcome. It’s all on us. While the film ends on a beautiful note of the reunited Odysseus and Penelope (Anne Hathaway) sailing off into the sunset, believing “a new dawn will break over the darkened world,” it doesn’t feel particularly hopeful. The record of history shows that human civilizations always struggle to usher in a “new dawn” that doesn’t eventually give way to new darkness. Perhaps the hoped-for dawn—and the sun-chasing imagery at the end of The Odyssey—is actually a hint at the arrival of Christ (Isa. 9:2), which would bring world-changing light and hope to the Mediterranean in less than a millennium. Post-Christian Vision of Humanist Morality There are certainly echoes of the Christian story—the “true myth”—in Nolan’s version of The Odyssey, just as Homer’s original has been read as foreshadowing Christian typologies. As the mythical story valorizes a hero who suffers, humbles himself, endures temptation, goes to hell and back (literally), and returns for his faithful bride, it’s hard not to think of Christ’s journey. And in its championing of virtue, testing, and fidelity amid great trials, the film echoes the Christian pilgrimage of every believer. As the mythical story valorizes a hero who suffers, humbles himself, endures temptation, goes to hell and back (literally), and returns for his faithful bride, it’s hard not to think of Christ’s journey. But this is also a product of a post-Christian culture, made by a filmmaker with a track record of drawing from Christian virtues (like faith, hope, and love) but reworking them as tenets of secular faith. As such, the moral vision of Nolan’s Odyssey is incoherent—reflecting Christian, ancient pagan, and 21st-century secular virtues. Consider the film’s morally confused ending. Nolan stays true to Homer’s original bloodbath ending, in which Odysseus returns to Ithaca and slaughters all of Penelope’s suitors. But this is the same Odysseus whom Nolan has revised to be an empathetic, conscience-pricked, peace-loving war veteran who regrets his exploits in the Trojan War. Which is it? Does Odysseus’s climactic act of vengeance back home in Ithaca fit with his regrets about war and laments about violating Zeus’s law at Troy? It’s clear Nolan’s main theme is the importance of xenia and loving the stranger in a world of xenophobia and stranger fear. But it feels off to promote this peaceful message even as audiences cheer Odysseus shooting arrows into dozens of Ithacans in the final bloody scenes. But this kind of moral confusion is par for the course in the post-Christian secular West. We selectively invoke Christian and classical virtues, even as we reject basic laws of nature (note the casting of trans actor Elliot Page in a small but significant role). But sans a divine standard—an actual God, not mythological gods or gods we make of ourselves—all morality becomes mushy and makeshift. If Odysseus, or any of us, truly wants to “defy the gods” and forge a path, it’ll invariably be circuitous and contradictory. We might conjure a momentary “new dawn,” but it won’t be a lasting light.

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