Tag Archives: novel

Introducing “Jane Eyre” by Charlotte Brontë

11 Wednesday Oct 2017

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 “I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man.” – Jane Eyre

Jane Eyre (1847) is a novel that needs no introduction as a classic, that’s for certain. But why it is rarely regarded as a Christian novel appears a mystery to me, as the novel is surely one woman’s constant struggle to reconcile the desires of her heart with the will of God, with references to God in heaven as explicit in meaning and numerous in quantity as those in any modern Christian romance or amish fiction. And yet I have never seen it on any Bible bookstore shelf. The fact that it is gothic and disturbing in nature signifies little, considering other works of fiction that contain violence or horror, such as Frank Peretti novels or the multitude of spy and terrorist bestsellers (which unfortunately tend to be more of the drugstore paperback caliber), that span the shelves at Christian bookstores and libraries. The only conclusion I can arrive at is that, firstly, the book is simply too intellectual, and secondly, the church has long abandoned classic art (we rarely see Bach in the music section either, although we are seeing a revival in hymnody, at least).*

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Jane Eyre is often framed as a “beauty and the beast” narrative, but her romance with the unbecoming Mr Rochester occupies only half or more of the novel; in actuality, the story is about Jane and the choices she must make in defiance of those who would control her, as well as her reactions to the twists of providence that leave her with little choice at all. The Christian reading that I extract from the novel is that Jane only achieves happiness by acting in accordance with both the law of God and the Spirit of God – by walking in both obedience and love.  Jane loves Mr. Rochester desperately, but chooses not to marry him because such an adulterous action would be disobeying God’s law. She also refuses to marry St. John Rivers, even though he offers her lawful matrimony, because it would not be a covenant formed in love, and she believes God made marriage to be both lawful and loving; because neither Rochester nor Rivers offer her both, she must live a chaste and solitary life so as to be faithful to God’s will.

Both men’s offers are a source of temptation to Jane; Rochester’s adulterous affair entices her with the indulgence of her senses and emotions (“while he spoke my very conscience and reason turned traitors against me….They spoke almost as loud as Feeling: and that clamoured wildly. ‘Oh, comply!’ it said. ‘Think of his misery…soothe him; save him; love him; tell him you love him and will be his.'”), and Rivers lays before her religious security: “Religion called – Angels beckoned – God commanded – life rolled together like a scroll – death’s gates opening, showed eternity beyond: it seem, that for safety and bliss there, all here might be sarificed in a second.”  But Heaven cannot be gained here on Earth in defiance of God; neither can Heaven be won through human toil on Earth. Neither earthly pleasure nor toil can secure true happiness, Jane knows full well.  Jane knows the voice of the devil when it tempts her, and makes the better choice than Eve. For all Rochester’s arguments that she would not be a mistress, but his genuine wife, because his first marriage was a sham, Jane knows that to admit anything other than the truth is “sophistical – is false.” She clings to her faith, explaining to the reader the motive for her actions and perhaps the  definitive statement of her faith:

 “I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man…. Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation; they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth –  so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane – quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot.'”

Here is where modern romances part ways with Jane Eyre; being in love, Bronte says, can be a kind of madness that affects one’s ability to think rationally and we should not allow it to become our slavemaster. Modern popular doctrine of the Eat, Pray, Love variety urges exactly the opposite: just follow your heart (consider, in contrast, Jeremiah 17:9 and how it applies to Jane Eyre). Certainly, “I need to follow my heart” is the refusal Jane gives Rivers (in much more eloquent wording) in answer to his proposal of marriage, but of course her heart is bound to God first and foremost and tempered by his law, and so even though her heart calls her after Rochester, she does not follow it but instead chooses to watch that dream float away. Her faithfulness to God is rewarded later in life when she is able to legally marry Rochester.

But there is more than just the specter of adultery that shocks Jane to her senses after her failed wedding. Jane also realizes that

“My future husband was becoming to me my whole world; and more than the world: almost my hope of heaven. He stood between me and every thought of religion, as an eclipse intervenes between man and the broad sun. I could not, in those days, see God for his creature: of whom I had made an idol.”

