Redemptive History and 9/11

"Remembering is the art of the mature."

I wrote Bob's words in the margin beside Psalm 103's heading and felt the kinetic energy of his statement slam into my consciousness. It was a simple enough statement, but as its substance dissolved into the bloodstream of my imagination I could not picture anything else but the room Choir and Orchestra shared at Parker High School. I could see Mr. Bowman's nervous rush to the TV by the door leading out to the commons, the disciplined frenzy of his fingers as they reset the TV's input, his hushed voice that elicited more alarm than a hundred decibel bellow- something about a plane and the World Trade Center. A nameless dread clamored behind my sternum, seeped into my lungs and throat, tasted like vinegar filling my mouth. He stared at the screen as the image took form, panic and picture becoming more palpable with every second of silence. He spoke again, mercifully ending the suffocating sensation of understanding that something monumentally important was taking place and yet knowing almost nothing about it. It was shrouded in enigma and a fearful unknowing seized the circle of students congregating around the television, clamoring for facts. Facts would act as sandbags in holding back the flood of frightened speculation but for the time being, confusion was king. Mr. Bowman heard that the plane's collision with the tower may have been an accident, but it was far from conclusive. Theories and foreboding flurried through everyone's minds. We were released to our second hour classes, but the entire school's attention was fixed on the news for the next sixty minutes, enthralled and dismayed as footage of burning and bedlam buried our suddenly out of date, Midwest-shaped presuppositions.

Bob directly connected the vividness of the memories many of us have of September 11 with our need to remember with intensity and passion the death and resurrection of the Lord Jesus. No one remembers September 10, 2001, but with preternatural precision we can recall almost every detail of the following day because of its significance for American history. Qal wahomer time: how much more then should we seek to bring to remembrance the most significant event, indeed, the turning point of human history? It isn't nostalgia we're after in such an exercise- it's the stirring up of our affections for that which redefined our reality and the subsequent renewing of our wills to keep up the good fight of faith.

I am under no illusion that September 11, 2001 is the first epoch defining event in American history. The fall of the Berlin Wall, the Challenger disaster, John F. Kennedy's assassination, and Pearl Harbor immediately spring to mind as case studies in days no one will ever forget. It's strange for me to think of kids who have no experiential knowledge of September 11 whatsoever- it's already as far removed from them as Pearl Harbor is from me, in a sense. But should we seek to give them understanding as close as possible to our own? I say yes, most definitely, because their effort to identify corporately with the American experience of 9/11 is analogous to our own burden to remember the cross work of Jesus Christ and to identify with the long line of the redeemed covenant community reaching back to the Patriarchs. It's interesting- we're to "remember" things we've never seen before as though we were right there when they taking place!

In his article "Story in the Old Testament," R.W.L. Moberly touches on a few related points:

...there is the fact that some truths can best, or perhaps only, be conveyed in story form because of the importance of symbol and image in human understanding. To assume, as is often done, that the content of any story can be translated without loss into discursive analysis ('What this story means is that...') is to make an unacceptable separation of form and content. This is not to say that the medium is the message. It is to say that sometimes the message cannot be entirely separated from the medium. 

This does not mean that one cannot comment intelligently upon the meaning of a story. It does mean that the interpreter's comments should never become a substitute for the story, and their purpose should be to send one back to the story with fresh insight so that it is the story itself, better understood, that one if left with as the vehicle of truth and meaning.

...a story can provide a pattern or framework for understanding life and experience. For many, life and existence on the purely historical plane may appear random or chaotic, without purpose, meaning or dignity. A story can so arrange things that pattern and meaning can be seen. The biblical story purports to be a true story. This means that as the reader recognizes in it the patterns of how God works, he can then find pattern and meaning for his own life and experience of God.

