Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
God in Literature
I really enjoyed writing this paper. It was only for a 200 level course so I didn't support the premise of my argument with scholarly research; it wasn't required. However, I'm thinking about delving into the research and developing my paper further so I can submit it to a religious conference here on campus.
Redemption from Nihilism: Christian Imagery in Orwell’s “Shooting an Elephant”
“God is dead…. And we have killed him.” Nietzsche’s death of God is a way of saying that humans are no longer able to believe in any cosmic order since they no longer recognize it. When society has given up the Christian faith, Nietzsche claims, society pulls the right to Christian morality out from under its feet. The death of God and the abandonment of Christian morals run rampant in modern literature: Virginia Woolf writes that her “Jew[ish husband] has more religion in one toe nail—more human love, in one hair” than all of Christianity combined; Joseph Conrad describes “The horror! The horror!” of a chaotic and bloody world in Heart of Darkness; and James Joyce depicts an artist as a prophet as he gradually grows into artistic self-consciousness in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Simply put: modern literature has written God out of the text and subsequently out of our lives. However, despite the pending nihilism of the 20th Century, God is not dead. George Orwell’s essay, “Shooting an Elephant,” illustrates clearly how common motifs in modern writing: violence, chaos, and oppression, can transcend a morally-devoid world and offer peace, order, and redemption. In what could easily be read as a negation of the more meaningful aspects of life, “Shooting an Elephant,” triumphantly overcomes its inherent nihilism by presenting a Christology that redeems Christianity in literature in an ever-growing pessimistic world.
Traditionally, “Shooting an Elephant” reads as a short story depicting the evils of imperialism: the mad elephant symbolizing the powerful British Empire that raids and crushes the black Dravidian coolie, a symbol of the downtrodden Burmese. If the symbolism is inverted, however, which a closer reading of the text justifies, the elephant, instead of representing an oppressive, tyrannical force, becomes a liberating Christ figure. When the narrator sees the “sea of yellow faces” fixated on him and feels “their two thousand wills pressing [him] forward,” he understands that, despite his reluctance, he will “have to shoot the elephant.” This scene is reminiscent of Jesus’ trail and condemnation in the New Testament when Pilate, the reluctant Roman authority, does not want to execute Jesus.
According to the canonical Christian Gospels, Pilate presides at the trial of Jesus and, despite stating that he personally finds him not guilty of a crime meriting death, hands him over to crucifixion. The Sanhedrin, whom find him guilty of blasphemy under Mosaic law (which would never warrant capital punishment under Roman law), take Jesus before Pilate and accuse him of trumped-up charges: sedition against Caesar for opposing taxes and calling himself a king. Concerned more with the latter accusation, Pilate’s main question to Jesus is whether he considers himself the King of the Jews—thus rendering him a political threat to Rome. Pilate, nonetheless, finds him harmless. The crowd, however, want him executed. Coached by the Pharisees and Sadducees, they cry out, “Crucify him” (Mark 15. 13). Jewish leaders then explain to Pilate that Jesus presents a threat to Roman occupation through his claim to the throne of King David. Left without options, Pilate washes his hands before the crowd and unwillingly condemns Jesus to death, saying, "I am innocent of this man's blood; you will see" (Matt. 27.24).
Likewise, in Orwell’s short fiction, the narrator faces the trial and execution of a criminal whose allegations carry a political threat. Like Jesus, who is passed from jurisdiction to jurisdiction, the offending elephant is passed between the jurisdictions of its “mahout” it escapes, to the Burmans who are powerless to stop it, then finally to the British police who ultimately phone the narrator to take care of the matter. The British police parallel the Roman Empire while the narrator, the legal representative of England, parallels Pilate, the legal representative of Rome. While it is impossible for an elephant to hold any political office, except perhaps in an animal farm, the elephant is still a legal threat to the British. The narrator states that had he not shot the elephant, “[his] whole life, every white man’s life in the East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.” Walking away from the elephant suggests to the Burmans that for all their show and display of authority, the British are essentially powerless. Furthermore, in Eastern culture, elephants are loved and revered as symbols of royalty and religious divinity. Christ is both royal and divine. Like Jesus is to Pilate, the elephant is a king posing political danger to the narrator.
Despite its enormous size and strength, not to mention the physical harm it’s capable of, the protagonist knows with perfect certainty that he “ought not to shoot [the elephant].” He describes the elephant as “harmless,” walking around with a “preoccupied grandmotherly air.” The narrator determines that the best course of action is to watch the animal for a while to ensure it does not again turn savage, and then go home. However, reminiscent of the hostile crowd shouting “crucify him” in Pilate’s courtyard, the “sea of yellow faces” behind him is “shouting excitedly... shoot the elephant.” Realizing his options are exhausted, he decides to carry out their will. Figuratively washing his hands of what he describes as a “murder,” the narrator justifies his actions given that the elephant has in fact killed a coolie, putting him “legally in the right and [giving him] a sufficient pretext for shooting the elephant.”
