My Life With The Jedi
Jedi Knight Kanan Jarrus and Ignatius of Loyola
I told you last week that I’m currently reading My Life With The Jedi, a new book about the Star Wars wisdom to be found within the Ignatian spiritual tradition. It’s a really enjoyable book. I reached out to the author, Eric Clayton, and asked him if Geeky Stoics could run an excerpt from the book for our audience. I chose a portion of Chapter II that ties together the real-world story of Ignatius of Loyola and that of Star Wars Jedi Knight, Kanan Jarrus. Kanan plays the role of Jedi “master” and mentor in the animated series, Star Wars Rebels. As a teacher, he doubts his abilities and harbors a great deal of guilt and fear about being a living Jedi in the galaxy after the Order 66 purge. Then just as Kanan is getting the hang of things, he loses his sight. The spiritual journey of Kanan Jarrus is one of Star Wars’ greatest moments.
The reason this portion stood out to me is that the core of Stoicism is how we perceive events and feelings, and what we make of certain challenges.
Marcus Aurelius when we he wrote about anxiety around 160 AD, said, “Today I escaped anxiety. Or no, I discarded it, because it was within me, in my own perceptions — not outside.”
We have more agency than we realize. Enjoy this snippet of the Eric’s new book and do go snag a copy on Amazon.
EXCERPT: “My Life With The Jedi” by
Cannonball Moments
In the Ignatian tradition, we talk about “cannonball moments.” The phrase refers to hinge experiences that have the potential to alter the trajectory of our lives. A cannonball moment is an event that’s loaded with spiritual significance. It begs the question, How do we respond to moments of great import—moments that may be riddled with trauma, grief, agony, and despair?
Ignatius of Loyola was a soldier long before he was a mystic saint. It was his arrogance and pride, a desire to prove himself and his own worth, that led him to refuse to surrender when French forces surrounded his troops at the Battle of Pamplona. The year was 1521. The French fired on his position, and a cannonball struck Ignatius—one leg shattered; the other grievously wounded. His days as a soldier were over. The injuries he sustained and the deaths of his companions were utterly unnecessary. Ignatius was faced with a choice of how he would respond to this moment. How would he write the next chapter in his story?
Because the first operation had left his legs uneven, and he couldn’t bear the thought of returning to courtly life with an unsightly limp, Ignatius insisted that his doctors rebreak and reset the broken bones. But no matter how many times the doctors tore at his legs, their efforts would not heal his pride. He lay in his bed dreaming of the life to which he would never return.
This is the kind of life-altering trauma that shapes saint and Jedi alike. A cannonball blows up not only your dreams but also the way you see yourself in the past, present, and any potential future. It’s likely you, too, have a moment—or several—in mind where your entire world hinged on decisions made in response to one particular instant. It’s challenging to expand the imagination beyond what we know, to dream up a world and a life that not only survive the injury at hand but also transcend it. We’re faced with the task of incorporating into the person we will become that which left us scarred. This spiritual work isn’t easy.
Pitfalls abound. It’s tempting—and sometimes seemingly simpler—to assume this new wound is all you will ever be. Systemic family therapist Richard C. Schwartz writes of this temptation in his book No Bad Parts:
“You identify with your weakness, assuming that who you really are is defective and that if other people saw the real you, they’d be repulsed.”
Maybe you lie in bed all day and think of yourself as a former soldier, a former Jedi. You are not able to move beyond your wound, to treat yourself with compassion and embrace the new opportunities at hand.
Talk about misplaced focus determining the wrong reality!
“No one can help anyone without becoming involved, without entering with his or her whole person into the painful situation, without taking the risk of becoming hurt, wounded, or even destroyed in the process,”
writes the great spiritual author and Dutch priest Henri Nouwen.
“The great illusion of leadership is to think that others can be led out of the desert by someone who has never been there.”
It’s not a matter of if we’re wounded—in this life, that’s inevitable. It’s a matter of our response. The question, then, for this process of healing is, What—who—are we living for? And are we able to hold whatever—whoever—it is at the forefront of our mind as we make that long journey from woundedness to wholeness?
We Carry Conflict
Through contemplative prayer, Ignatius discovered that the God of the universe was inviting him to lay down his sword and pick up a pilgrim staff, to serve those in need and spread a message of mercy, love, and compassion. His pride was something he could learn from and then share the resulting lessons with others.
Kanan Jarrus, too, engages in a bit of contemplation on the planet Atollon, the location of the new Rebel base. He sits discerning a mysterious voice calling to him from the wilderness. While his friends go on a mission, he sets out in search of the source of the voice, which he discovers to be a mysterious Force creature called the Bendu.
“You carry conflict with you,” the Bendu observes. Kanan assumes the creature is referring to the Sith Holocron in his possession. Kanan himself had become nearly obsessed with the item, so worried was he over the influence it was having on Ezra. But the Bendu quickly refuses to let Kanan take the easy way out; it’s not a mere object that is causing Kanan hardship—powerful as that object may be. Kanan is carrying the conflict within. And he’s refusing to look at it squarely.
The Bendu presses the Jedi knight, insisting, “Only you can change yourself.” The Bendu pushes Kanan to stop seeking out external excuses for his current state and instead look within.
Then it clicks: “Fear, grief, anger—that’s how I see myself,” Kanan realizes. What he now sees clearly is something he does have control over. He can change what he believes himself to be. He can change his focus.
“If you can see yourself, you never will be truly blind.”
With those words from the Bendu, Kanan sets off to help his friends. He does have a part to play in the wider galaxy. He does have something he would give his life for.
The Bendu’s words resonate here, too, in this galaxy oh-so-near. Looking plainly at our woundedness, discovering the possibilities within, and embracing our full selves set us on a path of greater good. How might our own flaws and shortcomings actually help us in becoming the best version of ourselves?
Excerpted from My Life with the Jedi. Copyright © Eric A. Clayton. Used with permission.
An excellent, encouraging reflection from Eric - as expected! Thanks to both of you for sharing this.