Ice-cream is my enemy, sparrows are my friends
What? you exclaim. How can that be? I thought you *liked* ice-cream!
I did. That was before I spent several consecutive weeks scooping it for hordes of inconsiderate tourists. Also before I had to dig through large freezers to find a 3-gallon container of a particular flavor of icecream; before I had to lift a 9 lb., 10 oz. jar of maraschino cherries; before I drank too many leftover milkshakes at work; and before said dipping-of-ice-cream resulted in a minor hand injury.
In other news, things are not looking bright on the job horizon. I have something almost-lined-up for the fall, but it's long evening hours at minimum wage. Not ideal. And while it will keep me in school this semester, there won't be much left over to put toward *next* semester . . . .
In happier news, the world is full of books. And surprising numbers of these books, of all sorts and varieties, colors and qualities, are available free of charge through libraries. (Known in French-speaking lands as "Bibliotheques," a word which has a more distinguished ring to it.) This is particularly happy news when you're a poor starving college student, who is starting to hate the *smell* of icecream, as well as what it does to one's extremities--but I digress.
A couple of months ago, I discovered that our small-town library has a surprisingly good selection of sci-fi/fantasy books, which I've enjoyed exploring. So far I've tried Heinlein (*not* impressed, despite his reputed brilliance), Ursula LeGuin (fascinating), "The Sparrow" (disturbing), and a couple of others. My favorite so far, though, is Madeleine L'Engle's "The Arm of the Starfish," which Rosalind recommended to me years ago. Not sure why it's taken me this long . . . though I didn't like "Swiftly Tilting Planet" much, and that made me hesitant to try L'Engle.
This one, though, is really good--and makes an interesting thematic contrast to "The Sparrow," an acclaimed sci-fi novel by Mary Doria Russell (another book I've been meaning to read for the past couple of years).
[Note: if you haven't read "Starfish," go read it. It's only 243 pages--won't take you long. "The Sparrow" I leave to your discretion . . . it gave me (mild) nightmares. But I am going to talk about plot details of both, especially "Sparrow," so be forewarned.]
"The Sparrow" opens by introducing us to a Jesuit priest who is the only survivor from the first voyage to an inhabited planet. He has returned in disgrace, accused of horrible crimes, maimed, and unable or unwilling to discuss his experiences with anyone, including his Jesuit superiors. The story progresses along two timelines. In the present, his superiors try to find out the truth of what happened. In the past, we go back to the beginning and learn how the voyage came about, and what happened on the planet. The two storylines finally converge near the end, as the priest finally "confesses" the last details of his story to his superiors, and we learn that he is a victim, not a perpetrator, of crimes.
What makes the novel interesting is the priest's spiritual struggle. Someone who has always struggled to feel the presence of God, he felt God called him to this distant planet--and in the early days there, when everything was going well, he felt closer to God than he ever had before. The meaning of the title finally becomes clear near the end of the novel, when he comments on God's omniscience. Perhaps not a sparrow can fall without him knowing--but that's no comfort to the sparrow. It still falls.
Looking back, we realize that the entire novel is about this struggle, about the desire to love a God who is silent and inactive in the midst of our suffering.
Curiously, Russell does not dwell on the suffering of Christ, despite the fact that most of her characters are Jesuits. It is alluded to, but not discussed as one would expect, since this is a central aspect of their faith. (Russell herself is a convert to Judaism, as she explains in an afterward.)
"The Arm of the Starfish" alludes to the same passage of Scripture, but from a different angle. Early in the novel, the protagonist, Adam, is thrown into a confusing situation, and has to make a decision about whom to trust. He is drawn to people on both sides, and neither side will explain enough for him to understand his position. At this point, one of the characters says to him:
"I chose the difficult side, the unsafe side, the side that guarantees me not one thing besides danger and hard work."
"Then why did you choose it?" Adam demanded . . . .
"Why? I'm not sure I did. It seemed to choose me, unlikely material though I may be. And it's the side that--that cares about people like Polyhymnia O'Keefe [a child who was kidnapped] . . . It's the fall of the sparrow I care about, Adam. But who is the sparrow? We run into problems there, too."
