What the new Spider-Man video game taught me about death
It’s not something you see every day: a burly, bearded man in his late 30s playing a superhero video game and crying like a baby.
That was the scene here in Chicago recently as I worked my way through the epic Marvel’s Spider-Man 2 from Insomnia Games. This beautiful installment allows you to play as both Peter Parker (if you’re familiar with the MCU movies, this is like a 25-year-old version of the Tom Holland webslinger) and Miles Morales (more or less the Miles from the incredible Spider-verse movies). The game’s main storyline brings you into conflict with many classic Spidey villains as both Spider-Men learn important lessons about personal limitations, the value of relationships, and even the importance of self-care.
But it wasn’t the main storyline that brought me to tears.
A sweet, spoiler-filled side quest
Note: I’ve kept everything free of spoilers so far, but in this section I will dive into the heart-wrenching part of the game. If you plan to play the game and don’t want spoilers, skip ahead to the next section.
In the last Spider-Man game, we were introduced to the character of Walter in a series of small side missions. I don’t remember much of Walter from that game, but here’s the gist: Walter is a widower, and his late wife had loved pigeons, and so we went and tracked those pigeons down to keep them safe or something.
Now a year or two later, Walter looks after these birds on the bank of a New York City river. He calls us (i.e. Miles Morales) over to sit with him by the river. And we just sit there. He points out some different landmarks we can see from our spot and tells us related stories from his past. Finally he says, “I’m about to go on another adventure. I need your help.” He asks us to find a new home for his birds.
For some reason Miles doesn’t find this at all strange or ominous, but whatever because what comes next is awesome. We fly around the city (well, the birds fly and Miles does the thing with the webs) to the song “Seabird” by Alessi Brothers. After zipping around a gorgeous rendition of NYC, we eventually settle the birds into a lovely spot at a fountain in a park. Now to report back to Walter…
Of course we arrive not to Walter, but to an ambulance with a couple EMTs talking about “natural causes.” Miles tells them that he was Walter’s friend, and then he says the line that shook me to my core:
Walter’s on a new adventure, with his wife.
You might be wondering, so what? Just a platitude or a euphemism. But both parts of it are so beautiful to me:
Walter’s on a new adventure. These were Walter’s own words, which highlight the fact that he knew he was about to die. How did he choose to spend his final moments? Looking after his friends—both his pigeons and his young friend Miles. Sitting peacefully, looking around at the city and sharing his memories.
With his wife. These were not Walter’s words, which means that this is Miles’s own interpretation (theologizing!) of the event. More on this below.
I’m not crying, you’re crying
This is one of the things I miss about evangelicalism: the comfort provided by the illusion of certainty about what happens to us after death. That certainty was only ever an illusion, but even in its illusory form, it helped fend off the fear of death. It helped ease the sting of loss.
As my faith has shifted from fake certainty to real mystery, I have mostly celebrated this change for many, many reasons. But what Miles Morales reminded me is that I miss that confidence—and, more to the point, the comfort that confidence provides. If I don’t have 100% certainty that I and my loved ones will go to heaven when we die, how do I face death? My own, others’, or even the idea of it?
Well, Miles does. He states a belief that loved ones are reunited in the hereafter. He doesn’t base this belief (as far as I know, and he is a fictional character after all) on a Romans Road presentation or the Four Spiritual Laws. He doesn’t have any formal religious participation at all, for all I know.
What he has is hope. It brings him comfort to hope for—to believe in—a post-death reunion. And so he hopes. So he believes.
There is no drummed-up certainty needed for a simple act of hopeful belief. It’s okay to hope for something, to choose to believe it, without knowing if it is going to happen. And so, in the end, Miles didn’t teach me about death so much as he taught me a little bit about myself.