For example, life for the Jews in exile and the diaspora when they were deprived of all those things that had previously been central to their faith and identity - land, temple, king - must easily have appeared hopeless and meaningless. Stories such as those of Daniel and Esther do more than just show how life under God can be a reality in such situations. The way the stories show, both explicitly and implicitly, that God is in control and that what people do does matter makes the stories a powerful medium for creating trust in the wisdom of God and in the meaning and significance of life even in difficult circumstances.1

To remember is to fan into flame the meaningfulness of history, both on the societal and the personal levels- so often the two are intertwined into one entity, a single point in time in which corporate and individual realities are irrevocably altered and imbued with significance. There is a gravity to these events that draw us into their orbit. The pathos of a shared event has a potential energy waiting to be harnessed through recollection- when we bring it to remembrance we unleash its innate fullness and invite change to flow from it into our present. This is a particular strength of cultures which preserve the richness of their history in narratives and tell and retell those narratives to reinvigorate the failing hopes of its people in difficult (or simply mundane!) times. The Church likewise must rehearse the accounts of God's saving acts throughout history and learn to be awestruck by the world shaking might of the Triune God who has vowed to save His people and has acted to deliver on that promise! The individual stages and the overall trajectory of God's rescue operation should be meditated upon and relied upon as faithful deposits of the work He will yet do. Everyone lives right now- how many people can channel the past into the present so as to shape the future? To remember God's workings in redemptive history is to summon down rain in a period of drought! This is seen in Habakkuk 3:17-19, where Habakkuk is so moved by recounting God's mighty deeds in the past he can joyfully submit to the hardships he knows are imminent:

Though the fig tree should not blossom,
   nor fruit be on the vines,
the produce of the olive fail
   and the fields yield no food,
the flock be cut off from the fold
   and there be no herd in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the LORD;
   I will take joy in the God of my salvation.
GOD, the Lord, is my strength;
   he makes my feet like the deer’s;
   he makes me tread on my high places.

That is the power of remembering.

I was moved in a way I had not anticipated while watching a 9/11 documentary with Kristin last night, and it was due to seeing the multifaceted nature of man in such sharp relief- "the glory and scum of the universe," as Pascal noted. Sometimes it's easier for me to recognize the truth of the latter but I am not often impressed with the reality of the former. We must acknowledge that our universe is a realm populated by rebellious vassels resisting rightful lordship and suppressing the truth in unrighteousness- we are depraved in every faculty of our being. There is a hideous, self-inflicted gouge in the visage of our race; our dignity is not utterly lost, but marred, and only a pale reflection of the nobility we possessed for one magisterial moment. And yet there is still dignity! There is still that glimmer of the imago Dei, tattered and yet intact! As Hamlet rhapsodizes:

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how
infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and
admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like
a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals...2

And yet,

For in fact what is man in nature? A Nothing in comparison with the Infinite, an All in comparison with the Nothing, a mean between nothing and everything. Since he is infinitely removed from comprehending the extremes, the end of things and their beginning are hopelessly hidden from him in an impenetrable secret, he is equally incapable of seeing the Nothing from which he was made, and the Infinite in which he is swallowed up.3

God, who would be just to dismantle the entirety of the universe and deliver the penalty fit for rebels is grieved by the death of His finite and fallen image bearers too- His heart is moved for the plight of those whose lives were extinguished that day ten years ago. God looks at the stranglehold sin holds upon the universe and His compassion burns in unison with His white hot hatred for injustice. Psalm 145 reminds us of the mercy and kindness God lovingly extends towards His creation- His compassion abounds throughout the world as He witnesses its inhabitants' plight. He discerns with infinite insight the cosmos writhing in pain due to its subjection to the dominion of sin. He looks and sees every living creature subject to sin's tyranny. There is unspeakable tragedy in the reckless hate with which sin seeks to destroy human lives, a tragedy that God Himself identifies with, most vividly in the humanity of the Lord Jesus. God is sovereignly committed to the eradication of the cosmic dissonance that tarnishes His good creation and His image bearers and He has spared no expense in that glorious campaign of liberation. That God should take pity upon suffering rebels and in turn call for them to to do the same for one another is a truth which should be immeasurably precious to our souls, spurring us on to remember, to rejoice, and to play our parts in the Church's restorative mission.


