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Knox McCoy is one of the brilliant blogger-friends that Maile and I had the opportunity to meet in real life while we traveled the United States earlier this year. He writes some of the funniest stuff on the interwebs – his series on the television show The Bachelor is a must-read. I don’t even watch the show. Honest.

Today he was kind enough to join us and share about his new book, Jesus and The Hunger Games.

So Knox, give us an idea of what to expect in this book, and where did such a strange great idea come from?

Jesus and The Hunger Games is the second installment in a series where I relate Christianity to a seemingly unrelated fixture within pop culture. For the purposes of this conversation, we can call it the “Jesus and …” series. Last year, I did Jesus and The Bachelorette and enjoyed the process, so I wanted to try the same method on the Hunger Games mainly because I blew through the trilogy in about 5 days and had to work through everything I’d just read.

Answering the bigger question though, random analogies and connections is kind of how my brain works. I understand ideas more richly when they emerge out of unorthodox comparisons so this is really just a super self-indulgent process.

Some people have decried The Hunger Games as too violent and inappropriate. Others argue it contains strong themes and messages relevant to our society today. Where do you fall on this?

Personally, I think that’s a lazy argument (the decrying it as violent and inappropriate). We’re talking about a context that exists within the framework of a fictional book. If this were something actually going on, I would say, “Yes, this is much too violent.” But it’s a piece of fiction. Moreover, it isn’t even a fictional piece that is reckless with its use of violence. The violence is very purposeful in terms of a story device (a setting that celebrates just such violence is clearly dystopic and thus supplements the desperation of the protagonist) and it isn’t slathered on carelessly. The violence, though violent, MEANS something. I think the themes of self, of class disparity, of desensitization are all extremely relevant to our society today.

If we read the book backwards, will we discover secret messages hidden in the text?

There are 3. One definitively answers the secret to eternal youth, one explains the ending of LOST and one discusses the McRib in an existential sense.

Talk to me about the similarities you see between The Hunger Games and the television show The Bachelorette.

Beyond the elimination format, zero. Speaking broadly, The Bachelorette sucks while The Hunger Games is such a thoughtful and well done series. If you put a gun to my head and made me choose, first I would be like, “Shawn, where did you get that gun?” And you’d probably say something like, “Walmart.” And I’d be like, “They sell guns now?” And you’d be like, “Yeah, it’s Walmart. They sell everything NOW ANSWER THE QUESTION.” And I’d be like, “Ok. The most intriguing similarity is that both touch on the burgeoning sense of voyeurism our society feels entitled to. Even though most people can agree that the contestants on The Bachelorette are mostly just people with their priorities entirely out of whack, we’re still seeing some of them in moments of emotional vulnerability and we do see them experience bold emotions like humiliation and sadness stemming from rejection. Culturally, we’ve gotten desensitized to this as we’ve seen more and more of it and people like me make fun of it and generally just have a big time laughing at these people.

Within The Hunger Games, we see a similar development as the citizens of Panem have become systematically desensitized to the killing of young children. Obviously, these instances of desensitization exist at opposite ends of the spectrum, but they do share that.” And then I would hope that my answer would suffice and you would put your Walmart brand gun down because who KNOWS how reliable they are, right?

Also, both make MAJOR use of roses.

Do you talk at all about which particular Bible characters would have done well on the Hunger Games? Who would be your odds-on favorite?

This is a fantastic question. I don’t but MAN would that have been a good chapter. My head is kind of swimming right now with possibilities. Hopefully this isn’t too big of a cop out, but I can tell you who I think would be one of the worst: Peter. He totally would be one of the characters to make a break for the bounty of equipment at the outset of the games and he probably would have been cut down by someone lame like Zacchaeus.

If you were a tribute in The Hunger Games, what would your strategy be?

Another fantastic question. Essentially, my strategy would consist of working smart, not hard and allowing others to do most of the combat.

I would build a few alliances and then also some with the outer districts, unbeknownst to each other of course. The plan with the outer alliances would be for me to link up with the Careers and go double secret undercover. This would allow me to stay in good company should things unravel. If things don’t unravel, I would stay with the careers and on the first night, I would volunteer for first watch. Once all the careers were asleep, I would give a signal to the outer district tributes and summon them to ambush the sleeping careers while I retreat out of the ensuing melee. Hopefully they would all take each other out.

