These works encouraged such meditation by grounding their narratives in lengthy tracking shots and wide-angle pans that only gradually revealed the depth, breadth, and contours of some planet, vessel, or geographical formation. They also tended to employ prolonged zooms and the occasional cinematic still life that, together, encouraged a more meditative state than that encouraged in viewers by most of America's recent sci-fi flicks.

Robert Wise's Star Trek: The Motion Picture (1979) is one of the final examples of this species. Wise departed from the cowboy-style adventures of the 60s television show and dropped Kirk and his trusty cohorts into a narrative which--when compared with the nine films which followed--can seem rather tedious. Like Kubrick, Wise eased viewers into his space odyssey by opening with a blank screen accompanied by the swelling tones of a full orchestra, enlivened only by a hypnotic, moving field of stars. Not until minute four do the credits begin, followed by "action" which barely deserves the name: a squad of three Bird of Prey starships fatally confront a mysterious, light-filled cloud in what must be cinema's slowest-ever, space-based face off. (It takes about five minutes for the Klingons to fire once and be annihilated in turn.) Wise continues this measured pace throughout the film, across our introduction to the exterior of the refurbished Starship Enterprise (5 min.), our heroes' encounter with a space cloud (3 min.), and the Enterprise's traversal of the long alien ship threatening Earth (4 min.) Obviously, when it first came out, Wise's film tried the patience of those young folk (like myself) then cutting their teeth on Buck Rogers, the original Battlestar Galactica, and other action-filled, space-faring fare.

So why did I enjoy this film so thoroughly when I watched it again last week, for the first time in years?

It may have something to do with the slower pace at which I now attempt to move. I have grown to treasure deep breaths, moments of silence, and extended periods of stillness in a way I definitely did not when I was the age of my two girls--who spent a recent holiday afternoon running in circles around my cousin's house--or even when I was a slightly more mature college student and had learned to cherish the occasional, outdoor respite from my studies.

In addition to the obvious health benefits of tranquility, I've learned that certain elements of reality--particularly spiritual matters--grow more visible when I manage to slow my mind and body. This is not, of course, to deny God's handiwork in fleeting bursts of beauty: I revel in the flash of a happy child's smile, the first rays of light sprung from a rising sun, or the glimpse of a raptor diving for its prey. I recognize the artistry of a sovereign Creator in virtually all that I see--however adulterated it may be by a fallen world.

The fact remains, however, that a deeper awareness of God's presence, majesty, and love often requires a more contemplative mode. Since I tend to move quickly, spin thoughts in my head constantly, and fill in the interstices of a busy day with still more little tasks and digressions, it requires a powerful act of will followed by an emptying of mind to get myself into the kind of mental and spiritual position where I can respond to what our Creator has to offer. Only upon stepping outside of myself do I become at all capable of yielding to the sense of awe inspired by the infinite creativity and love of an omnipresent God.

Fortunately, we have films like Wise's which remind us of what it's like to slow down enough to fix our eyes on beauty and mystery.