1 R.W.L. Moberly, "Story in the Old Testament," Themelios 11.3 (April 1986):77-82, http://www.biblicalstudies.org.uk/article_story_moberly.html
2 William Shakespeare, Hamlet II.ii.256-259, The Oxford Shakespeare (London: Oxford University Press)
3 Blaise Pascal, Pensees II.72

Black Hawk Upside Down

At long last, Kristin and I are bona fide Rockford residents, happily dwelling in our little corner of the demilitarized zone we now call home. With the help of a few good men we relocated all of our earthly possessions in an operation that would make Desert Storm blush. In my naivete I didn't anticipate the sheer scale of the moving adventure, so I'm extremely grateful for helping hands who were patient with my lack of... well, everything, really! Henry and Charis were indispensable in hauling off the first trailer load in the wee hours of the morning. Try as I might, I don't think I'll ever be able to forget the sickening feeling of sweaty hands grabbing my ankles and awakening me from slumber with the words, "It's time." Recognizing in my half awake stupor that it was Henry and not a wraith was not tremendously reassuring in that frightful moment, but the adrenaline served us well as we proceeded to load all of our furniture through the ridiculously proportioned hallways of our former apartment.

John, Jim, Andrew, Jeremy and Henry assumed the responsibility for unloading the first trailer load into the new house after a Life Group leaders meeting (hence the crack of dawn timing for the loading task Henry and I had undertaken) whilst Shannon, Chase and I took another trailer back up to Wisconsin where Kristin was slaving away cleaning up our old abode. My first sight of our remaining belongings she had gathered into the living room made me realize that we had about seven tons of swag more than I had ever thought we possessed. Torching all of it crossed my mind, but implicit liabilities associated with that course of action compelled me to abandon it as a viable option (there was no way we were going to get our security deposit back if I burned the building down, alas).

Luckily, Shannon's the Man (or one of them) and seemingly created cubic feet of space in his truck ex nihilo and we managed to get every last remnant of junk (er, precious cargo). Kristin's dad made a visit with a dolly to aid in the loading process and ended up packing more than a few items in his car and making a whirlwind voyage south in our convoy. After unloading that most random of assortments, we hit the road yet again to be in time for the inspection, followed by Joel's sister's graduation party in Milton, after which we committed the rest of the night to sterilizing the apartment.

Returning to Rockford around 10:30 I was utterly spent and eagerly longed for some hay to hit; unfortunately, the hay had to be assembled first. With everything finally out of the way, I endeavored to do nothing but saw enough logs to put the Pacific Northwest to shame. The creaking sound in the kitchen persuaded me otherwise. I froze and attuned my sensory input to the widest bandwidth possible to discern whether or not an intruder was inside our house. Kristin was dead asleep. As the man of the house by default, I assumed sentry duty the rest of the night, patrolling territory stretching from the living room to the kitchen and back to our bedroom, focusing the full power of my keen Native American listening skills. It's pretty sensitive... perhaps too much so. But you'll thank me when I intuitively feel an insidious band of ninjas lurking outside your dining room. Or wherever. Ninjas can get into the craziest places.

Well, there were no insidious ninja bands forcing their entry that night. Or, there were, and they were successfully intimidated by my vigilance. I like to think it was the latter, but when the morning sun fired its deadly darts at an hour when no one anywhere should be awake, I was pretty destroyed. On the whole, however, I'd say it was worth the level up I'd received overnight- Level 3 Guardian, people! And only at the cost of a couple pretty severe nodding off episodes the following day!

So here we are, established in the midst of our church family and its environs. Life is good, and God is even better. Get ready, Rockford!