Contrary to film adaptations and academic readings of the book that stupidly, in the case of the former, turn a blind eye, and in the latter, subordinate it to a feminist narrative, Jane Eyre is about Jane’s working out of her faith. It is categorically a Christian novel, a story dealing with sin, salvation, redemption, the ten commandments, mercy, grace, the afterlife – the whole nine yards, much more than can be covered in one blog post. Surely we can start stocking it on the shelves of Christian bookstores now.

* Also it doesn’t help that the film industry completely erases most traces of Christianity in most film adaptations of classic literature. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is an excellent (read: terrible) example of this.

 

Read works by Charlotte’s sister Anne:

Introducing “Agnes Grey” by Anne Brontë

Fruits of the Spirit in “Agnes Grey” by Anne Brontë

Introducing the Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Brontë

 

 

 

 

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Introducing “The Fisherman’s Lady” by George MacDonald

05 Wednesday Jul 2017

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“If God be light, then death itself must be full of splendor – a splendor probably too keen for our eyes to receive.” – George MacDonald

I typically avoid abridged books (condensed, edited or simplified versions of classic literature) because too much of what makes a classic enjoyable in the first place is removed – eloquent writing, beautiful imagery, profound metaphors. Plot alone does not make a classic; as every good writer knows, all the elements of literature – plot, character, setting, theme, figurative language – work together to produce a harmonizing work of art. Reading an abridged classic is akin to plunking out the melody of the Hallelujah chorus on the piano with one finger. The effect is just not the same.

Unfortunately, some classics contain archaic language, the unfamiliarity of which renders them more or less inaccessible to today’s reader. (As a side note, even university students rely on footnotes to understand Shakespeare.) Thus the reason why many Victorian novels have fallen into obscurity. I have even abandoned reading a couple myself for this blog. If a talented writer could carefully and respectfully edit an obscure classic, to make it comprehensible for today’s reader, while still maintaining the original style, charm, and richness, that would be ideal.

Michael Phillips has done this with The Fisherman’s Lady by George MacDonald, originally titled Malcolm and published in 1875. In the original text, the characters speak Scots, making much of the dialogue incomprehensible to modern-day readers (see an example here). Phillips desired to stay as true to MacDonald’s original work as possible, aiming to retain for the 20th century reader (The Fisherman’s Lady was published in 1982) the style, tone, themes and language which first drew him to MacDonald and inspired him to resurrect his works so that others could enjoy them too. The result is a suspenseful gothic tale set in the rustic countryside of Scotland, peopled with a range of noble and evil characters. Some scenes are quite humourous and memorable, and throughout the book you can see foreshadowing of C. S. Lewis’ thoughts in the dialogue and themes (C. S. Lewis said that he never wrote a book in which he did not quote George MacDonald).

Malcolm is the ideal Christian man in The Fisherman’s Lady, the Victorian exemplar of the noble gentleman, a man who strives to be the picture of Christ – always serving others, putting himself last, acting humbly, seeking to please God above all else, no matter the cost to his life or his reputation – in a word, chivalrous (a term that has unfortunately become soured). The Victorian theme of station and class pervades the novel, but it is juxtaposed with Biblical teachings such as wealth being an obstacle for salvation, the equality of the rich and poor in God’s eyes, and God’s prioritizing of the heart rather than the appearance. Pleasing God is Malcolm’s preeminent ambition, and so when he seeks advice from Miss Horn upon being wrongly accused of a wicked act and she says “Who wouldn’t rather be accused of all the sins of the Commandments than to be guilty of one of them?”, Malcolm immediately accedes the truth of this statement and bothers himself little more about the scandalous gossip.

Malcolm also takes the teaching about being obedient and submissive to one’s master very seriously, seeking to honour the Marquis, his employer, even though the Marquis himself does not always act honourably and honestly. Malcolm answers first and foremost to God.  And he shares the truth about Christ and his coming kingdom with others from a variety of places on their spiritual journeys, resulting in rich, interesting theological ideas and questions being parried about between the characters in their conversations. Malcolm is also quite witty and playful in his speech, and that delight combined with the mystery of his birth and the intrigue of the horrific “wizard’s chamber” make this tale a thoroughly enjoyable, unputdownable read, brimming with potential for a great Christian movie, if anyone’s listening.

