Arrival

Arrival is one of my favorite films and viewing it in theaters this past weekend was a truly amazing experience. It is not often that a story has both vastness and intimacy. It looks like an alien invasion film which points to chaos, spectacle, and thrills at a frantic pace. It is thrilling, but it maintains an entirely different pace. It is a story firmly in silence and stasis, and it is rooted in memory and meaning. It is a beautiful meditation on love, on loss, on the fragility and wonder of life. While it is a science fiction film, it is also deeply human and spiritual. Ultimately, it is an examination of the paradox of human responsibility and God’s sovereignty—that they can coexist, even in the mystery of human time, choice, and grace. In a sense, Arrival brings us to the same place that Scripture often takes us: the widespread mystery of the intersection between divine sovereignty and human freedom. Consider Joseph in Egypt, speaking to his brothers, saying, "What you meant for evil, God meant for good." Or Jesus in Gethsemane, who is aware of what’s coming, still decides to walk the line of suffering. The Bible does not discount these tensions—it holds them. It affirms the gravity of our decisions and the sovereign purposes of God that are unfolding through them. Arrival does not claim to resolve this paradox. It merely invites us to sit in it, to experience the gravity of knowing, and ache of choosing despite our knowledge. And perhaps therein lies the definition of faith in this instance—not having sufficient answers, but moving forward, hands open, heart willing. And this is where Arrival stops becoming a movie for me, and starts to feel like a mirror. It’s not just that the visuals are beautiful and the music aches; it’s the way it looks directly into the paradox I’ve lived. You see, Louise, in the film, knows what is ahead. She sees the joy, but she sees the pain as well. And she chooses to move ahead anyway. (I know not everyone is ready for this conversation—but for me, Louise’s choice in Arrival is one of the most profoundly pro-life moments I’ve seen on film. She knows the end from the beginning. She sees the suffering. She sees the illness. She sees the heartbreak coming toward her like a wave. And she says yes. “Knowing the path I will walk and where it ends, I will take it and welcome every moment.” That line wrecks me every time. Because, at its core, that’s the thing, right? That life—even when it’s fragile, even when it’s brief—is worth it. That love is worth it. She doesn’t choose based on ease or outcome. She chooses because life, in all it’s joy and pain, is a gift worth taking.) It’s that choice—that tension of knowing and choosing—and it resonates deeply with me. Because I’ve seen how God’s sovereignty and human choice can’t always tie into a nice little bow; they often co-exist in the same breath. I have twin sisters, Marissa and Lily, who were conjoined at birth. They lived for only a few minutes. Then they died. I don’t know why. I don’t know how that unfolds into a sovereign plan. I still wrestle with that. I still wish I had them. And yes, I sometimes experience frustration with God about it. Because loss is very much a real thing. It's a heavy thing. But then there is my youngest brother, who is now 10 and such a bright and joyful existence, who showed up years after that loss. And when I look at him, in my own way, I can see that something redemptive can grow out of a broken heart. Not instead of. Not to remedy. But out of grace. And as part of a larger narrative that I don’t see the full extent of, yet. That’s why Arrival affects me in the way that it does. It is a reminder to me that love is worth the pain, that our choices do matter in life, even when we don’t have control over the outcome. And it brings me back to Romans 8:28—not as a cliché, but as a lifeline—as God is working all things together for good. Not always in the way I expect. Not always in a way that I understand. But still true, and still good. Arrival is a masterpiece—not because of the stunning visuals, the mind-blowing performances, or the poignant score. It's a masterpiece because it is one of the most human films I've ever experienced. It dwells in the tension of human responsibility and God's divine sovereignty, holding both in quiet reverence, regardless of how disorienting it can become.