Operation: Elect Baby Skunk Redemption

Before our move down here this past weekend, Kristin and I would often find ourselves with such a crushing quantity of awesome things to do in Rockford that we would have little choice but to crash at someone's house for a night or two to facilitate said awesomeness. Time was when I romanticized the trip south and the return journey to Janesville but I soon became acquainted with the reality of how profoundly not fun that voyage truly is! Over the last several months of internship I came to embrace the idea of bare minimum Wisconsin to Illinois transit (and vice versa). So naturally we were overjoyed a couple of weeks ago when Intern Andrew offered us three days of luxurious shelter at Victor's house (which he was watching at the time- don't get the wrong idea) in order to aid us in the prosecution of five righteous hang-out sessions spread across Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. With the assurance of a weekend headquarters in place, we loaded up the Olsonmobile* with our crucial accoutrements and burnt rubber for the Land of Lincoln.

Intern Andrew had introduced me to Victor's stylish pad a couple of days prior to our stay and my initial reaction was something along the lines of, "Holy sumptuous living quarters, Batman!" or something ridonkulous of that sort. Victor's house is the bomb, basically,** so I was hotly anticipating setting up shop and kicking it Louis XVI-style betwixt the aforementioned gatherings.*** I recall from that first visit though that Andrew offhandedly mentioned something about a baby skunk falling into a window well a couple of days before, but the brevity of the report and the lack of pathos he affected in his remark led me to conclude that surely the baby skunk had escaped from the window well and returned home to his (her?) clan by then.

That was Tuesday.

Wednesday progressed without any discernible moments of either grandeur or devastation, just your typical steady state horizon of fantasticity- pretty standard fare for Morning Star interns. Thursday night, however, witnessed a gut-churning reversal to the rhapsodic flights which my heart had been soaring to thinking of the killer weekend fast approaching. I walked home from Farm and Starfleet that night with a sprightly skip to my step, gleefully soaking in a Moises Silva lecture on Galatians on my iPod, clicking my heels like a leprechaun with every stroke of exegetical brilliance he skillfully elicited from the text.**** I arrived home and victoriously slammed three glasses of water, quenching the fire of the hot July night in my throat. And then, the familiar whistle of my R2-D2 alert: a text message. A text message from Intern Andrew, no less.

But his message was not of glad tidings nor was it good news.

Remember that baby skunk with the streak of bad luck? He wasn't back... he never left! Baby Skunk had been imprisoned in that window well for a week now, without food or water! The effulgence of my demeanor instantly dimmed. A deafening diesel roar of empathy echoed throughout the chambers of my heart whilst it simultaneously shattered for poor Baby Skunk. What measures had been taken to extricate Baby Skunk? We weren't just sitting by while Baby Skunk languished in a holding cell of dejection, were we? Andrew informed me that he had lowered a two by four into the window well but Baby Skunk just didn't have the requisite coordination to shimmy on up the board and back to freedom. I knew instantaneously that a means of rescue had to be devised to save Baby Skunk from an ignominious end within that window well! I would not suffer Baby Skunk even one more day in the blazing gloom of that window well- I had chosen him (her?) and would not rest until he (she?) was free at last. And so Intern Andrew and I covenanted together to accomplish and apply Operation: Elect Baby Skunk Redemption.

The following morning witnessed Kristin aiding a group of volunteers in cleaning the Hansons' abode in preparation of their imminent departure southward while I deposited the D-Day worthy collection of survival materials that had been deemed necessary for a weekend stay at our plush Northern Illinois cache. Intern Andrew looked aghast upon the cargo shipment I was delivering for our the duration of our post but did the right thing and helped me haul the freight down to our quarters in the basement. It was there that I at long last got my first look at Elect Baby Skunk. I was eyeing the drumset Victor had set up around the corner from the room Kristin and I would be staying in when appropos of nothing I looked over my shoulder and saw a window well... and Baby Skunk, slumped in the corner.

