Inception and the Paradox of Grace

Life as we know it is built upon the scaffolding of grace.

Image credit: Warner Bros.

A version of this article originally appeared on 1517.

This month marks the fifteenth anniversary of Christopher Nolan’s 2010 masterpiece, Inception, which just so happens to be the first movie I ever saw in a movie theater. The TL;DR reason for that is I wasn’t allowed to participate in the movie-going experience growing up, so I sneaked out to watch this one with my friends anyway. This fact alone should tell you a little bit about me. Movie theaters were off-limits locales in my household and pretty much everyone else’s household amongst my circle of friends growing up. As I got older, I bristled at this standard and pushed back against it often, much to my parents’ chagrin, I’m sure. I can sincerely say that I don’t harbor any bitterness towards my mom and dad for enforcing this standard, not the least of which because they themselves have relaxed on it, having gone to see a select few movies in theaters in recent years. While some might be quick to label this as hypocritical, I lean more towards cherishing the work of grace in my parents’ hearts and lives — a work that has allowed them to soften on some of these tertiary matters of Christian faith and practice.

In the summer of 2010, though, I was in between my sophomore and junior years of college, living under my parents’ roof and doing my best to abide by their rules, which I wasn’t always successful at doing. Being the budding student and young adult that I was, my personal convictions were being formed and transmogrified in real time, which meant that there were more than a few instances when my newly formed convictions resulted in familial friction. Thus, you can imagine the reaction I received when it was discovered that I had secretly slipped out of the house to catch a showing of Inception with some friends. I relay this story to you not only to emphasize just how formative this film was and is for me, but also because I can laugh about it now. So can my mom and dad. And even though Inception isn’t a very funny film, that laughter has more to do with Inception and the gospel than you might think — an absurdity that only makes sense through the prismatic paradox of grace.

Narratively, Inception is a sci-fi heist thriller that delves into the architecture of dreams and memories, and the fragility between what’s real and what isn’t. After dream thief and corporate espionage fugitive Dom Cobb (DiCaprio) finds himself at his wits’ end after a subconscious heist gone wrong, he is presented with a new opportunity to stop running: instead of stealing an idea, he has to plant one, a.k.a. inception. Although Arthur (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), his partner in crime, initially balks at the job, Cobb agrees, having been attracted by the illusory carrot of seeing his estranged family again. The mark is Robert Fischer (Cillian Murphy), and the “incepted idea” is the dissolution of his father’s energy conglomerate. All the while, though, Cobb wrestles with his own past, haunted by guilt, grief, and the ghosts of his wife’s suicide.

Cinematically, Inception spoiled me. Even after watching it for approximately the thirtieth time, I still maintain that it’s the most perfect film ever crafted. Where else can you find a steely Leo DiCaprio, an underrated Joseph Gordon-Levitt, a captivating Cillian Murphy, a scene-stealing Tom Hardy, and a never-been-better Hans Zimmer all working at their peak throughout the same two-hour runtime? From its taut script to its award-winning cinematography to its propulsive score to its frenetic pacing, especially during the third act, Inception boasts a bevy of ingredients that make it one of the best action thrillers in recent memory. That being said, it’s a film that remains somewhat divisive, either being regarded as Nolan’s “funnest” romp, rivaled only by the equally vibe-y Tenet, or his most self-serious project, a superlative that might also go to Tenet. I still remember the sensation that washed over me during “The Hallway Scene.” I know you know what I’m talking about.

After their plans go sideways, Arthur is forced to combat some baddies in a hotel hallway, which just so happens to be the venue for a dream that’s taking place next level up in a moving van. When the driver of said van loses control during a frenetic car chase, the van starts to roll, impacting the world the next level down, the dream within a dream, a.k.a. the hallway. As Arthur and his combatant face off, the whole building begins to twist like a gear, forcing them to spontaneously adjust to an environment that’s continuously going belly-up. This topsy-turvy scene, coupled with Zimmer’s bombastic score, makes for one of the most memorable action set pieces in movie history. But among the most enduring sequences occurs when Arthur instructs the heist team’s architect, Ariadne, about the ins and outs of building structures in the dream world. Architectural logic differs in dreams, meaning that impossible compositions can become “real,” e.g., the Penrose staircase — a paradoxical form that gives the illusion of perpetual ascent or descent, continuously circling back on itself.

This demonstration of the malleability of dream-world physics sets up a third-act sequence where Arthur exploits Penrose’s spatial trickery to dispatch a hostile. As is frequently mentioned throughout Inception, life subsists on paradoxes, not only in dreams but also in reality. Life, we might say, is built upon the scaffolding of grace, the geometry of which shapes our existence in ways that defy mortal logic. This comes to the fore in Chapter 5 of John’s apocalyptic Revelation, wherein we’re given the biblical version of the Penrose steps, that is, of something that shouldn’t function but does, i.e., a paradox. The apostle’s eyes are transfixed on “him who was seated on the throne” when he notices that the throne-occupier is gripping a scroll “sealed with seven seals” (Rev. 5:1). This scroll or book is emblematic of his sacred and sovereign intentions for all things. All that the Maker has promised and orchestrated, from the beginning of time, is set forth in that scroll.

Despair sets in, however, when it’s revealed that there’s no one in all that heavenly throng capable of opening the book or seeing its words fulfilled (Rev. 5:2–4). To everyone in that gallery, the book was a divine mystery, its decrees forever indiscernible. But this is when a mighty angel comes along to comfort John with a heavy dose of good news. “Weep no more,” he consolingly says, “behold the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered, so that he can open the scroll and its seven seals” (Rev. 5:5). John need not weep, because there is one who is capable of bringing to bear all that God Almighty has purposed, and he’s none other than the “faithful and true witness” through whom all things are “Yes and Amen” (Rev. 3:14; cf. 2 Cor. 1:20).

But as John looks up, instead of seeing a lion, all he sees is a beaten and bruised lamb. “Between the throne and the four living creatures and among the elders,” he recalls, “I saw a Lamb standing, as though it had been slain” (Rev. 5:6). Much like the impossibility of a staircase that unendingly ascends, slain lambs aren’t often found standing. They’re usually found with their entrails spilled all over a butcher’s table. But, of course, this Lamb is different. This is no dream. This is “the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world” who “takes away the sin of the world” (Rev. 13:8; John 1:29). In the paradox of grace, the hemorrhaging Lord is the Savior, the sinless one who saves by becoming sin himself. The wounds of the bleeding-yet-standing Lamb endure, unendingly, as the rudiments of our paradoxical hope, which fill us with faith.

Consequently, Inception isn’t just the first movie I ever saw in a theater; it’s more akin to a parable. All its dreams within dreams, tectonic realities, and impossible forms have a strange way of pointing beyond themselves. Much like Christopher Nolan’s dreamscape, life often feels unstable, upside down, and ready to crumble all around us. The gospel, however, imbues us with a logic that isn’t based on anything we can control or clarify but on grace, which disrupts our wisdom and defies our reason. Grace’s geometry is contoured to the folly of the cross, which beheld a crucified Rabbi as the exalted Christ of God. Paradoxes hold everything together, not just in Inception’s plot, but in your life and mine.

Fifteen years later, I still think about sneaking out to see Inception, and I laugh. What was then an act of adolescent rebellion has become, in hindsight, part of a much bigger story of unfolding grace. Maybe that’s why Inception remains so resonant for me. Underneath all its artistry and action is humanity’s ache for home, for rest, and the peace that’s experienced when all our strivings cease. In the gospel, that’s what we’re given: not a dream, but the reality of grace. The Lamb is standing, and that changes everything.