#i'll do the emperor of all maladies later
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queenlucythevaliant · 3 years ago
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Books to gush about: The Sparrow because I've never heard of it but have a long-running personal association with sparrows. Tell me about it!
And Emperor of All Maladies because I think my mom has it and I am curious as to your thoughts
If you're asking about The Sparrow because you are fond of birds, this may not be the book for you. The title merely refers to the God sees when a sparrow falls Scripture verse, not to actual sparrows. I would highly recommend it nevertheless. 
The Sparrow is a piercing book full of God and science, fear and wonder. To place it in the schema that's been floating around our little corner of Tumblr, it lies somewhere between the cosmic horror of H.P Lovecraft and the cosmic romance of C.S. Lewis's Space Trilogy. It is awful in both senses of the word: awful and full of awe. Yet unlike Lovecraft and Lewis, Russell does not write about invented cosmic beings of any sort; neither Cthulhu nor Maledil. Russell is an anthropologist by education and it shows. She writes about people and their baggage, about science and sci-fi technobabble, and about a society of aliens that is horrifying in the very banal way that many Godless human societies are horrifying. And then in the midst of it there’s God: our God, who is still sovereign.
Okay, hang on. Gotta back up. Premise:
When we were much younger, my sister and I got into a discussion about what the theological implications of intelligent extraterrestrial life would be. Our conclusion ended up being: Space Missionaries. We were both very excited about this.
We posed the question to our then-pastor a few weeks later. His response was something to the effect of, “well, the aliens wouldn’t be human so they wouldn’t be subject to the fall of man.” In essence, he took the Space Trilogy view of the question. 
The Sparrow sides with my sister and me. A group of Jesuit missionaries, along with a few others (an couple in their sixties, a doctor and an engineer, who are basically the mom and dad of the group; a Sephardi Jewish woman who’s been trapped in a kind of intellectual indentured servitude most of her life; an awkward-but-earnest radio telescope operator) go into space following the radio detection of singing coming from another planet. Only one man, Emilio Sandoz, comes back, physically, emotionally, and spiritually shattered from the experience. The story of the signal’s discovery, the journey to the planet, and what happens when they reach it is told in parallel with the story of Emilio’s recovery. It’s horrific. It’s beautiful. 
Here’s my favorite part, which I think gets at the very heart of why I love the novel:
"God knows," he [Emilio] said, and there was in his tone both an admission of defeat and a statement of faith.
"See, that’s where it falls apart for me!" Anne cried. "What sticks in my throat is that God gets the credit but never the blame. I just can’t swallow that kind of theological candy. Either God’s in charge or He’s not. What did you do when the babies died, Emilio?"
"I cried," he admitted. "I think sometimes that God needs us to cry His tears." There was a long silence. "And I tried to understand."
"And now? Do you understand?" There was, almost, a note of pleading in her voice. If he told her he did, she’d have believed him. Anne wished that someone could explain this to her and if anyone she knew could understand such things, it might be Emilio Sandoz. "Can you find any poetry in babies dying now?"
"No," he said at last. Then he added, "Not yet. Some poetry is tragic. It is perhaps harder to appreciate."
Anne stood then, tired, for it was the middle of the night, and she was about to go back to bed when she glanced back and saw a familiar look on his face. "What?" she demanded. "What!"
"Nothing." He shrugged, knowing his singular congregation very well. "Only: if this is all that is holding you back from faith, perhaps you should just go ahead and blame God whenever you think it’s appropriate."
Look: people who say that God does not cause (but only ever allows) suffering are deluding themselves. Yes, sin is responsible for the existence of SUFFERING, writ large. But what it comes down to is this: if God is sovereign, God is sovereign. Nothing in the world occurs but for the will of God. 
In The Sparrow, God quite clearly leads Emilio and the others to an alien planet. All while the signals are being discovered, the journey planned and undertaken, and even as it falls apart, there is one mantra repeated: God’s will. In Latin: Deus vult. It is repeated enough times that at one point, when disaster is averted, one character says "Okay, okay, Deus vult already!" The crew experience the utmost joy; they get to use their gifts and skills to God’s glory, such that Emilio at one point whispers, “God! I was born for this,” in utter, transcendent delight. 
Yet nearly everyone dies. Emilio’s recovery from his ordeal is slow and faltering, full of anger, doubt, spiritual anguish, and physical pain. He suffers from migraines, which resonated particularly strongly with me. He grieves.
God gets the credit and He gets the blame. The crew praises God when the mission runs smoothly. They give Him glory for the wonders they encounter. They can’t find poetry or understanding in the suffering. Some rail against God for bringing it upon them. They cry. The tears are their own, yet also, I think, they are God’s. 
The one thing I will say in (mild) criticism of this wonderful book: it is very Catholic and I am very Protestant and sometimes I just had to shake my head and sigh and mutter “... Catholics...” before moving on. I had some relatively small theological quibbles and in a few cases I just didn’t gel with where the narrative put its focus. Much is made of clerical celibacy, in particular. If you're as Protestant as I am, fair warning.
(I am being deliberately vague so as only to give the shape of the book. I don’t think I’ve spoiled anything that isn’t revealed in the first chapter or so. Hopefully those who have read it know what I mean.) 
This isn’t a book with easy answers. Rather, it tackles the problem of theodicy head on (and even uses the word theodicy, which I found quite exciting! You don’t often find such specificity in novels tackling this issue.) Sometimes, while reading, you feel as though there is great pit being carved very slowly in your stomach. Yet it is an honest book, and a beautiful one. It’s very human, while at the same time being utterly saturated in lofty thoughts of the Divine. 
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