I looked into his (her?) eyes and saw Baby Skunk's abandonment to despair emanating from his (her?) countenance like stench from a stagnant bog. As our gazes locked with one another's I could vividly see the resignation and the anguish of utter forsakenness reflected through Elect Baby Skunk's visage. In that moment I knew that I would spare no measure to save Elect Baby Skunk.

Operation: Elect Baby Skunk Redemption was engaged.

To my extreme annoyance, Intern Andrew was still not particularly moved by Baby Skunk's plight, but he agreed to aid me in my mission so as to maximize the comic potential inherent within such an endeavor. We turned Victor's house upside down searching for recovery apparatus for Elect Baby Skunk but nothing seemed quite fit for the task.
"What about the net for this ping pong table?" Intern Andrew queried.
"I think that falls into the 'last resort' category," I retorted, returning to my digging frenzy in Victor's basement. You count on the most random things to show up in people's basements when you're not actually searching for them, but the moment a crucial item proves necessary it's nowhere to be found. Kristin, Intern Andrew and I refocused our ambitions elsewhere and ravaged his garage for anything that could be lowered into a window well to retrieve my elect skunk baby.
"Doesn't he go fishing ever? Russians like to fish, right?" I implored in a whining tone.
"What does that have to do with anything?" Intern Andrew returned, mockingly.
"Hello? A fishing net. Is that too much to ask?" I sighed, weary to get to the business of saving baby skunks.

Next I suggested I go downstairs, open up the window, grab Elect Baby Skunk from my just-barely-helpful vantage point and gently toss him (her?) up to Intern Andrew who could release him (her?) into the great outdoors. I could hear the bile rising in his throat at the solution I had offered. "One," he intoned dramatically, "I am not catching a skunk. Ever. Under any circumstances." He deflected my condescending eye rolling and sneer and continued on. "Two, under no circumstances are we letting skunk smell get into that basement. No way! This is not an option!" It got really quiet for a while after that.

Clearly, forces were at work even within Intern Andrew to derail Operation: Elect Baby Skunk Redemption.

Victor's home witnessed cataclysmic upheaval as we sought out the means to implement Operation: Elect Baby Skunk Redemption. I even started calling people in search of such assorted and sundry items as butterfly nets, rakes, and pool skimmers half-crazed with my objective of liberating Elect Baby Skunk from his (her?) prison of heat death. Intern Andrew proposed waiting until evening when Valentin could procure a fishing net for the operation. Choking back tears of rage I bellowed with all of the conviction my failing heart could muster: "No Andrew! This is our time! Up there- up there it's their time! Down here? Down here it's our time! Down here it's our time!"

Wait. Actually, that didn't happen. The Goonies abruptly intruded into my consciousness and corrupted my memory momentarily.

Anywho, we scavenged the premises like starving vultures, all the while the memory of Elect Baby Skunk's look of longing etched itself into my mind's eye. His (her?) pitiful demeanor as he (she?) wallowed in the window well burned like brimstone in my affections, becoming my own equivalent of the Macedonian in Acts 16:9. "Come over and save me!" I could hear Elect Baby Skunk squeaking plaintively. His (her?) whimpers reverberated through my inner being until finally my emotional levee broke.

"I'm going in," I said.
"You mean the window well?" Kristin asked. "That thing's pretty small..."
"I have to do it! When there is a lack of those qualified to go, the willing must be the ones to go in their stead," I responded. Looks of puzzlement were exchanged between Kristin and Intern Andrew and probably even myself ultimately because that was a pretty trite thing to say. But it felt right at the time.*****

It was on. The three of us now dedicated ourselves to distinct duties in saving Elect Baby Skunk; I would empty myself and descend into the window well, Kristin would procure something for me to shield myself from Elect Baby Skunk's odors of death, and Intern Andrew would stand a few yards away watching and providing moral support. Kristin rushed to retrieve an expendable towel from our supplies and threw it to me with the skill and flourish of a harpooner. Intern Andrew removed both the two by four Gangplank of Attempted Escape and the weird plastic shield that covered about three quarters of the way in****** to ease my entrance into the lower regions. He then scuttled away so as to ensure he was nowhere near Baby Skunk who no doubt would begin freaking out any moment at the sight of this huge thing entering his (her?) lair.

