One of the most influential books I read in an intro to literature course was a small title, long-forgotten, but one who’s ideas would remain deeply embedded in my future studies engagements with art and literature.

The central premise of the book was a simple one: that art, made when a person sits down and devotes themselves to breathing life into a work, is full of small meanings and signs that give it a depth far beyond the obvious that is presented at first glance. Granted, sometimes these meanings may be accidental, or merely subconscious— but as a whole, one should expect to see powerful cultural symbols appearing left and right in highly significant ways, even if they’re masked or hidden. A few examples may clarify.

Consider the simple glass of water, and all the different meanings it can take on. It makes up most of the human body, and because of this water is life-giving in many contexts; in other contexts, however, it can be rather life-destroying. Consider how the rains that give life to the earth (and by extension, us) will, when taken to an extreme, cause a flash-flood that takes many lives. Or how the soothing lull of the ocean waves on a peaceful summer’s night may suddenly turn into a roaring tsunami that sweeps away an entire village. These meanings are universal, because they touch on unavoidable parts of the human experience. And the polyvalency of the symbol (it means many different, sometimes even contradictory, things depending on time, place, and person) means that is is natural— inevitable and unexpected, I would argue— that water is taken up into liturgical rituals that explore the richness of what it means in relation to human life. This is precisely what it means to be a sacrament— and this is why water is the central symbol that gives meaning to baptism, where in dying, someone is brought to new life.

It is just as natural that this symbol— both from a natural and supernatural facet— should figure just as prominently in art. One of the most common motifs (pay attention!) in storytelling is to associate, signify, and intensify a turning-point in the plot by an encounter of water. This might be something as inconspicuous as a shower-thought (the main character pieces together the final clue— when he is immersed in water!), or trudging home through a rain-storm during the most intense part of the story. But let’s move from theoreticals to an example, and see how it highlights something new— and meaningful— in the story itself.

At the climax of It’s a Wonderful Life, the main character George Bailey comes to a critical crossroads. Deeply in debt, and feeling the disappointment of letting down all the people that were relying on him, he stands over a bridge contemplating suicide. Suddenly, a man-angel, Clarence, jumps into the river and starts screaming for help. Bailey is jolted out of his navel-gazing misery at the sight of Clarence drowning, and jumps in to rescue him. Having brought him out of the river, they dry off in a nearby shop and get to talking. Bailey says he wishes he had never been born, and— poof! His wish is granted. He sees what the world would have looked like had he been dead from birth, and, realizing the value of his own life, he comes back to his senses and returns home, now magically reconciled to himself, his family, and the rest of the town (who happily provides the needed money to pay his debts at the last minute). 

But wait! This is a baptism— George Bailey, having jumped into the water, comes out dead. And this realization of his own death is exactly what allows him to rise back to life, a new creation! What seemed, at first glance, to be a simple encounter on a bridge turned out, on deeper reflection, to be the recapitulation of the logic of baptism and grace in the story, playing out to its logical consequence of restoring hope and life to a situation that had been hopeless and lifeless before. It’s a Wonderful Life is, in this telling, a profoundly Christian story, that could only come to hold the classical status it has because of the deep resonance it has with the Faith of the Apostles.

Here’s another example, visual this time, from the American animated series Avatar: The Last Airbender:

In the season two finale, amidst a sneak-attack and betrayal (with many parallels to the Last Supper), Aang engages in a frantic battle with Azula to rescue his friends. He attempts to activate the Avatar State, but before he can ascend to his full power he is shot down by a lightning bolt to the back. The distraught Katara holds him, in a tender scene clearly intended to parallel Michelangelo’s Pietà. Here lies the savior of humankind, broken and dead, and with him all hope for restoration gone. The woman holds his limp body, tears coursing down her shock-stricken face. In a non-Christian society, the story would have ended here. Think of the tragedy to Oedipus, or Antigone. But Christ rose from the dead and conquered death— his moment of betrayal and weakness was transformed by a supernatural grace into the start of his ascendancy. Aang, too, must rise from the dead, brought to life by the water from the Spirit Oasis (is this another baptism?). Now that he has died and resurrected, his success is guaranteed, and the next and final season follows his path as he restores the balance that has been lost in the world, bringing peace to all nations.

I often encounter a profound cynicism when I talk to fellow Christians about the state of the world. They look at affairs and scoff and bemoan the lack of goodness, truth, or beauty. The world has become secular, many say— and indeed, in many ways it has. But for all the changes of the times, our art still testifies that we are a deeply— profoundly— Christian society, in ways that we may not even realize. The presence of Christ, I claim, is still among us, and far closer than we may realize. Growing up, I lived close to a main road. The hum of vehicles going by, day and night, was so familiar that I learned to tune it out, happily unaware of all the traffic zooming past my childhood abode. But there were moments— often in the depths of night, when all else was quiet, and my senses attuned to the slightest motion— when I would listen and realize that that hum was still there, and in fact had been there with me throughout my day. Perhaps a similar thing may be happening today— we are so steeped in Christianity that we cease to notice it in all but its most extravagant forms. Let us listen, then, and meditate thoughtfully on the moments that encounter us in life. Maybe, like the men in Emmaus, we will suddenly awaken to the realization that Christ had been there in our midst all along.