The theology of Anne of Green Gables
Like many Canadian girls, I grew up on L.M. Montgomery’s classic series, which tells the story of a sensitive redheaded orphan growing up on Prince Edward Island. I recently re-watched the film series with my mom and that really got me nostalgic to read the books again — so that’s what I did. But this time, I turned to the very back page and read the “About the Author” section — and I learned something new. L.M. Montgomery was a minister’s wife. Suddenly, I saw some of the events in Anne’s life in a new light. It became clear to me that L.M. Montgomery embedded deep theological truths in her books, some of which were unpopular but desperately needed at the time.
Shortly after Anne arrived at Green Gables, Marilla decided to give Anne a trial period. She hadn’t yet made up her mind whether to keep Anne, because she had wanted to adopt a boy, not a girl. But her heart went out to this lonely orphan girl. So on one of Anne’s first nights at the house, Marilla told Anne to say her prayers and get into bed. This, in late 19th century Canada, would have been a very reasonable request. But Marilla was shocked when Anne said, “I never say any prayers. Mrs. Thomas told me God made my hair red on purpose, and I’ve never cared about him since.” Marilla told her “it’s a terrible wicked thing not to say your prayers every night” and then instructed Anne to kneel down. Anne, with all the innocence and curiosity of a child, responds like this:
“Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d go out into a great big field all alone or into the deep, deep woods, and I’d look up into the sky — up — up — up — into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I’d just feel a prayer.”
In an era of rigid tradition and stiff solemnity, Montgomery, through the words of her character Anne, manages to cut through all the layers of pomp and circumstance. Prayer isn’t about flowery words or dramatic proclamations. It’s not just a mindless routine to fumble through every night before bed. It’s a mindset by which we take some time out of our day to spend with God. We don’t have to kneel to pray, and prayer can take place anytime, anywhere — because God always hears us. Anne’s words show a stark contrast between religion and relationship.
In response, Montgomery lets us into Marilla’s inner monologue.
“Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne the childish classic, ‘Now I lay me down to sleep.’ But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humour — which is simply another name for a sense of the fitness of things; and it suddenly occurred to her that that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed childhood lispings at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God’s love, since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of human love.”
The last part of the sentence seems to be speaking directly to Christians. How can we expect people to love God if we don’t love them? We already know we are loved by our heavenly Father, but if we don’t love the world with our actions, then we have become a stumbling block to seekers. I think Montgomery also intends this statement, combined with the context of other characters’ attitudes towards Anne, as a condemnation of a wide cultural disdain for orphans and others who are in need. Marilla’s monologue beckons the reader to have compassion on Anne, and by extension, others who need to be loved and cared for.
The next passage follows shortly thereafter — Marilla makes the decision to adopt Anne, and quickly begins her religious instruction. She tells Anne to memorize the Lord’s Prayer and to go get it from the other room. But she was shocked by Anne’s emotional reaction to a different picture on the wall.
“She found Anne standing motionless before a picture hanging on the wall between the two windows, with her hands clasped behind her, her face uplifted, and her eyes astar with dreams …
‘Anne, whatever are you thinking of?’ demanded Marilla sharply. Anne came back to earth with a start.
‘That,’ she said, pointing to the picture — a rather vivid chromo entitled ‘Christ Blessing Little Children’ — ‘and I was just imagining I was one of them — that I was the little girl in the blue dress, standing off by herself in the corner as if she didn’t belong to anybody, like me. She looks lonely and sad, don’t you think? I guess she hadn’t any father or mother of her own. But she wanted to be blessed, too, so she just crept shyly up on the outside of the crowd, hoping nobody would notice her — except Him. I’m sure I know just how she felt. Her heart must have beat and her hands must have got cold, like mine did when I asked you if I could stay. She was afraid He mightn’t notice her. But it’s likely He did, don’t you think? I’ve been trying to imagine it all out — her edging a little nearer all the time until she was quite close to Him and then He would look at her and put His hand on her hair and oh, such a thrill of joy as would run over her!’”
The beauty and purity of this scene enchants me every time I read it. To Marilla, it’s just a picture on the wall — completely ordinary. She probably doesn’t notice it or even look at it. It’s just something to cover up a bare wall. And I think that might reflect the stagnation of Marilla’s own faith. She was raised in it, steeped in it, never questioned the status quo. She considers herself good because she tithes and prays and attends church. On the other hand, Anne sees herself in the picture — a lonely, unwanted child desperate for love and acceptance, always hoping for the best but expecting the worst. Anne begins to recognize that she needs a Saviour and she is hungry for God’s unconditional love.
To Marilla, religion is tradition and rite. So she responds like this:
“‘Anne,’ said Marilla, wondering why she had not broken into this speech long before, ‘you shouldn’t talk that way. It’s positively irreverent.’
Anne’s eyes marvelled.
‘Why, I felt just as reverent as could be. I’m sure I didn’t mean to be irreverent.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose you did — but it doesn’t sound right to talk so familiarly about such things.”
Anne desires a relationship with God in a way that Marilla never has, which is probably why Marilla responds negatively to Anne’s speech. She lives in a superficial atmosphere devoid of spiritual passion, where people would be judged if they played cards or drank wine or didn’t dress quite right in church. It seems that Marilla considers God so supremely holy that the idea of having a personal relationship with him makes her uncomfortable. In a sense, this prevailing cultural view of God isn’t exactly wrong, but it’s one-sided. Yes, God is the Supreme Being, ruler of the universe, deserving of awestruck worship and devotion. We should treat spiritual matters with an appropriate degree of solemnity. However, God also lowered himself to our level by becoming mortal, which is what Anne recognizes when she looks at the picture of Jesus. Marilla is wrong to criticize Anne — as much as God is our Lord and King, he is also our Father and Friend.
Those are just a couple of passages, but I honestly feel like I could go on forever. L.M. Montgomery really had a way with words, and though she went through many challenges in life, she seems to have had a strong faith in God. Her writings are steeped in pithy theological truths and pointed messages to a worldly society, and we can still glean wisdom from them today.