If they don’t though, this would give me a few options: if the Careers are wiped out, I would link back up with the outer districts and decide on how to split up the alliance to my advantage.

If the Careers are somewhat wiped out, I would wound myself and emerge from the woods as a scattered member of the career alliance. I would allow the remaining skilled careers to take some revenge on the less skilled outer districts before picking off the weakened Careers at opportune moments.

If the Careers are not even remotely wiped out, but the outer districts are, I would stay with the Careers and divide and conquer their alliance through misinformation, ego and sabotage. Hopefully, I would turn some of them against the others and allow a secondary skirmish to unfold and play out before picking off the weakened survivors and accepting my crown as Hunger Games Victor.

Awesome. You totally fell for that. Now when The Hunger Games are instituted here in the US for almost-middle-aged people, and you and I become tributes, I will be one step ahead of you.

Time to wrap this up. Can you insert an excerpt from the book that will make NOT buying it a virtual impossibility?

Within Christianity, there’s been this systematic shift in our priorities, our duties if you will. We’ve become so hell-bent on helping people avoid hell, that we’ve subverted the underlying purpose behind our whole faith: loving others…serving others…helping others.

Instead, we’ve cast ourselves as Savior characters within our worlds. Saviors to other people, saviors to culture at large, we’re even Saviors to our churches and the idea of Christ as both try to acclimate to social changes within society. We’re basically super busy with all this savioring we’re doing.

But what we’ve forgotten is that we were never meant to be savioring anything in the first place.

In a sense, we’re like the Curators of this super awesome and trendy art show featuring the idea of Christ and all his teachings. But instead of curating and helping people connect with the ideas, we closed down that show and opened a new one across the street that is tangentially related to Christ but more through our filter.

When we aggrandize our role in things, we remove Christ and assert our own views and perspectives. We forget that not only are we the worst at being Saviors, but that we were never supposed to be one in the first place.

* * * * *

You can read more of Knox’s stuff at knoxmccoy.com or you can listen to his podcasts The Courtesy Laugh or Xtra Bacon.

Jesus and The Hunger Games is available for your Amazon Kindle for $2.99, or you can get it free by signing up for Knox’s email newsletter HERE.

St. Teresa of Avila wrote the following:

Let us not pray for worldly things, my sisters. It makes me laugh, and yet it makes me sad, when I hear of the things which people come here to beg us to pray to God for; we are to ask His Majesty to give them money and to provide them with income – I wish that some of these people would entreat God to enable them to trample all such things beneath their feet. Their intentions are quite good, and I do as they ask because I see that they are really devout people, though I do not myself believe that God ever hears me when I pray for such things.

What are your thoughts on this?

Sometimes we sat beside her bed in silence, listening to her breathing. Sometimes we paced around the house, eating when we weren’t hungry, checking email for the third time that minute. When the nurse arrived for her daily visit, we peppered her with quiet questions:

“What’s the heart rate?”

“How is she doing?”

“How much longer?”

I never knew that death could so closely resemble birth.

* * * * *

When we are born, when we come screaming into this world all covered in mucus and blood, still attached to our mother, death is conceived, because as soon as life appears, death is the inevitable end. In other words, birth is the conception of death.

So when my grandmother’s breathing began taking pauses, and her heart rate dropped into the low 30s, and her skin took on the pale hue of a white candle, we gathered at her house. We watched her labor. We waited for her body to birth her soul.

But this second birth can be a scary one. The person we know is passing away, and that which is birthed is invisible to us. It is very easy to feel as if we will be left with nothing but an empty body, the husk of memories, and a tangible reminder of the dark road we ourselves must eventually walk.

The first birth, that of our body, is usually accompanied by tears of joy and signs of physical life. The second birth, that of our soul, is usually accompanied by silence, followed closely by tears of sadness and the sound of heartfelt weeping. Mourning. Loss.

* * * * *

I have never been this close to death. I have never before stood by the side of the bed and watched each labored breath, wondered if this one, or this one, or this one would be the last. I have never watched the rise and fall of someone’s chest from across the room. I have rarely thought about what it takes to separate a person from their body.

