U2 Song: "Wake Up Dead Man"
Not one of my favorite songs, nor one of “best of” for U2, but in light of the movie it shares a name with…
“Wake Up Dead Man” sounds like a prayer spoken after prayer has stopped working the way it is supposed to. It is not reverent in tone, but it is deeply theological. The speaker believes in Jesus, believes in the Father, believes in creation, order, eternity, and responsibility. What he no longer feels is the distance closing. God is still there, but He no longer seems near.
That posture helps explain why Rian Johnson’s Wake Up Dead Man draws its title from this song. The connection is not one of plot, but of mood and theology. Like the song, the film is haunted by Christianity rather than grounded in it. God is assumed to exist, but not expected to act. Faith is present, but emptied of confidence.
“Wake up, dead man” is the song’s central provocation. On one level it shocks because it seems to accuse Jesus of absence or indifference. On another, it reverses the gospel itself. Jesus is the one who wakes the dead. Here, the dead man appears to be Christ, or at least Christ as He is experienced in a world that feels abandoned. This is not an atheistic cry. It is the anger of someone who still expects God to intervene and is wounded by the silence.
The song lives in Holy Saturday rather than Good Friday or Easter Sunday. The cross has happened. The resurrection has not yet arrived. The world is described plainly as broken, obscene, and disordered. God’s sovereignty is not denied. It is named. The Father made the world in seven days. Heaven still has structure and authority. That is precisely what makes the silence unbearable. If God is in charge, then His absence feels personal.
That same assumption runs through Johnson’s film. Religion is present everywhere, but revelation is not. Christian Nationalism is portrayed as a violent distortion of faith, while a softer, symbolic Christianity offers comfort without confrontation. Opposed to both is a rational hero who trusts only in his own insight. None of these positions truly expect God to act. At best, He might inspire. At worst, He is irrelevant. In this way, the film shares the song’s sense of divine distance, but resolves it by shrinking God rather than continuing to wrestle.
The song’s language of mediation makes this distance explicit. Jesus is addressed as someone whose hands might not be free, who may need to “put a word in.” This echoes the New Testament claim that Christ intercedes for us, but here it is spoken with exhaustion rather than confidence. Intercession is hoped for, not assumed. Prayer persists, but assurance is gone.
The long section about listening is crucial. It suggests that God may still be speaking, but His voice is buried beneath noise. Technology, movement, violence, entertainment, and routine overwhelm discernment. This is not a call to vague mysticism, but to attention. Scripture often frames faith this way. Elijah hears God not in wind or fire, but in a low whisper. Jesus says his sheep know his voice, which implies effort in a world full of competing sounds.
The song never resolves. It ends still asking to rewind history, still wondering whether order exists beneath the chaos. That unresolved tension is honest. Biblical lament often ends the same way. Faith here is not certainty or closure. It is the refusal to stop calling out, even when God feels asleep.
That is where the song goes further than the film. The film settles for a world in which God’s silence becomes normal and manageable. The song refuses that comfort. It keeps praying. And in doing so, it leaves open the possibility that the problem is not that Christ is dead or sleeping, but that resurrection has not yet been fully seen.
“Wake Up Dead Man” sounds like a prayer spoken after prayer has stopped working the way it is supposed to. It is not reverent in tone, but it is deeply theological. The speaker believes in Jesus, believes in the Father, believes in creation, order, eternity, and responsibility. What he no longer feels is the distance closing. God is still there, but He no longer seems near.
That posture helps explain why Rian Johnson’s Wake Up Dead Man draws its title from this song. The connection is not one of plot, but of mood and theology. Like the song, the film is haunted by Christianity rather than grounded in it. God is assumed to exist, but not expected to act. Faith is present, but emptied of confidence.
“Wake up, dead man” is the song’s central provocation. On one level it shocks because it seems to accuse Jesus of absence or indifference. On another, it reverses the gospel itself. Jesus is the one who wakes the dead. Here, the dead man appears to be Christ, or at least Christ as He is experienced in a world that feels abandoned. This is not an atheistic cry. It is the anger of someone who still expects God to intervene and is wounded by the silence.
The song lives in Holy Saturday rather than Good Friday or Easter Sunday. The cross has happened. The resurrection has not yet arrived. The world is described plainly as broken, obscene, and disordered. God’s sovereignty is not denied. It is named. The Father made the world in seven days. Heaven still has structure and authority. That is precisely what makes the silence unbearable. If God is in charge, then His absence feels personal.
That same assumption runs through Johnson’s film. Religion is present everywhere, but revelation is not. Christian Nationalism is portrayed as a violent distortion of faith, while a softer, symbolic Christianity offers comfort without confrontation. Opposed to both is a rational hero who trusts only in his own insight. None of these positions truly expect God to act. At best, He might inspire. At worst, He is irrelevant. In this way, the film shares the song’s sense of divine distance, but resolves it by shrinking God rather than continuing to wrestle.
The song’s language of mediation makes this distance explicit. Jesus is addressed as someone whose hands might not be free, who may need to “put a word in.” This echoes the New Testament claim that Christ intercedes for us, but here it is spoken with exhaustion rather than confidence. Intercession is hoped for, not assumed. Prayer persists, but assurance is gone.
The long section about listening is crucial. It suggests that God may still be speaking, but His voice is buried beneath noise. Technology, movement, violence, entertainment, and routine overwhelm discernment. This is not a call to vague mysticism, but to attention. Scripture often frames faith this way. Elijah hears God not in wind or fire, but in a low whisper. Jesus says his sheep know his voice, which implies effort in a world full of competing sounds.
The song never resolves. It ends still asking to rewind history, still wondering whether order exists beneath the chaos. That unresolved tension is honest. Biblical lament often ends the same way. Faith here is not certainty or closure. It is the refusal to stop calling out, even when God feels asleep.
That is where the song goes further than the film. The film settles for a world in which God’s silence becomes normal and manageable. The song refuses that comfort. It keeps praying. And in doing so, it leaves open the possibility that the problem is not that Christ is dead or sleeping, but that resurrection has not yet been fully seen.
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