The most vivid metaphor of Christian divinity is the execution of the elephant. The narrator testifies, “I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the road to get a better aim.... The rifle was a beautiful German thing with cross-hair sights.... I aimed [and] pulled the trigger.” The image of a cross superimposed on the elephant evokes the image of Christ crucified. Once at Golgotha, Jesus is stripped and nailed to the beam and hung between two convicted thieves. Pilate orders Roman soldiers to affix a sign above his head stating: King of the Jews—an ironic twist to his accusations. According to Mark's Gospel, he endures the torment for some six hours, until he “gives up the ghost” at the ninth hour (Mark 15.27). Eventually, a soldier pierces Jesus’ side with a spear to be certain of his death. Analogously, the narrator “pours shot after shot” into the animal with his elephant rifle. Although the bullets cause a violent and “mysterious, terrible change” upon the elephant’s countenance, “they seem to make no impression.” The elephant, like the God of the Christian faith, seems to have power over life and death, “giving up [his] ghost” according to his own will. Following his death, in true sacramental fashion, the Burmans congregate over the corpse of the animal and “strip his body almost to the bones” for meat. Jesus said unto his disciples, “Verily, verily, I say unto you, Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of man, and drink his blood, ye have no life in you. Whoso eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day” (John 6.53-54). In this sense then, the elephant becomes a Christ figure providing salvation through the offering of his life and the endowment of his flesh—thus, redeeming and “raising” modern literature from its characteristic nihilism and providing a foundation for Christian morality in an ever increasing Godless world.
Redemption from Nihilism: Christian Imagery in Orwell’s “Shooting an Elephant”
“God is dead…. And we have killed him.” Nietzsche’s death of God is a way of saying that humans are no longer able to believe in any cosmic order since they no longer recognize it. When society has given up the Christian faith, Nietzsche claims, society pulls the right to Christian morality out from under its feet. The death of God and the abandonment of Christian morals run rampant in modern literature: Virginia Woolf writes that her “Jew[ish husband] has more religion in one toe nail—more human love, in one hair” than all of Christianity combined; Joseph Conrad describes “The horror! The horror!” of a chaotic and bloody world in Heart of Darkness; and James Joyce depicts an artist as a prophet as he gradually grows into artistic self-consciousness in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Simply put: modern literature has written God out of the text and subsequently out of our lives. However, despite the pending nihilism of the 20th Century, God is not dead. George Orwell’s essay, “Shooting an Elephant,” illustrates clearly how common motifs in modern writing: violence, chaos, and oppression, can transcend a morally-devoid world and offer peace, order, and redemption. In what could easily be read as a negation of the more meaningful aspects of life, “Shooting an Elephant,” triumphantly overcomes its inherent nihilism by presenting a Christology that redeems Christianity in literature in an ever-growing pessimistic world.
Traditionally, “Shooting an Elephant” reads as a short story depicting the evils of imperialism: the mad elephant symbolizing the powerful British Empire that raids and crushes the black Dravidian coolie, a symbol of the downtrodden Burmese. If the symbolism is inverted, however, which a closer reading of the text justifies, the elephant, instead of representing an oppressive, tyrannical force, becomes a liberating Christ figure. When the narrator sees the “sea of yellow faces” fixated on him and feels “their two thousand wills pressing [him] forward,” he understands that, despite his reluctance, he will “have to shoot the elephant.” This scene is reminiscent of Jesus’ trail and condemnation in the New Testament when Pilate, the reluctant Roman authority, does not want to execute Jesus.
According to the canonical Christian Gospels, Pilate presides at the trial of Jesus and, despite stating that he personally finds him not guilty of a crime meriting death, hands him over to crucifixion. The Sanhedrin, whom find him guilty of blasphemy under Mosaic law (which would never warrant capital punishment under Roman law), take Jesus before Pilate and accuse him of trumped-up charges: sedition against Caesar for opposing taxes and calling himself a king. Concerned more with the latter accusation, Pilate’s main question to Jesus is whether he considers himself the King of the Jews—thus rendering him a political threat to Rome. Pilate, nonetheless, finds him harmless. The crowd, however, want him executed. Coached by the Pharisees and Sadducees, they cry out, “Crucify him” (Mark 15. 13). Jewish leaders then explain to Pilate that Jesus presents a threat to Roman occupation through his claim to the throne of King David. Left without options, Pilate washes his hands before the crowd and unwillingly condemns Jesus to death, saying, "I am innocent of this man's blood; you will see" (Matt. 27.24).