Much later in the novel, after Adam has chosen his side, he has to make another difficult decision--whether or not to help someone who has betrayed him and harmed people he loves. In making this decision, he finds an answer to the earlier question:
"If you're going to care about the fall of the sparrow," he says, "you can't pick and choose who's going to be the sparrow. It's everybody, and you're stuck with it."
In context, this page of the book made me cry . . . but even out of context, I find it challenging.
Rather than contradicting each other, though, I think the two books complement each other. Here's the passage in question (or see Luke 12: 6-7 for a parallel):
"Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of mroe value than many sparrows." (Matt. 10: 29-31)
Russell focuses on what the verse suggests about our relationship with God--and on the tension between "fear not," and the reality that God allows (or perhaps causes) the sparrows to fall. L'Engle focuses on what the verse suggests about our relationship with others--if God has such passionate concern for the world that he cares even about falling sparrows,
Russell brings out the subtle implications of the verse--we're being compared to the sparrows, and the sparrows do fall to the ground. What we're promised is *not* safety from all harm; we're simply promised that nothing will happen to us apart from the Father.
L'Engle also brings out something less than obvious--what the passage implies about our obligations to others. If God's mercy encompasses even sparrows, who are we to offer mercy only to some?
Both insights ultimately point us back toward the cross. The answer to Russell's question is that God himself chose to become one of the "sparrows"--and in light of this truth, Adam's conclusion is still more striking. For the person we choose to help (or not), to save (or not to save) from falling, might be Christ himself.
So everyone is the sparrow--and that includes old friends you don't know how to talk to, annoying customers, people whose opinions frustrate you, people whose personalities clash with yours. You're can't dismiss any of them as uninteresting, uninformed, unfriendly, unlikable, unkind, unworthy of your time.
Not even inconsiderate tourists who want icecream.
I did. That was before I spent several consecutive weeks scooping it for hordes of inconsiderate tourists. Also before I had to dig through large freezers to find a 3-gallon container of a particular flavor of icecream; before I had to lift a 9 lb., 10 oz. jar of maraschino cherries; before I drank too many leftover milkshakes at work; and before said dipping-of-ice-cream resulted in a minor hand injury.
In other news, things are not looking bright on the job horizon. I have something almost-lined-up for the fall, but it's long evening hours at minimum wage. Not ideal. And while it will keep me in school this semester, there won't be much left over to put toward *next* semester . . . .
In happier news, the world is full of books. And surprising numbers of these books, of all sorts and varieties, colors and qualities, are available free of charge through libraries. (Known in French-speaking lands as "Bibliotheques," a word which has a more distinguished ring to it.) This is particularly happy news when you're a poor starving college student, who is starting to hate the *smell* of icecream, as well as what it does to one's extremities--but I digress.
A couple of months ago, I discovered that our small-town library has a surprisingly good selection of sci-fi/fantasy books, which I've enjoyed exploring. So far I've tried Heinlein (*not* impressed, despite his reputed brilliance), Ursula LeGuin (fascinating), "The Sparrow" (disturbing), and a couple of others. My favorite so far, though, is Madeleine L'Engle's "The Arm of the Starfish," which Rosalind recommended to me years ago. Not sure why it's taken me this long . . . though I didn't like "Swiftly Tilting Planet" much, and that made me hesitant to try L'Engle.
This one, though, is really good--and makes an interesting thematic contrast to "The Sparrow," an acclaimed sci-fi novel by Mary Doria Russell (another book I've been meaning to read for the past couple of years).
[Note: if you haven't read "Starfish," go read it. It's only 243 pages--won't take you long. "The Sparrow" I leave to your discretion . . . it gave me (mild) nightmares. But I am going to talk about plot details of both, especially "Sparrow," so be forewarned.]
"The Sparrow" opens by introducing us to a Jesuit priest who is the only survivor from the first voyage to an inhabited planet. He has returned in disgrace, accused of horrible crimes, maimed, and unable or unwilling to discuss his experiences with anyone, including his Jesuit superiors. The story progresses along two timelines. In the present, his superiors try to find out the truth of what happened. In the past, we go back to the beginning and learn how the voyage came about, and what happened on the planet. The two storylines finally converge near the end, as the priest finally "confesses" the last details of his story to his superiors, and we learn that he is a victim, not a perpetrator, of crimes.
