Book Thoughts: A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving

In A Prayer for Owen Meany, John Irving retells the gospel story in more modern times. In the beginning, you think Owen is a prophet of some sort, a voice of God, but as the story develops, you learn he’s more than a prophet. He’s a Christ-figure.

I’ve wondered, if Jesus’ incarnation were today, not 2000 years ago, how would I respond? I’ve grown up comfortable with the ideas of the virgin birth and God and man. Irving creates a story that gives me a glimpse into this. How does the religious establishment react to a man like Owen?

There’s nothing in Owen’s appearance that would draw us to him–he’s short, and his voice! Irving does a magnificent job of not describing Owen’s harsh voice but conveying it all the same. Sometimes those around him love him. Sometimes they hate him. Even I at one point found myself disliking Owen. What on earth is he doing? I thought.

Owen comes from humble means, from somewhere unexpected–what good could come from this family? we ask. And yet, he lives on the rock, on a quarry where his family extracts and sells granite.

He’s the voice of God, but that doesn’t always mean good. He’s the instrument of God in the death of the mother of John (Owen’s best friend and the storyteller) and at the same time, the instrument of John’s faith. These two cannot be separated. What does this say about the God we believe in and can we accept it? But we must.

Owen is lifted up by those around him, always lifted up. At his death, he’s again lifted up, and he stretches out his arms and dies to save others.

It’s no mistake the story is told by Owen’s best friend, John (the disciple whom Jesus loved). John, some years later and in exile, alternates between Owen’s gospel and commenting in frustration on the powerful and corrupt empire of America (what we recognize as Revelation). Even the last line of the book ("O God–please give him back! I shall keep asking You.") reminds us of the end of Revelation, especially Revelation 22:20–"He who testifies to these things says, ‘Yes, I am coming soon.’ Amen. Come, Lord Jesus."

We know so many things from the beginning–that John’s mother will die, that Owen will die, that John doesn’t know who his father his (and we know, though Irving doesn’t explicitly say it, who John’s father is). The brilliance of the book is unfolding the details of how these events occur and what accompanies them. For example, at one point, John realizes he could figure out who his father is. Yes, we think, finally! Then we consider it as John gets closer and closer. No, this is terrible. He can’t know who his father is. What will happen when he knows this?

Another thing I particularly like is how Irving develops the character of John. We love him as a child. As an adult, he can get on our nerves. He’s just like his grandmother–always so critical. He diatribes the United States, and he hasn’t lived there for years. Let it go! we want to tell him. And stop boring me with these details in the meantime. But as the story develops, we begin to learn why he’s like this, why he says the things he says, and we become more and more empathetic with him.

Irving explores doctrines of the Christian faith such as original sin and resurrection. Regarding original sin, this develops as John feels connected to his unknown father when he lusts. "Henceforward, whenever I was troubled by a way I felt–and especially when I felt this way, when I lusted–I thought that my father was asserting himself within me."

Owen emphasized resurrection and victory over death, perhaps because he foresaw his own death. His favorite verses in hymns were the ones about resurrection and victory. He quoted–incessantly quoted–"whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die." He quoted this as he died. This is the core to the Christian faith. This is our hope. In fact, in another place, Owen says, "If you don’t believe in Easter, don’t kid yourself–don’t call yourself a Christian."

There are so many themes and ideas in this book about faith, life, death, and living. This is what makes a book rich. It’s a long book, but I highly recommend it because of its writing, which takes you into this world and into the characters, and its development of themes.

Hello? McFly?

Yesterday’s reading for Lent was Mark 8:1-10, and today’s continued through the end of the chapter. Jesus had been teaching for 3 days, and people had been listening. Can you imagine people stopping their lives–not even breaking for a meal–to listen to someone speak? After three days, Jesus tells the disciples to find these poor people food. He had compassion on them.

"Uh, yeah, Jesus?"

"Yes?"

The disciples look over their shoulders at the crowd. "We don’t have any food."

Jesus rolls his eyes. "Uh, yeah, disciples?"

"Yes?"

"Remember the feeding of the 5,000?’

"Oh, yeah!"

Then they get on a boat, meet some Pharisees, get back on the boat because Jesus will do something he’ll regret if he has to be around those Pharisees for one more second.

"Beware the yeast of the Pharisees," Jesus tells his disciples.

The whisper to each other. "He’s grumpy because we forgot to bring food."

Jesus smacks his forehead. How long, Father? "You guys really don’t get it, do you?"

Blank stares.

Two things strike me about this, and they strike me precisely because I’m one of these disciples:

  1. They’re not too bright. Exactly how many times do they have to see Jesus multiply food before they start thinking outside the box?
  2. Their consumption with their own problems prevents them from having compassion on others.

Ouch. I spend more time dwelling on the woes-is-me that I’m too worn out to intercede on the behalf of others. And isn’t that my purpose? To spill out God’s love and goodness to those around me? I focus on why God isn’t using me the way I want to be used rather than how I can serve those God’s put into my life right now.

It just so happens that God works through me despite me. He hands me the seven loaves and even in the midst of wondering why God’s not doing such-and-such, he multiplies the bread. It’s not how I imagined it, which makes it all the more obvious that this is God working. Not me.

How many times does Jesus smack his forehead when I turn to him asking for bread? Reminds me of a song by Caedmon’s Call:

Water, water everywhere
And I complain about my thirst. 

My husband and I read a prayer yesterday attributed to St. Francis. I’d like to make it my prayer these next couple of weeks:

Lord, make us instruments of your peace. Where there is hatred, let us sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is discord, union; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy. Grant that we may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.