Likewise, in Orwell’s short fiction, the narrator faces the trial and execution of a criminal whose allegations carry a political threat. Like Jesus, who is passed from jurisdiction to jurisdiction, the offending elephant is passed between the jurisdictions of its “mahout” it escapes, to the Burmans who are powerless to stop it, then finally to the British police who ultimately phone the narrator to take care of the matter. The British police parallel the Roman Empire while the narrator, the legal representative of England, parallels Pilate, the legal representative of Rome. While it is impossible for an elephant to hold any political office, except perhaps in an animal farm, the elephant is still a legal threat to the British. The narrator states that had he not shot the elephant, “[his] whole life, every white man’s life in the East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.” Walking away from the elephant suggests to the Burmans that for all their show and display of authority, the British are essentially powerless. Furthermore, in Eastern culture, elephants are loved and revered as symbols of royalty and religious divinity. Christ is both royal and divine. Like Jesus is to Pilate, the elephant is a king posing political danger to the narrator.
Despite its enormous size and strength, not to mention the physical harm it’s capable of, the protagonist knows with perfect certainty that he “ought not to shoot [the elephant].” He describes the elephant as “harmless,” walking around with a “preoccupied grandmotherly air.” The narrator determines that the best course of action is to watch the animal for a while to ensure it does not again turn savage, and then go home. However, reminiscent of the hostile crowd shouting “crucify him” in Pilate’s courtyard, the “sea of yellow faces” behind him is “shouting excitedly... shoot the elephant.” Realizing his options are exhausted, he decides to carry out their will. Figuratively washing his hands of what he describes as a “murder,” the narrator justifies his actions given that the elephant has in fact killed a coolie, putting him “legally in the right and [giving him] a sufficient pretext for shooting the elephant.”
The most vivid metaphor of Christian divinity is the execution of the elephant. The narrator testifies, “I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the road to get a better aim.... The rifle was a beautiful German thing with cross-hair sights.... I aimed [and] pulled the trigger.” The image of a cross superimposed on the elephant evokes the image of Christ crucified. Once at Golgotha, Jesus is stripped and nailed to the beam and hung between two convicted thieves. Pilate orders Roman soldiers to affix a sign above his head stating: King of the Jews—an ironic twist to his accusations. According to Mark's Gospel, he endures the torment for some six hours, until he “gives up the ghost” at the ninth hour (Mark 15.27). Eventually, a soldier pierces Jesus’ side with a spear to be certain of his death. Analogously, the narrator “pours shot after shot” into the animal with his elephant rifle. Although the bullets cause a violent and “mysterious, terrible change” upon the elephant’s countenance, “they seem to make no impression.” The elephant, like the God of the Christian faith, seems to have power over life and death, “giving up [his] ghost” according to his own will. Following his death, in true sacramental fashion, the Burmans congregate over the corpse of the animal and “strip his body almost to the bones” for meat. Jesus said unto his disciples, “Verily, verily, I say unto you, Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of man, and drink his blood, ye have no life in you. Whoso eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day” (John 6.53-54). In this sense then, the elephant becomes a Christ figure providing salvation through the offering of his life and the endowment of his flesh—thus, redeeming and “raising” modern literature from its characteristic nihilism and providing a foundation for Christian morality in an ever increasing Godless world.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Allison,
Two years ago today, you and I began our lives together for eternity. I love you, Sweet Heart. Happy Anniversary.
Friday, April 9, 2010
untitled
Mediocrity: a consideration I might be comfortable with. For the last two-and-a-half years I have been trying to convince myself that I was someone I wasn’t. For the last two-and-a-half years I have allowed letters on a transcript to transcend their purpose into a personification of my soul. For two-and-a-half years the magical number, 94, has either contented or confounded me. I remember my first A-: 93.8 percent. It was a long, lonely night. I wrestle almost daily with the questions: am I an A student? Am I an A- student? Or am I a B student who's trying to convince himself he’s an A student? I still don’t know the answer. I’m approaching my senior year at BYU with a 3.95 GPA and I’m looking at my first B. Thankfully, however, offering a small redemptive quality, there will be a tiny positive mark following that blasted B. Whenever I use “blasted” in my blog, by the way, I really mean “damn,” or, more precisely, any number of expletives with more profane connotations. Am I mediocre? Maybe. But somehow, the thought offers solace. I don’t think being mediocre means being common, dull, or barley adequate; I think being mediocre means being at peace when you're not the best. If an external, arbitrary entity, a construction that crumbles over time, labels me as mediocre, I can still be happy knowing that my wife, my son, my family, and my God, the relations that will endure beyond time, see me as exceptional.
Besides: it’s nice knowing the best are intimately dependent on me.
Besides: it’s nice knowing the best are intimately dependent on me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