I shimmied over the lip of the well and gently hit rock bottom. In trying to steer clear of cobwebs I had aimed for the center of Elect Baby Skunk's holding cell which brought me virtually on top of him (her?) and almost immediately a look of panic greeted me from Elect Baby Skunk. "Hey there Baby Skunk," I cooed in an attempt to soothe the savage beast. He (she?) flipped end for end to bring his (her?) stink armament to bear against me. Sensing the imminent deployment of Elect Baby Skunk's weaponry I unsheathed my ugly brown towel like a bull fighter and established a field to absorb any fire Elect Baby Skunk might unleash. A large stone overhang forced me to hunch down and toss my Brown Towel of Protection upon Elect Baby Skunk. I struggled to get a grip around him (her?) but his (her?) convulsions of self defense were at least effective enough to prevent me from establishing a firm enough hold. "I'm trying to help you!" I shouted. "Why won't you let me help you?"

I finally got a clue and grabbed Elect Baby Skunk's tail. Game over! I gripped his (her?) body within the awkward mass of Ugly Brown Towel and lifted him (her?) up above my head triumphantly. I deposited the whole kit 'n kaboodle onto the grass, allowing Elect Baby Skunk to make his (her?) exit with dignity. He (she?) thrashed around in the Ugly Brown Towel for a couple seconds before emerging, guns drawn, surveying the territory around him (her?). "See?" I asked Elect Baby Skunk, "we just wanted to get you out of there."

Elect Baby Skunk decided to forego your standard Western customs of showing gratitude and instead made a beeline for the stone overhang directly next to the window well. He (she?) disappeared amidst the foliage between the deck and the overhang. "You've gotta be kidding me!" I shouted, the abject absurdity of the situation finally sinking into me. I took the two by four and inserted it below the overhang so as to form a barricade while Intern Andrew set up the plastic shield once again, this time placing it straight across the middle of the window well. When this defense had been erected, I placed the two by four alongside the shield, confident that Elect Baby Skunk wouldn't be able to fall back in that gloomy abyss again.

It was a harrowing day, made all the more ridiculous by the fact that Baby Skunk didn't seem particularly psyched to see any of us. But that night I went to bed knowing that my elect one had made it out okay, that he (she?) was out there, doing the stuff skunks do, probably having a blast, revelling in the ontological ecstasy of skunkdom. And I in my own awkward and inefficient way helped to make that a reality. Elect Baby Skunk was back with his (her?) clan once more. That was good enough for me.

I thought that the news of the successful prosecution of Operation: Elect Baby Skunk Redemption would elicit more applause at the Young Marrieds' Shindig that night, but cheers and accolades were muted. Jeremy and Henry burst into maniacal laughter and said, "I would've just killed it."

Deviants.



*Cooler name pending.
**Some might go so far as to say "the bomb diggity."
***Which might have been a bad idea because we all know what became of him...
****I know, I know: nerd.
*****Like that hasn't gotten people in trouble before.
******Yet obviously didn't cover enough...

Polonius- PWNed

I recently took a sabbatical from blogging for a trio of reasons: first, to mount a full-scale reading assault on Kevin Vanhoozer's Is There a Meaning in This Text? which represented a substantial allotment of cognitive dedication to say the least. Second, to ponder deeply the implications of media ecology upon any blog writing generally and mine particularly. Third, to establish significant breathing room between posts to allow thoughts to coalesce and mature. This point is really a subset of the second and a necessary consequence of taking that second point seriously and considering its ramifications.