Yet in these moments, with death gathering, I have been surprised at the peace in the room. Sure, there is sadness at the pending separation. Disappointment that we will not hear her voice again here on earth. But there is also a right-ness in the whole thing, gratefulness for a life well-lived. Even more strange, I feel an eagerness for my own soul-birth, an unfamiliar desire that, when the time is right, I might leave the cares of this world behind and enter into a brand new reality.

* * * * *

Some people tend to discount Ecclesiastes as a book of ravings written by a jaded, materialistic old man who is filled with nothing but regret. Yet there are more than a few gems tucked away in there. This one comes to mind as my grandmother’s final days pass:

A good name is better than a good ointment,
And the day of one’s death is better than the day of one’s birth.
It is better to go to a house of mourning, Than to go to a house of feasting,
Because that is the end of every man, And the living takes it to heart.

* * * * *

So we wait. And we sing. And I watch with complete amazement this laboring, this birth of a soul.

Another night of singing as Grandma continues to fade. By Thursday afternoon all eight of her children had arrived. Now everyone is here, and the waiting continues. Thursday night was the second night in a row that we spent the evening together, about forty of us. Her favorite thing is for her children to sing:

It’s interesting to see how the approach of death has brought us together. A few tears, lots of food, and lots of singing.

So it looks like my Grandma is wrapping up her last days here on earth. And while we’ll be sad to see her go, she is 92 and has lived a wonderful life.

Last night we all joined her where she’s been staying at my aunt’s house. One of her favorite things is to have everyone sing for her. So we sat around and we enjoyed each others’ company and we ate and every once in a while someone would start singing an old gospel song or a hymn. And anyone who knew the words would join in. This is one of those times:

I think singing is a great thing to do in the face of death.

“So you’re not going to leave the building?” he asks, and I can tell by the pooling liquid in his eyes that he’s trying hard to hold it together.

“Promise. I’ll just be down the hall. You’ll be okay.”

He clenches his jaw and nods, then holds out his hand, pinky extended.

“Pinky promise?”

“Pinky promise,” I say, and our fingers entwine in that ancient and unbreakable vow. His little finger feels tired and reluctant. I mess up his hair, give him a hug, and walk away.

* * * * *

I want my trust to be buoyed by something tangible. I want to tether my trust to concrete facts. I want to stake my trust in the ground of the known so that I can walk away, take long hikes through the forest of self-sufficiency, and return whenever I want, knowing that I left trust in a certain clearing. Waiting for me.

But trust, ruthless trust, is like spring water or smoke: it is always moving, and it refuses to be nailed down. It is not something to be summoned up at whim. If I want to surround myself with trust, I have to seek it out, then go where it leads.

I’m learning this as I watch him walk through a forest of anxiety. I see how he grasps for the cool, hard surface of the known. He tries to create pillars of certainty on ground that can so easily be washed away: the life of a loved one or my expected return in 60 minutes’ time. I’m beginning to see that for him to get through it, he’ll have to come to grips with the unknown, the terrible possibilities, the absence of promise. Trust is not trust if it’s based on the naive belief that everything will go the way I want it to go.

As I watch him, I see me. Such high hopes I have for us, that we can both enter that place of peace found only in ruthless trust!

* * * * *

“The way of trust is a movement into obscurity, into the undefined, into ambiguity, not into some predetermined, clearly delineated plan for the future.” – Brennan Manning, Ruthless Trust

* * * * *

I peek my head around the corner. He sees me and comes walking over.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I ask him.

“Nah,” he says, smiling. “I had a great time.”

This time I won’t say I told you so because I know the difficulty of walking in that trust, that peace. I know how scary it can be, leaving the known behind, turning my back on the certain. But I also know those moments of floating, when all the constraints of this world fall away (if only for a day or a season). I know how it feels to genuinely not care about money, or future, or fate. To be present.

Even though he’s almost too old, or sometimes pretends to be, I reach over and grab his hand and hold it while we walk outside. Into the fresh, autumn air we go, and I find myself asking God one question.

Pinky promise?