This is one of my most
choice excerpts from Yann Martel’s novel, The Life of Pi. Twelve-year-old
Piscine, or “Pi” for short, was raised Hindu by his mother, but also trained to
have a skeptical mind by his atheist father. This sequence takes place while he
and his family are on vacation in the northern part of India. His older brother
dares him to enter a small Catholic cathedral…which no one in their family had
ever done before.
I dared to enter the church. My stomach was in knots. I was terrified I would meet a Christian who would shout at
me, “What are you doing here? How dare you enter this sacred place, you
defiler! Get out, right now!”
There was no one.
And little to be understood. I advanced and observed the inner
sanctum. There was a painting. Was
this the murti? Something about a human sacrifice. An angry god who had to be
appeased with blood. Dazed women
staring up in the air and fat babies with tiny wings flying about. A
charismatic bird. Which one was
the god? To the side of the
sanctum was a painted wooden sculpture.
The victim again, bruised and bleeding in bold colors. I stared at his knees. They were badly scraped. The pink skin
was peeled back and looked like the petals of a flower, revealing kneecaps that
were fire-engine red. It was hard
to connect this torture with the peaceful priest I had seen from a distance in
the rectory the day before.
Catholics have a reputation for severity, for judgment that
comes down heavily. My experience with Father Martin was not like that. He was
very kind. He served me tea and
biscuits in a tea set that tinkled and rattled at every touch; he treated me
like a grown-up; and he told me a story.
Or rather, since Christians are so fond of capital letters, a Story.
And what a story. The first thing that drew me in was
disbelief. What? Humanity sins but
its God’s Son who pays the price? I tried to imagine Father saying to me,
“Piscine, a lion slipped into the llama pen today and killed two llamas. Yesterday another one killed a black
buck. Last week to of them ate the
camel. The week before it was
painted storks and grey herons.
And who’s to say for sure who snacked on the golden agouti? The
situation has become intolerable. Something must be done. I have decided that the only way the
lions can atone for their sins is if I feed you to them.”
“Yes, Father, that would be the right and logical thing to
do. Give me a moment to wash up.”
“Hallelujah, my son.”
“Hallelujah, Father.”
What a downright weird story. What a peculiar psychology.
I asked for another story, one that I might find more
satisfying. Surely this religion
had more than one story in its bag—religions abound with stories. But Father Martin made me understand
that the stories that came before it—and there were many—were simply prologue
to the Christians. Their religion
had one Story, and to it they came back again and again, over and over. It was
story enough for them.
I was quiet that evening at the hotel.
That a god should put up with adversity, I could
understand. The gods of Hinduism
face their fair share of thieves, bullies, kidnappers, and usurpers. What is the Ramayana but the account of
one long, bad day for Rama? Adversity, yes. Reversals in fortune, yes. Treachery, yes. But humiliation? Death? I couldn’t imagine Lord Krishna consenting to being stripped
naked, whipped, mocked, dragged through the streets, and, to top it off,
crucified at the hands of mere humans, to boot. I’d never heard of a Hindu god
dying. Brahman Revealed did not go for death. Devils and monsters did, as did
mortals, by the thousands and millions—that’s what they were there for. Matter,
too, fell away. But divinity
should not be blighted by death. It’s wrong…
Why would God wish this upon himself? Why not leave death to
the mortals? Why make dirty what was beautiful, spoil what is perfect?
Love. That was
Father Marin’s answer.
And what about this Son’s deportment? Why did he give himself up? Hindu gods
never did that. No spindly cross would’ve kept them down. When push came to shove, they
transcended any human frame with strength no man could have and weapons no man
could handle.
That is God as God should be. With shine and power and might. Such as can rescue and save
and put down evil.
This Son, on the other hand, who goes hungry, who suffers
from thirst, who gets tired, who is sad, who is anxious, who is heckled and
harassed, who has to put up with followers who don’t get it and opponents who
don’t respect Him—what kind of god is that? It’s a god on too human a scale,
that’s what. There are miracles, yes mostly of a medical nature, a few to
satisfy hungry stomachs; at best a storm is tempered, water is briefly walked
upon…any Hindu god can do a hundred times better.
This Son is a god who spent most of his time telling
stories, talking. This Son is a god
who walked, a pedestrian god—and in a hot place, at that—with a stride like any
human stride; and when he splurged on transportation, it was a regular donkey.
This Son is a god who died in three hours, with moans, gasps, and laments. What kind of god is that? What is there
to inspire in this Son?
Love, said Father Martin.
And this Son appears only once, long ago, far away? Among
some obscure tribe in a backwater strip of West Asia on in the confines of a
long-vanished empire? Is done away with before He has a single grey hair on His
head? Leaves not a single descendant, only scattered, partial testimony, His
complete works doodles in the dirt? …What can justify such divine stinginess?
Love, repeated Father Martin.
I’ll stick to my Krishna, thank you very much. I find his divinity utterly
compelling. You can keep your
sweaty, chatty Son to yourself.
That was how I met that troublesome rabbi of long ago: with disbelief
and annoyance.
I had tea with Father Martin three days in a row. Each time, as teacup rattled against
saucer, as spoon tinkled against edge of cup, I asked questions.
The answer was always the same.
He bothered me, this Son. Every day I burned with greater indignation against Him,
found more flaws to Him…but I couldn’t get Him out of my head. Still can’t. I spent three solid days thinking about Him. The more He bothered me, the less I
could forget Him. And the more I
learned about Him, the less I wanted to leave Him.
On our last day, a few hours before we were to leave Munnar,
I hurried up the hill to the cathedral on more time…. short of breath I said,
“Father, I would like to be a Christian, please.”
He smiled. “You already are, Piscine—in your heart. Whoever meets Christ in good faith is a
Christian. Here in Munnar you met Christ.”
He patted me on the head. It was more of a thump, actually. I thought I would explode
with joy.
“When you come back, we’ll have tea again, my son.”
“Yes, Father.”
It was a good smile he gave me. The smile of Christ.
I entered the sanctuary, without fear this time, for it was
now my house too. I offered prayers to Christ, who is alive.
(from Life of Pi
by Yann Martel, 2001, Random House)
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