Greene's Catholicism: Life, death, betrayal and sin in 'The Power and the Glory'

It has been almost three weeks since my last post, thanks to a pretty horrible situation with a laptop repair shop. But, here it is! Enjoy!

 I came to this novel with very high expectations, having loved every syllable of Greene's work that I have read thus far. I did feel, however, that there was a much darker undercurrent in this actually fairly short piece. Greene's own peculiar attitude to life was very much evident; the cheapness of life juxtaposed with the strength of the need to keep living. Earlier in his career, Greene separated his books into 'entertainments' and more serious 'novels', upon which he felt his career was to be judged. 'The Power and the Glory' is one of the latter, and it certainly feels it! It is a dark novel, with far more questions to ask than answers to offer. The nature of faith and sin, the definitions of good and evil are all topics explored, all the while veiled in a mist of foreboding. This novel, while perhaps not among my favourites by Graham Greene, is certainly an enjoyable read and surprisingly easy to progress through, given the heavy nature of the subject matter.

 To begin with, it is important to explore a brief overview of the context of this novel. President Plutarco Elás Calles oversaw Mexico from 1924 until 1928 and presided over the worst persecution of Catholics and clergy in the history of the nation, including the killing of hundreds of priests. A rebellion against the harsh measures began in 1927, resulting in even more deaths. By 1935, 17 Mexican states were without any priest at all. In the introduction to the Vintage Classics edition, 2002, John Updike states that the novel is set in the state of Tabasco, although it is never named. Incidentally, this is where the violence was at its worst.

 Graham Greene’s relationship with Catholicism was interesting, to say the least. He converted to the religion in 1926, after finding that the reasons to disbelieve in God were becoming fewer and fewer during his discussions with a Friar Trollope. His initial curiosity in the religion stemmed in part from his desire to marry a Catholic woman, Vivien Dayrell-Browning. Greene’s own uncertainty and religious doubt is echoed by his characters; indeed, they are usually his most believable.

 Greene certainly does not shy away from extreme topics in his writing. In this case, he examines the definitions of good and evil. On page 127, the Whiskey priest exclaims, “Thieves, murderers… Oh, my child, if you had more experience you would know there are worse things to be.” From here, one is led to wonder what these things are and, if we are to follow Greene’s gentle lead, Padre José becomes the perfect example. He is not only a bad priest (and Catholic) because he has married under the pressure of the state, but he is also, it could be argued, a bad person. He is a coward, he is selfish and he is weak. Twice he fails to be of help to the Whiskey Priest, and both times he seems whiny and spineless. Compare this, then, to the bravery and determination of the peasants whom the priest meets during his travels. Admittedly, they are motivated by fear of their religion to sacrifice themselves for the priest and spend the last of their money on baptisms and mass. However, they show an ability to blindly follow what they believe in, right into the valley of death, while Padre José abandons his religion and also his people. Ultimately, he loses all dignity and becomes a laughing stock.

 Mr. Luhr, whom the priest meets late in the novel, is a Lutheran with a deep disgust for Catholicism, not dissimilar to that of the lieutenant. On page 159, Mr. Luhr informs the Whiskey priest that he and his sister “don’t hold with your church, father. Too much luxury, it seems to me, while the people starve.” Luhr does, however, shelter the priest for nothing and gives him all the help he is able; in that sense, he embodies the true meaning of Christian charity and goodness. The priest, meanwhile, proves Luhr right in the reader’s eyes when he drinks the money the peasants gave him for religious services. In spite of this, it appears to be faith that makes one good in the eyes of God; for all the sympathetic moments had with the lieutenant and Padre José, they are not good men. It is the continued faith, no matter how futile and tragic, of the people in the face of suffering that compels them to stretch out the hand of kindness. Perhaps, then, this is what makes the lieutenants’ brief moments of mercy so poignant – he is motivated by pure human goodness, as opposed to fear of a faith that, as Mr. Luhr puts it on page 162, “like people to read the bible,” thus perpetuating their fear and servitude.

 The journey of the Whiskey priest towards safety is futile from the offset (it is, ironically, his religious duty that always hold him back). This journey is mirrored throughout the novel by an equally futile spiritual journey towards redemption. The priest struggles always to reconcile the drunken act of sin he has committed and his obvious repentance of it, with his primal love for its fruit: his daughter. His search for forgiveness is constant; at one point he thinks, “what a play-actor I am. I have no business here, among good people”. – p.165. The priest’s inability to repent fully destroys him, spiritually. Interestingly, it appears to be the priest’s reluctance to sin that prevents him from handing himself in, or encouraging others to betray him, as opposed to any desire to stay alive. The juxtaposition of the need to keep living and the cheapness of life is fascinating. On page 23, the anonymous husband tells his wife, “If we don’t like the church, well, we must leave it.” To this, his wife replies, “I would rather die.” The husband summarises an important theme of the novel when we replies, “Oh… Of course. But we have to go on living.” No matter what they are faced with, all the characters must do just that. The theme of life’s cheapness and apparent lack of value is described in this passage: ‘“A man like that,” the lieutenant said, “does no real harm. A few men dead. We all have to die. The money – somebody has to spend it.” p.17. Even Padre José, who chose to renounce his holy life to live sinfully, ‘thought with envy of the men who had died: it was all over so soon.’ – p.23.

 Greene himself had a dangerous relationship with life, even attempting suicide. Take especially this passage from Updike’s introduction: ‘An escetic, reckless, life-despising streak in Greene’s temperament characterised among other precipitate ventures, his 1938 trip to Mexico.’ It is Greene himself, I believe, that makes his novels so difficult to analyse: on the one hand, there is an overwhelming abundance of rich material, while on the other hand, he is simply too much of an enigma. There is still so much more that could said on this novel but for now I shall leave it here. My final word is that I would recommend Greene’s novels to anyone, especially Monsignor Quixote, one of my all-time favourite novels.

 Feel free to leave a comment with any feedback or points of your own. Thanks for reading, - K