A Reflection on Lucky, The Movie
I watched the movie Lucky last night. It’s a 2017 film that just came out on Netflix (produced by Superlative Films and Divide/Conquer). I wasn’t sure I would write about it, but the idea lingered. Then this morning I came across 1 Thessalonians 5:18 (NLT): “Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus.”
I think this can be a misunderstood verse. I don’t think you should be thankful for horrible things. The only thing you should be thankful in such instances are the lessons and God’s help, NOT the horrible thing itself. That being said, the verse sat with me as I thought about the film, especially one of the movie’s most striking scenes: a fellow WWII veteran tells Lucky (also a veteran) about a Filipino Buddhist child he encountered amid the chaos of battle. The girl knew she was going to die, yet she smiled. She viewed death not as an ending to dread, but as a natural transition—a benediction. Having conquered fear and despair, she was joyful.
God has gifted us with grace, love, forgiveness, and relationship. I am deeply grateful for these gifts. They become especially precious in the hard seasons of life—the very circumstances in which thankfulness can feel most unnatural. The film’s meditation on mortality made me more aware of how those gifts sustain us when we confront our own limits.
Lucky, the movie, is a quiet, contemplative film about facing death. We watch its title character—played by Harry Dean Stanton—smoke, drink, and curse his way through very old age, doing the best he can day after day. It moves slowly, deliberately. That pacing feels intentional; this is an artsy, character-driven piece that asks us to sit with the reality of aging and mortality rather than rush past it. The desert scenery and the weathered, run-down town reinforce that sense of finitude. Life is sparse, beautiful, and temporary.
Yet the film is not without hope. The townspeople show consistent, unassuming kindness to this solitary old man who has no family and few attachments. That ordinary compassion becomes a quiet counterpoint to the bleakness of Lucky’s worldview. He walks past the church every day and never goes in. He is an atheist who insists there is no soul, no afterlife. Still, I believe God loves him. I believe that after death he will feel young again, held by the grace he never claimed in life.
The Buddhist child’s smile and Lucky’s stubborn realism both confront the fear of death. One accepts it as a peaceful transition; the other insists it is simply the end. Christians are called to something different: not merely acceptance, but gratitude for the gifts God has given us. They do not erase the reality of death, but they transform how we meet it. They give us reason to be thankful even when the desert feels empty and the road ahead is short. I believe all good things come from God. The bad things are either evil, consequences, or the simple proneness of the world, natural or unnatural.
Whether we feel young or old, certain or afraid—we are invited to be thankful. That thankfulness is not denial. It is the quiet recognition that we are held, even if we cannot yet see the holding.
Peace and love,
Twilight