What makes the novel interesting is the priest's spiritual struggle. Someone who has always struggled to feel the presence of God, he felt God called him to this distant planet--and in the early days there, when everything was going well, he felt closer to God than he ever had before. The meaning of the title finally becomes clear near the end of the novel, when he comments on God's omniscience. Perhaps not a sparrow can fall without him knowing--but that's no comfort to the sparrow. It still falls.
Looking back, we realize that the entire novel is about this struggle, about the desire to love a God who is silent and inactive in the midst of our suffering.
Curiously, Russell does not dwell on the suffering of Christ, despite the fact that most of her characters are Jesuits. It is alluded to, but not discussed as one would expect, since this is a central aspect of their faith. (Russell herself is a convert to Judaism, as she explains in an afterward.)
"The Arm of the Starfish" alludes to the same passage of Scripture, but from a different angle. Early in the novel, the protagonist, Adam, is thrown into a confusing situation, and has to make a decision about whom to trust. He is drawn to people on both sides, and neither side will explain enough for him to understand his position. At this point, one of the characters says to him:
"I chose the difficult side, the unsafe side, the side that guarantees me not one thing besides danger and hard work."
"Then why did you choose it?" Adam demanded . . . .
"Why? I'm not sure I did. It seemed to choose me, unlikely material though I may be. And it's the side that--that cares about people like Polyhymnia O'Keefe [a child who was kidnapped] . . . It's the fall of the sparrow I care about, Adam. But who is the sparrow? We run into problems there, too."
Much later in the novel, after Adam has chosen his side, he has to make another difficult decision--whether or not to help someone who has betrayed him and harmed people he loves. In making this decision, he finds an answer to the earlier question:
"If you're going to care about the fall of the sparrow," he says, "you can't pick and choose who's going to be the sparrow. It's everybody, and you're stuck with it."
In context, this page of the book made me cry . . . but even out of context, I find it challenging.
Rather than contradicting each other, though, I think the two books complement each other. Here's the passage in question (or see Luke 12: 6-7 for a parallel):
"Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of mroe value than many sparrows." (Matt. 10: 29-31)
Russell focuses on what the verse suggests about our relationship with God--and on the tension between "fear not," and the reality that God allows (or perhaps causes) the sparrows to fall. L'Engle focuses on what the verse suggests about our relationship with others--if God has such passionate concern for the world that he cares even about falling sparrows,
Russell brings out the subtle implications of the verse--we're being compared to the sparrows, and the sparrows do fall to the ground. What we're promised is *not* safety from all harm; we're simply promised that nothing will happen to us apart from the Father.
L'Engle also brings out something less than obvious--what the passage implies about our obligations to others. If God's mercy encompasses even sparrows, who are we to offer mercy only to some?
Both insights ultimately point us back toward the cross. The answer to Russell's question is that God himself chose to become one of the "sparrows"--and in light of this truth, Adam's conclusion is still more striking. For the person we choose to help (or not), to save (or not to save) from falling, might be Christ himself.
So everyone is the sparrow--and that includes old friends you don't know how to talk to, annoying customers, people whose opinions frustrate you, people whose personalities clash with yours. You're can't dismiss any of them as uninteresting, uninformed, unfriendly, unlikable, unkind, unworthy of your time.
Not even inconsiderate tourists who want icecream.
Labels: organ, pluteus Erendi, sparrows, work
posted by erendis nasard at 10:53 PM
2 Comments:
I skipped most of the post, because I intend to read Russell at some point. You need to go back and read A Wrinkle in Time and A Wind in the Door -- I agree that A Swiftly Tilting Planet wasn't as good as its predecessors, though I still vaguely recall enjoying it. I thought the first two (especially the second) better than The Arm of the Starfish (but again, that was ages ago, so don't put too much weight on it).
If you've been picking up Heinlein in the adult fiction section of the library, I don't blame you for being unimpressed -- in fact, "unimpressed" would be rather charitable. Try to dig up one of his better young adult books, Starship Troopers if possible. (The primary exception to the "adult Heinlein bad" rule is The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, which suffers severe moral issues but has a brilliant plot.)
But then, I don't recall our reading tastes being similar in most respects -- tho' you get major points for being a fellow Williams fan. ;-)
Your insight here is wonderful.
I just finished reading The Arm of the Starfish and was similarly stricken by the concept of the sparrow and was trying to find out what it was alluding to and found your post that way.
Thank you.
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