Prior to the late 20th Century, the time between thinking a thought and publishing that thought (in any format- specifics are not of import at this point) was broader and allowed for dialogue between an author and his editor (acting as critic) as well as a thoughtful wrestling between the author and his or her text  before the text's submission to the reading world at large. This allows an author to reflect upon implications of her text, the illocutionary and perlocutionary force of passages within her text, the issue of whether she has shown responsible attentiveness to her sources, and a multitude of other such considerations which are often neglected in the world of instant publication and posting. My aim is to live with some of the ideas I'll be writing about for a season and grapple with all of the aforementioned issues by extending the time spent formulating the ideas I'll be dedicating to writing.

In light of this, my plan (if it can be dignified with that title) is to post less frequently but at greater length. Brevity may be the soul of wit, but let's face it: it's difficult to capture any idea and do it justice with less than 10,000 words. This doesn't mean I will never again post any snide machine gun strafings again (perish the thought!) but they will be few and far between, methinks. As with so many other things, we'll see how that pans out in real life, but after a thorough reflection I'm committed in head and heart to this methodology and excited to grow through the discipline it will require. Cheers!

The Fourth Will Be With You- Always or, "It's a Trap!"

If you were to stop and reflect upon Star Wars for any length of time (as I find myself so often doing), you'll realize that one the series' outstanding qualities is the peculiar fantasticity of its ensemble cast. Consider, for example, how greatly Return of the Jedi would suffer without Admiral Ackbar. You know- the fishy looking guy in the white suit with the huge black eyes coordinating the Rebel attack on the second Death Star. He's far from a primary character, but to expel him from the film would exponentially diminish the overall excellence of the saga's sixth installment. Admiral Ackbar owns that battle, and his mannerisms and dialogue are as key as Nien Nunb's (the Sallustan riding shotgun in the Millennium Falcon with Lando Calrissian).
Consider R2-D2 and C-3PO: hardly the stars of any of the films, but crucial nevertheless. No droids bailing for Tatooine in search of Obi Wan Kenobi = no Luke pwning the Death Star, ergo no Star Wars.

Chewbacca? None of his lines are even subtitled, but you know he's a massive force (no pun intended) in Episodes IV through VI. You know anyone else who can singlehandedly clear a room loaded with stormtroopers? True, you don't understand a word he's saying, but typically his tone conveys enough for you to get the picture.

And don't get me started on Wedge Antilles (possibly the finest fighter pilot in the galaxy after Anakin Skywalker!), Salacious Crumb (potentially the most annoying pet/creature/distraction thing to make Tatooine its home), IG-88 (robotic bounty hunter?), Boba Fett (only the coolest Mandalorian this side of the Ord Mantell!), Admiral Ozzel (who's as clumsy as he is stupid), Hobbie (Luke's not-so-lucky wingman on Hoth), R5-D4 (the malfunctioning droid who blows a fuse immediately after purchase by Uncle Lars), Admiral Needa (the one guy in the Imperial Navy who actually benefits from the fact that Darth Vader can force choke a dude from a Star Destroyer away), Jek Porkins (the unfortunately named first X-Wing pilot to bite the dust in A New Hope) and Roofoo! Who could forget Roofoo?

Roofoo: He doesn't like you.
Luke: I'm sorry.
Roofoo: I don't like you either. You just watch yourself. We're wanted men. I have the death sentence on twelve systems.
Luke: I'll be careful then.
Roofoo: You'll be dead!

That show of bravado leads directly to his buddy's arm getting chopped off by Sir Alec Guinness. Good work, bro.

The Star Wars Saga offers us a modern epic couched in the timeless archetypes of humanity's legendarium brought to life with vivid characterization and epoch-defining special effects. But even these notable and worthy achievements would prove more modest without an ensemble cast capable of thrusting the viewer wholeheartedly into the wider world of the films. Their idiosyncrasies lend credence to the suspension of disbelief which the story invites the viewer to participate and revel in. Without these unsung heroes, Star Wars truly would rank only as silver rather than gold. Cheers, gents!