Captured by the Empire

Sitting in the dark, the words appear: “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…”

Followed by the blast of trumpets and the epic grandeur of John Williams’ unforgettable score, the “Star Wars” title appears on the screen and disappears into the distance of space.

That is the moment I pay for.

With a smile on my face and a tear in my eye, I am 10 years old again looking up at the huge screen where myths are made. I am grateful that something can make still me feel that way.

It is precious, and maybe a little sacred.

When the movie itself inevitably turns to crap a minute later (a phenomenon I have learned to live with since 1999’s Episode 1), I remind myself that it is just a movie, that I am a grown man, and to just enjoy it.

Though Yoda’s wisdom still resonates with me more than any lecture I heard in college or sermon I heard from a pulpit, at 47 I’ve come to terms that I will never travel at light speed or levitate rocks (though I haven’t given up trying), and I’ve also come to terms with the fact that the evil Disney Empire owns my sacred book, so I don’t expect much from this franchise or any franchise anymore.

I can’t blame George Lucas anymore for the cynicism that surrounds me and penetrates me, binds our universe together. It is just a symptom of a larger sickness.

But for that one second, when the trumpets flare and the title that meant so much to my youth explodes on the screen, nothing else matters for a transcendent moment, and that, my fellow rebels, will have to be enough.