About twenty years ago I entered a Catholic church for the first time. It was a funeral mass for the father of a colleague delivered at Our Lady of the Assumption, a small church in Claremont, California. I felt almost suffocated by the large, bleeding Christ hanging from a cross by the altar with its dreary promise of agony.
My first thought was: “Someone should really cover that thing up.”
My second thought was: “How many times do they kneel during a service?” Herb (an Evangelical from work) and I kept looking over at each other as we struggled to figure out when to sit and when to stand and when to kneel. (I had not been expecting an aerobic workout.) Afterwords Herb said, “Damn, I’ve never been in a church with so much kneeling.”
My third thought was: “These people are incredibly masochistic.”
Over the years I’ve attended masses in other Catholic churches for various reasons. There is usually less kneeling than there was that day at OLA and crucifixes are generally less prominently displayed, but pain is always the dominant motif. This has long perplexed me.
With the help of Graham Greene, I’m finally beginning to appreciate the allure of a pain-stricken God. Perhaps the agony of Christ is the mechanism by which Catholics negotiate the incomprehensible chasm between the finite and the infinite. (As the saying goes, a God who does not suffer is insufferable.)
Sarah Miles, the self-loathing, self–described “bitch and a fake” from The End of the Affair, Greene’s marvelously–constructed novel of wartime infidelity, is drawn to Roman Catholicism despite her strong misgivings (76). Similar to my own revulsion for the celebration of physical pain in the figure of a massive, bleeding Christ right next to the alter, Sarah “hated the statues, the crucifix, all the emphasis on the human body.” Sarah was “trying to escape from the human body and all it needed” (87).
Sarah Miles’ lover, the God-hating utterly recalcitrant atheist Maurice Bendrix who narrates The End of the Affair, provides some cogent elucidations of Greene’s idiosyncratic variety of Catholicism. Bendrix explains why agony is a much more substantial emotion than joy:
The sense of unhappiness is so much easier to convey than that of happiness. In misery we seem aware of our own existence, even though it may be in the form of monstrous egotism: this pain of mine is individual, this nerve that winces belongs to me and to no other. But happiness annihilates us: we lose our identity (36).
Along with fear, pain is the overriding, omnipresent truth of existence for all sentient beings. Pain, as Emily Dickinson noted, has “infinite realms,” and “new periods of pain” are always foreseeable. Pain has no ending, and its existence predates human consciousness on Earth by millions of years:
Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there was
A time when it was not.
“Nobody really knew how long a second of pain could be. It might last a whole purgatory–or for ever” (133). Thus laments the Whiskey Priest, the forlorn and touchingly human hero from Greene’s novel The Power and the Glory. The Whiskey Priest is the last practicing Padre in the Mexican state of Tabasco during the rabidly anticlerical governor Tomás Garrido Canabal’s reign of terror when Catholicism was banned and every church in the state was shuttered.
From Greene’s perspective, a hapless drunkard who impregnates a parishioner is the ideal hero in this fallen world because:
It was for this world that Christ had died; the more evil you saw and heard about you, the greater glory lay around the death. It was too easy to die for what was good or beautiful, for home or children or a civilization—it needed a God to die for the half–hearted and the corrupt (97).
There is much paradox here: We need a perfect God who is also human to deliver us from our imperfection. And we also require our sin-hungry flesh in order to fully appreciate God’s perfection. As the Whiskey Priest is “praying against [the] pain” of his own corruption, he comes to the realization that through death and resurrection, “[t]his is what we escape at no cost at all, sacrificing an unimportant motion of the body (66).
Alden Pyle is Graham Greene’s repugnant eponymous Quiet American CIA officer who callously perpetuates human suffering in the name of something he calls Democracy. When explosives supplied by Pyle kill several civilians, he dismissively notes that “[i]t was a pity, but you can’t always hit your target. Anyway, they died in the right cause (171).” Pyle is truly monstrous because “he was as incapable of imagining pain or danger to himself as he was incapable of conceiving the pain he might cause others” (53).
Suffering is the cornerstone of Graham Green’s unique strain of Catholicism. I am a devout deist who will never share Greene’s faith. But, paradoxically, his novels inform my existential humanist perspective in ways that no atheist author ever could. And all humanists would do well to remain cognizant of Thomas Fowler’s important observation: “Suffering is not increased by numbers: one body can contain all the suffering the world can feel” (TQA 175).
by Richard W. Bray
Laughter hope sock in the eye's Blog 