Reflections: Mary Doria Russell's 'The Sparrow'
On Jesuit Space Missions & the Bad Religion of Bad Art
Sometimes fiction surprises me. I expect to be moved and inspired by good writing and character development. I hope to be sucked into the story; unable to put down a book until I’ve read the very last page. But it’s an added bonus, a breath of beauty, when a novel lights my own soul, makes me cry with the sheer weight of theology and depth contained between its pages.
There’s a few fictional books that have stayed with me, ones I quote from and return to often. One of my favorite fictional reads of 2021 was Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible, a story of prejudice, naiveté, ignorance, and “good intentions.” It’s a story of loss and division, harm and greed; a reminder: we only know what we know. Our perspective is ours alone, our “way of life” is only one way of living. We would do well to walk humbly, listen patiently, learn from those who have gone before, who know the land, whose faith may not be false just because it looks different from white evangelical tradition.
A few weeks ago, I asked a question on Instagram: “What books have been transformative, even life-changing for you?” Several followers mentioned The Sparrow, a novel by Mary Doria Russell. I’d only recently heard of this 1990’s science fiction story about a Jesuit space mission to the newly-discovered planet Rakhat. The premise was intriguing to me even though I tend to avoid science fiction altogether. The Sparrow is a beautiful example of theological fiction done correctly. Russell explores topics of faith and doubt, hope and loss, and the dark, dark nights of the soul without being overt or cheesy in the delivery. Throughout the novel, we encounter characters from all walks of life; some are atheist, some are cloistered priests with dark secrets, some are skeptics, some are deeply wounded and trying to make sense of this idea of God, hope, and suffering. I’ve read my fair share of “Christian fiction” written by authors fixated on the need to overtly convey the theologies of the main characters, speaking thoughts rather than showing character, even sneaking in “Christianeze” instead of believable dialogue. And because of this, I’ve developed an aversion to most books labeled “Christian fiction,” which far too often contain bad story-telling and poor writing. Bad art, as Madeleine L’Engle says, is bad religion.
I am not compelled, moved, or challenged in my own faith by art created with the assumption I can’t view it and draw my own conclusions. Good art invites the reader/viewer in, trusts their God-given minds to discern truth without having to be told. Good art doesn’t require the adjective Christian to preface the word. It stands alone, possesses the powerful ability to transform and evoke a response simply because the good artist, regardless of belief, possesses within themselves the Imago Dei.
Makoto Fujimura writes in his book Culture Care, “I am not a Christian artist. I am a Christian, yes, and an artist. I dare not treat the powerful presence of Christ in my life as an adjective. I want Christ to be my whole being. Vincent van Gogh was not a Christian artist either, but in Christ he painted the heavens declaring the glory of God. Emily Dickinson was not a Christian poet, and yet through her honest wrestling, given wings in words, her works—like Vincent’s, like Harper Lee’s, like Mahalia Jackson’s—speak to all the world as integrated visions of beauty against injustice.”
Though The Sparrow is rich with theology, and includes many conversational scenes about the Divine and the mystery, it’s believable and attainable. Russell isn’t trying to convert the reader, she’s telling a story of the beauty, suffering, and complexity of life, and a universe far beyond our scope of knowledge and understanding. The story centers around Emilio Sandoz, a Jesuit priest and linguist who is instrumental in the formation of an eight-member crew equipped by the Society of Jesus to make contact with the extraterrestrials. All they know of these beings is that they sing in stunning, otherworldly lyrics and melodies. Emilio leaves Earth with hope shrouded by doubt that’s long been his constant companion. What begins in beauty—the discovery of a new planet, the introduction to a hospitable local people—ends in chaos, tragedy, violence, and despair. Chapters vacillate from events leading up and to the Rakhat mission, and Sandoz’s return to Earth decades later, the lone survivor, broken down, angry at God, consumed by rage, suffering from horrific physical pain and PTSD.
There’s similarities to Shusaku Endo’s Silence, a fictional story (and film) about a real, dark period in Japanese history, and the brutal persecution of Christians that led to the apostasy of priests and lay people alike. The themes are abundantly clear in both novels: where is God when he is silent? Where is God in the suffering, the pain, the overwhelming despair?
It’s not a quick fix — that would be too unbelievable, a cheap “happy ending.” The reader isn’t looking for easy solutions, but glimmers of hope, redemption. Emilio is sent to Rome where The Society launches an investigation to better understand what happened on the mission, and what went wrong. There’s a stunning scene towards the end, where his Jesuit caretakers reflect that Emilio is closer to God than ever before, because even in his despair and disbelief he’s still seeking.
“There are souls that try to carve themselves from their own formlessness,” says the Father General (page 477). “Broken and damaged as he is, Emilio Sandoz is still trying to find meaning in what happened to him. He is still trying to find God in it all…[Emilio] is still held fast in the formless stone, but he’s closer to God right now than I have ever been in my life.”
The priests reflect on the verse in Matthew 10:29, the verse behind the novel’s title: “Not one sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it.” “But the sparrow still falls.” The sparrow still falls. God appears silent, apostasy knocks. If anything, this book is one that makes space for the hard human emotions, the honest wrestlings, the despair, the anger at an unseen deity. The sparrow still falls. But God knows.