 

Read a review of George MacDonald’s Phantastes, a totally different kind of novel. 

Other books about the ideal Victorian gentleman:

Lorna Doone – R. D. Blackmore

The Heir of Redclyffe – Charlotte M. Yonge

 

 

 

Is the Novel Inherently Protestant?

06 Wednesday May 2015

Posted by in For the Student of Literature, Misc.

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What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul? Or what can anyone give in exchange for their soul? – Matthew 16:26

Joseph Bottum argues in his article “The Novel as Protestant Art” in Books & Culture: A Christian Review that the novel is and has always been an art form that is quintessentially Protestant. The genre of the novel never existed before the Protestant Reformation because prior to it, Christian salvation, according to Bottum, had never been understood as an individual responsibility. Instead, the church – its teachings, sacraments, indulgences and penances – acted as the agent of salvation. Only after the Five Solas of the Reformation (by scripture alone, by faith alone, by grace alone, in Christ alone, and glory to God alone) could a writer pen a character’s conversion to Christ on an island all alone solely by reading the Bible, thus fulfilling all of the Five Solas. This scene occurred in what many consider to be the first English novel, Robinson Crusoe:

[When] we reach the central moment of the novel, Robinson Crusoe finally reads the Bible he has brought from the wrecked ship, and – without a church community or a teacher to aid him, sheerly from the power of the divine text itself on an individual conscience – he writes, “I threw down the Book, and with my Heart as well as my Hands lifted up to Heaven, in a kind of Extasy of Joy, I cry’d aloud, Jesus, thou Son of David, Jesus, thou exalted Prince and Saviour, give me Repentance!”

Like no other art form, the novel presents the greatest in-depth study of the psyche and the consciousness – in other words, the soul – ever. No previous genre delved so deeply into such self-awareness or focused so entirely on the soul on its journey of salvation. Unified narrative elements, such as plot, character and theme achieve this. And the novel as a genre reaches its height of unified soul-searching in the Victorian Era. Consider Elizabeth Gaskell’s Mary Barton, a social problem novel that values individual reformation – a change of heart – above economic and political reform. Such an approach defines her book as inescapably Protesant. Bottum comments:

However powerfully our society controls us, it is an epiphenomenon created by the metaphysical drama of the soul. However completely our culture shapes us, it is, on the cosmic scale, only the prismatic spray tossed up by individuals acting out their individual salvation plays. Where, except in the reformation of many separate selves, could we find a solid basis for change in their society and culture?…. Only the soul has true metaphysical weight and consequence, and the novel is the story of a soul’s journey.

Novels imply the existence of an all-powerful Creator-God guiding the destinies of the characters in his stories. And the destination of every true soul-searcher is God-likeness – sanctification. The heroine learns lessons, swallows her pride (or prejudice), comes out the other end wiser, older, maturer, a better person – more sanctified. None of this would be possible without an ordered, meaningful universe where individual lives themselves contain meaning, just waiting to be discovered. Bottum says, “The journey of the self is the deepest, truest thing in the universe, and the individual soul’s salvation is the great metaphysical drama played out on the world’s stage.”

In university, I was devastated to hear the novel (Pride and Prejudice given as an the penultimate example) more or less written off as a symbol of the bourgeoisie, functioning to reinforce class division. So I am somewhat pleased to read Bottum’s take; I agree that considering the religious beliefs of a writer should come before whatever social analysis (Marxist, feminist, postcolonialist, etc) but are often never given the time of day because Marxism etc. hold religion to be merely a function of class. However, Bottum is Catholic, and I get the sense that his article is critical of the novel’s Protestant stranglehold. He says he wishes he could go back and “start over, pretending the march of modernity and the parallel histories of the novel and the self hadn’t happened.” What do you think? Do you perceive the novel as the journey of the soul? Leave your thoughts below.