As the rituals of the holiday season are upon us, this year Americans will pour into movie theaters to see Wicked: For Good, the second part of this now famous story. The movie—and the play and the book that inspired it all—is a witty drama that tells the backstory of Oz: what happened “before Dorothy dropped in.” Between the two of us, we had seen the musical several times in several cities, as well as the first film installment released last year, with varying degrees of enjoyment. Like most art forms, this movie can and should be watched on many levels. In light of the coming feast of Christmas, we couldn’t help but watch Wicked through the lens of the literary critic, disciple, and anthropologist René Girard, whose insights shine a bright and fascinating light on why God became flesh and dwelt among us (John 1:14).
Girard is arguably the freshest voice in his field, and his insights are influencing psychology, theology, sociology, and many other areas of study. He contends that, throughout human history, a powerful force has been at work, shaping every culture in every time and place—from ancient clans and tribes like the Aztecs and Mongols, through the World Wars of the twentieth century, up to today’s digital bullies. This force he calls humanity’s “scapegoating mechanism.”
To bring peace, an individual person—like Elphaba—or one subgroup, is targeted and then blamed (scapegoated).
What is it? Girard explains that within social groups—like the city of Oz, for example—tensions and strife arise. To bring peace, an individual person—like Elphaba—or one subgroup, is targeted (usually by referencing some nonessential difference, like their race, nationality, appearance, etc.) and then blamed (scapegoated). The scapegoat is cast out, and often killed. After this scapegoating, the winning group creates a story or myth that intentionally veils the details and truth of what took place to achieve the peace—namely, the arbitrary selection of the victim and his or her death. From the Holocaust to watercooler conversations and lunch table gossip, Girard’s scapegoating mechanism, once understood, can be seen almost everywhere. We humans tend to establish social harmony at the expense of an “other”; it’s unanimity minus one.
But in our culture today, people are ultrasensitive to the victim and stand up for him or her. Any cursory survey of social media or TV reveals a great sensitivity to the role of the victim: We’re fascinated by the victim, and we tend to defend him or her with great enthusiasm. But if René Girard’s theory is correct, why is the power of the myth no longer hiding or silencing the victim? Or in the case of Wicked, why do we care about Elphaba? According to Girard, we hear the victim’s voice and side with her plight not because we have matured from our barbaric past but because of the Judeo-Christian story. This story, beginning with God’s chosen people Israel and culminating in the revelation of Jesus, is unlike all others that came before it because it is told from the perspective of the victim and not the winning mythmakers, thereby drawing the scapegoating mechanism into the light.
A brief history: For a time, Israel was originally the victim of Egyptian slavery, and after God won their freedom, they were meant to be a nation that took care of the orphan, the widow, and the outcast—easy victims and scapegoats—by recalling how they too once were the outcast, the victim. In short, they were to be a nation whose peace came not from scapegoating violence but from their right relationship with God. Then, as the Christian Scriptures give witness, in the fullness of time, God, in Jesus Christ, enters the human story not as a military leader, like Julius Caesar, but precisely as the victim.
God sides with all those silent scapegoated victims up and down history by becoming himself an outcast of the religious and political powers of his time. In the Gospel texts, the Roman officials and the Jewish leaders—natural enemies—seek to solve their social distress at Jesus’s expense, reasoning, “It [would be] better that one man should die rather than the people” (John 18:14). But Jesus deliberately enters into this social mechanism as the willing scapegoat, so as to jam the gears and undermine the system from the inside out. In the resurrection, Christians believe that Christ the victim comes back from the dead, not for further violence but instead to say, “Peace.” His offer of forgiveness transforms the human heart.
This story, told from the victim’s perspective, has irreparably affected all later generations, like an infection, marking us down to the core. The resulting effect is that we no longer easily buy into the deception whispered by scapegoating violence and the ensuing veiling myth.
With all this in mind, let’s return to Wicked. In the Girardian light, the story of Wicked unveils the myth from the classic 1930s movie The Wizard of Oz. Toward the beginning of the narrative, we find out that “something bad is happening in Oz”: Divisions, tensions, and strife are threatening the order. Within the halls of the school Shiz, we sense a tension, and we see the scapegoating mechanism beginning to grind its gears as Dr. Dillamond (a literal goat, by the way) is silenced and dismissed from the school. Later on, the scapegoating mechanism shifts into high gear as the audience witnesses the Wizard, Madame Morrible, and Glinda target Elphaba as the cause of all the social distress, her green skin making her an easy target.
As the drama unfolds, the audience sees what’s really taking place.
In this story, the people of Oz come to believe in the necessity of killing Elphaba, the “wicked” one, and a literal witch hunt soon ensues. As Dorothy douses Elphaba with water, all in Oz are meant to think that the Wicked Witch has been killed. In the end, however, Elphaba outmaneuvers Dorothy and goes into hiding with Fiyero. Afterward, the myth of the Wicked Witch settles over Oz, “peace” returns, and nobody “mourns the wicked,” for she had to die, as the myth told to all dictated.
As the drama unfolds, the audience sees what’s really taking place. Unlike the Ozians, who are seduced by the myth, we see behind the veil and side with Elphaba, and instead of trying to kill her, we want to hear her voice. We feel for her and we cheer her on. But why? Not because humanity has matured but because Wicked, like the Gospel, is told from the victim’s perspective, thereby enabling us to see the scapegoating mechanism for what it is—a lie, a pseudo peace achieved through violence and deception.
As Wicked floods movie theaters nationwide, we all have the opportunity to be entertained by some top-notch talent, amazing visual effects, and great music. But we also have the opportunity to see an ancient mechanism of violence rear its ugly head, and we are invited to stand with the victim, for we are no longer easily duped by such myths. René Girard claims that we have this vision because of what we as a Church will celebrate within a month of the release of this movie: that a baby boy born 2,000 years ago, who died under the imperial regime of Rome some thirty-three years later, was a willing victim who died and rose to set us free, unveiling the scapegoating mechanism that has been at the foundation of human culture from nearly the beginning.
Perhaps the scapegoating violence of Wicked: For Good can save the Church from an overly sentimental notion of the birth of Jesus at Christmas, and hopefully, we the Church can save the culture from an endless cycle of scapegoating violence by proclaiming the one who came to set us free. Indeed, because of the gospel, the human story—once dominated by the scapegoating mechanism—has been changed for good.