Image Bearer

 Consider what follows part literary analysis (but only a very small part, because I know nothing of literary analysis), part rant (probably a fairly big part, because I'm quite good at ranting), and part act of worship (because in the end, what I am about to discuss has brought me to my knees).

I have been reading classics. For over a year now, my reading-for-pleasure has consisted solely of classics. And my latest consumption was Frankenstein. If you haven't read it, this blog may contain spoilers. If you care about that, stop reading.

I thought I knew broadly what the story was about. Some guy creates a body out of bits of other bodies cobbled together and brings the body to life. Turns out he created a freakish green monster with bolts in his head named Frankenstein, which goes on a murderous rampage killing everything in sight. I assumed that the monster would be killed and that the man who created him would learn his lesson and go on, older and wiser, and everyone would thenceforth live happily ever after.

Umm, nope.

Turns out Frankenstein is the name of the man who did the creating, not the monster.

Turns out that the monster he created isn't really a monster after all.

And there is no happily ever after.

Instead, what happens is that Frankenstein (the man, not the monster, and henceforth referred to as Victor, which is his first name, and much shorter and more ironic than Frankenstein) creates a creature. He does indeed cobble it together with bits of cadavers, and somehow, mysteriously, brings it to life. But then, horrified at the physical appearance of this living apparition of dead bits that he created, he utterly abandons his creation. (What did he think the thing would look like when he'd made it from bits and pieces of various dead bodies - Hugh Jackman?)

But the creature is not malevolent. He is innocent. He learns to survive, learns to speak, to love, to act kindly. He is good. But he is lonely, and everywhere he goes, he is rejected because of how he looks. As the years pass, the weight of loneliness presses on him more and more. He was created, brought forth into being, but has no name, no purpose, no connection. Cosmic loneliness. Absolutely abandoned. Complete disconnect from everything and everyone around him. Desperate, he sets out in pursuit of his creator. Surely, when he finds his creator, his creator will care.

But Victor doesn't care. Wrapped up in his own sense of guilt, unable to see past his own selfishness, and victim mentality, even when confronted with the terrible, terrifying suffering of the creature he created, Victor does not care. Repeatedly, he rejects the one he created, and indeed, swears upon his own willingness to die in order to kill the creature he made.

It is only then that the creature turns to killing. In desperation, he tries to make Victor feel a fraction of the pain he has suffered for years.

And still, Victor rejects him, swallowed up more and more by his own self-absorption, unable for one second to see past himself to the suffering of the one he created. He is no victor, only a weak coward. Frankenstein the man is the one who is truly the monster.

He infuriated me. His portrayal of himself as the victim in the drama when he had been the instigator of it nauseated me. His bleats about how lonely he felt, carrying the secret of the creature he had made mocked the true isolation of the poor creature himself. His solemn oaths to do whatever it would take to stop the creature flew in the face of the reality that he refused to give the creature the one thing he needed: love. Or even acceptance. His frequent swoons and brain fevers belied his declarations of action. His refusal to take genuine responsibility for his actions was reprehensible. He was small-minded and despicable while portraying himself as heroic and self-sacrificing.

But, mostly, he was the antithesis of God.

God, the creator. The giver of life. Who created mankind, not out of bits of death, to be shrouded in a corpse, but out of the dust of the earth, and infused with the breath of life. God, the creator, who created mankind in his image. Not in the image of death, but in the image of God. God, the giver of life, who named his creation. Think of the wonder of a name. Adam. Man. Eve. Woman. Created to be known, to be truly known, to have fellowship with the Creator. God, the one who created mankind with a purpose, to be his regents on the earth, to glorify him and enjoy him forever, as the old Confession says. God, who saw his creation and said, "It is very good."

God, the pursuer. The Saviour. Who created mankind innocent, but the creature ran away. And God the pursuer set out in pursuit of his creation as his creation quivered and hid in the bushes. "Adam, where are you?" God, the Saviour, who did not abandon his creation to cosmic loneliness, forever cut off from his Creator, but who came, who sought, who called, and wooed, and won. God, the Son, who was willing to die not to kill his creation, but to bring it back to life. God, the Son, who allowed himself to feel the fullness of the pain of a fallen humanity.

My goodness, what a story. My God, what a love. It could have been so different. You could have turned your back on us, justifiably, because we walked away from you. If you had been a Victor, we would have been that creature. But Jesus, "being in very nature God, emptied himself and became nothing, taking the very nature of a man; and being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death, even death on a cross." You sent your Son to be a loser. To win us.

And then to become the Victor over death.

"Therefore God has exalted him, and has given him the name that is above every name, that at the name of Jesus, every knee should bow."

Jesus. Victor. Thank God.