Frankenstein: Is Life an Adventure?

In Western Lit class, we recently finished Mary Shelley's work Frankenstein. The book itself is rather different from the cultural conception: Victor Frankenstein is the name of the scientist, not the monster, and the book focuses on Frankenstein's internal struggles rather than the creature's wickedness. During one somewhat tangential scene in the book, I was struck by what happens when Frankenstein finally tells law enforcement about the monster. The magistrate, understandably, has difficulty believing in the existence of Frankenstein's monster:

I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was a frenzy in my manner, and something…of that haughty fierceness which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed. But to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of madness. He endeavored to soothe me as a nurse does a child, and reverted to my tale as the effects of delirium.

The magistrate can only tolerate the ordinary; adventure does not fit inside his worldview.

The relationship between Frankenstein’s and the bureaucrat’s view of reality intrigues me. Frankenstein’s view is, of course, the most appealing to my literature-loving soul. Adventure, valor, daring feats of heroism, life-threatening perils, sudden and miraculous salvations—this is the stuff of which life is made. Or is it? The magistrate has a valid point: taken at face value, real life seems to be a prosaic succession of insignificant events, far removed from the romantic idealism of literature. For example, I can testify that I have not recently uncovered the ruins of Atlantis deep within the Mariana Trench, or been kidnapped by a desperate gang of murderers, or discovered a long-lost brother who is really the crown prince of Lichtenstein. Instead, I have sat in my dorm room and studied. Where is the adventure in that?

Let me increase the complexity of the question by incorporating the spiritual dimension. Ephesians 6 tells us of an ever-raging spiritual battle, and battles—especially invisible ones, at that—are quintessentially literary material. Colossians 1 tells us that the world is held together by the work of Christ, in whom God is seeking to reconcile the twisted world to Himself; God’s involvement in the turmoil of creation is a concept that challenges the imagination’s power to comprehend. These are adventures that we know are taking place around us—they belong not only to the realm of fantasy but also to the world of real life. Why, then, does life often seem prosaic?

I have wrestled with this question for a long time, and I’ve always given myself the same answer: adventures are almost never glamorous, and they never seem like adventures to the people inside of them. When we look back from Heaven, I think we will understand better what an incredible adventure the ordinary, God-fearing life truly is. Until then, my challenge is to live my life as a divine adventure, even when the adventure seems hopelessly hidden behind the everyday. If I do not consciously strive to focus on the purpose and adventure that God has placed behind all of life, I may miss the opportunity to participate in the heroic feats of valor that He opens up for me, just as the Genevan magistrate missed the opportunity to participate in Frankenstein’s chase. I know that I miss these opportunities all too often, and I pray that God will develop in me the courage and focus necessary to experience His adventures.

What are your thoughts on this? How do you see (or not) our lives as divine adventures?