2018 is set to be a monster year, with the 200th anniversary of Mary Shelley’s novel ‘Frankenstein’ being celebrated with an avalanche of articles, conferences, films, plays, a ballet and even a themed £2 coin design.
The story of a brilliant scientist and his ambition to create life has never lost popularity, even if some later versions of the story bear little resemblance to the original. Lazy journalists use the Frankenstein label to whip up fear of technology, especially in reports of genetically engineered plants and animals, or of developments in infertility treatments. It is a tale of mythic proportions, inviting endless reflection on how human creativity can go wrong.
Frankenstein’s crime is twofold. First, his desire to create a living being is born of egotism rather than love or any desire for relationship. When he parades his ambition before his fiancée, she says ‘Why not just give me a child?’ But there is no room for anyone else in Frankenstein’s project. It’s all about him. Then, when the monster comes alive, he is rejected by his creator who turns away in horror and drives him away. What makes the monster truly monstrous is the behaviour he learns from his master; fear, hatred, rejection and violence. Initially the creature is innocent, trusting, and desires only to be accepted and to belong.
The novel draws its inspiration from many sources, including Dr Faustus and Paradise Lost. But it is also a kind of inversion of the Genesis account of creation. There, the innocent creature goes wrong because it rejects its Creator. In Frankenstein it is the creator rather than the creature who is the source of alienation and pain. In the Bible, God longs for his creatures to respond to his faithful loving kindness. In Frankenstein, the monster longs for someone, anyone, to show him any kindness at all.
The contrasts between the two stories invite reflection. When we create something new, be it a child, an organisation or a new technology, we cannot shake off responsibility for what we have created. Then again, as fallible creatures ourselves, perhaps what we need most is to know the loving acceptance of a Creator who will not deny us, however unlovely or different we may have become. As the monster cries at the end of Danny Boyle’s 2011 National Theatre production, ‘All I ever wanted was your love!’ So may all our creations this year be fruits of love.
Starting a new job as Vicar of Beverley Minster and Priest in Charge of Routh a fortnight before Christmas seemed like a good idea when I agreed to it six months ago. ‘Everyone else will have done the work’, I thought. ‘All I’ll have to do is turn up and be the front man’. Friends looked at me strangely. Was it scepticism, or just pity, that I saw in their eyes?
Getting a new Labrador puppy five days before Christmas seemed like a good idea when Sue put it to me. ‘We’ll have all the children home for the holidays’ she said, winningly. ‘They’ll be around to help with the housetraining.’ Friends looked at us strangely. Was there not enough chaos in our lives already, what with the new job and the house still full of packing cases?
New home, new town, new job, new pet, New Year. Confronted by all this newness, I wonder how to respond. I can flinch at the challenge of change, of having to build new relationships, develop fresh routines, and find my way round a different one-way system. It’s all so exhausting. Or I can open my eyes in wonder. Look at this! Isn’t it beautiful/incredible/strange? It’s all so exhilarating!
The effect has been exaggerated by seeing things through the eyes of the puppy. For her, every mundane happening is full of excitement. Every person coming through the door has to be greeted like a long lost favourite. Chasing an empty plastic bottle is endlessly entertaining. And a New Year’s Day walk on Hornsea beach was an adventure in the Wide World which was almost too much to take in.
Like the puppy, I’m in danger of sensory overload as I try to take in everything that Beverley Minster and its associated churches have to offer. A symptom of that is my inability to remember people’s names; it’s nothing personal, just a limited capacity for taking in new information. It will be a long time before there is any risk of feeling stale.
At the same time, the marking of the New Year is an opportunity for all of us to face the old longing for a new beginning, for the slate to be wiped clean, for the dials to be reset so that we can start over again. The newness may not last, but we know the opportunity will keep coming round – not just once a year, but whenever we pause to allow the glory of God to break out from the depths of even the most familiar things. As the poet Gerard Manly Hopkins puts it:
“nature is never spent; there lives the dearest freshness deep down things”.
May this New Year be a time of new beginnings for you, and for our churches, as together we seek the God who in Jesus says “Behold! I make all things new.”