from Judaism, Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, and virtually every world faith.
Not all uses of religion are straight, of course. Many modern and postmodern texts are essentially
ironic, in which the allusions to biblical sources are used not to heighten continuities between the
religious tradition and the contemporary moment but to illustrate a disparity or disruption. Needless
to say, such uses of irony can cause trouble. When Salman Rushdie wrote The Satanic Verses (1988),
he caused his characters to parody (in order to show their wickedness, among other things) certain
events and persons from the Koran and the life of the Prophet. He knew not everyone would
understand his ironic version of a holy text; what he could not imagine was that he could be so far
misunderstood as to induce a fatwa, a sentence of death, to be issued against him. In modern
literature, many Christ figures (which I will discuss in more detail in Chapter 14) are somewhat less
than Christlike, a disparity that does not inevitably go down well with religious conservatives. Quite
often, though, ironic parallels are lighter, more comic in their outcome and not so likely to offend. In
Eudora Welty’s masterful story “Why I Live at the P.O.” (1941), the narrator is engaged in a sibling
rivalry with her younger sister, who has come home after leaving under suspicious if not actually
disgraceful circumstances. The narrator, Sister, is outraged at having to cook two chickens to feed
five people and a small child just because her “spoiled” sister has come home. What Sister can’t see,
but we can, is that those two fowl are really a fatted calf. It may not be a grand feast by traditional
standards, but it is a feast, as called for upon the return of the Prodigal Son, even if the son turns out
to be a daughter. Like the brothers in the parable, Sister is irritated and envious that the child who
left, and ostensibly used up her “share” of familial goodwill, is instantly welcomed, her sins so
quickly forgiven.
Then there are all those names, those Jacobs and Jonahs and Rebeccas and Josephs and Marys and
Stephens and at least one Hagar. The naming of a character is a serious piece of business in a novel
or play. A name has to sound right for a character—Oil Can Harry, Jay Gatsby, Beetle Bailey—but it
also has to carry whatever message the writer want to convey about the character or the story. In Song
of Solomon (1977), Toni Morrison’s main family chooses names by allowing the family Bible to fall
open, then pointing without looking at the text; whatever proper noun the finger points to, there’s the
name. That’s how you get a girl child in one generation named Pilate and one in the next named First
Corinthians. Morrison uses this naming practice to identify features of the family and the community.
What else can you possibly use—the atlas? Is there any city or hamlet or river in the world that tells
us what we’re told by “Pilate”? In this case, the insight is not into the character so named, for no one
could be less like Pontius Pilate than the wise, generous, giving Pilate Dead. Rather, her manner of
naming tells us a great deal about the society that would lead a man, Pilate’s father, to have absolute
faith in the efficacy of a book he cannot read, so much so that he is guided by a principle of blind
selection.
Okay, so there are a lot of ways the Bible shows up. But isn’t that a problem for anyone who
isn’t exactly . . .
A Bible scholar? Well, I’m not. But even I can sometimes recognize a biblical allusion. I use
something I think of as the “resonance test.” If I hear something going on in a text that seems to be
beyond the scope of the story’s or poem’s immediate dimensions, if it resonates outside itself, I start
looking for allusions to older and bigger texts. Here’s how it works.
At the end of James Baldwin’s story “Sonny’s Blues” (1957), the narrator sends a drink up to the
bandstand as a gesture of solidarity and acceptance to his brilliantly talented but wayward brother,
Sonny, who takes a sip and, as he launches into the next song, sets the drink on the piano, where it
shimmers “like the very cup of trembling.” I lived for a good while not knowing where that phrase
came from, although to the extent I thought about it, I was pretty sure. The story is so rich and full, the
pain and redemption so compelling, the language so wonderful throughout, I didn’t need to dwell on
the last line for several readings. Still, there was something happening there—a kind of resonance, a
sense that there’s something meaningful beyond the simple meaning of the words. Peter Frampton says
that E major is the great rock chord; all you have to do to set off pandemonium in a concert is to stand
onstage alone and strike a big, fat, full E major. Everybody in the arena knows what that chord
promises. That sensation happens in reading, too. When I feel that resonance, that “fat chord” that
feels heavy yet sparkles with promise or portent, it almost always means the phrase, or whatever, is
borrowed from somewhere else and promises special significance. More often than not, particularly
if the borrowing feels different in tone and weight from the rest of the prose, that somewhere is the
Bible. Then it’s a matter of figuring out where and what it means. It helps that I know that Baldwin
was a preacher’s son, that his most famous novel is called Go Tell It on the Mountain (1952), that
the story already displays a strong Cain-and-Abel element when the narrator initially denies his
responsibility toward Sonny, so my scriptural hunch was pretty strong. Happily, in the case of
“Sonny’s Blues,” the story is so heavily anthologized that it’s almost impossible not to find the
answer—the phrase comes from Isaiah 51:17. The passage speaks of the cup of the Lord’s fury, and
the context has to do with sons who have lost their way, who are afflicted, who may yet succumb to
desolation and destruction. The ending of the story is therefore made even more provisional and
uncertain by the quote from Isaiah. Sonny may make it or he may not. He may relapse into addiction
and trouble with the law. Beyond that, though, there is the broader sense of the residents of Harlem,
where the story is set, and by extension of black America, as afflicted, as having drunk from that cup
of trembling. There is hope in Baldwin’s last paragraph, but it is hope tempered by knowledge of
terrible dangers.
Is my reading greatly enhanced by this knowledge? Perhaps not greatly. Something subtle happens
there, but no thunder and lightning. The meaning doesn’t move in the opposite direction or shift
radically; if it did, that would be self-defeating, since so many readers would not get the allusion. I
think it’s more that the ending picks up a little greater weight from the association with Isaiah, a
greater impact, pathos even. Oh, I think, it isn’t just a twentieth-century problem, this business of
brothers having trouble with each other and of young men stumbling and falling; it’s been going on
since forever. Most of the great tribulations to which human beings are subject are detailed in
Scripture. No jazz, no heroin, no rehab centers, maybe, but trouble very much of the kind Sonny has:
the troubled spirit that lies behind the outward modern manifestations of heroin and prison. The
weariness and resentment and guilt of the brother, his sense of failure at having broken the promise to
his dying mother to protect Sonny—the Bible knows all about that, too.
This depth is what the biblical dimension adds to the story of Sonny and his brother. We no longer
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