The False Summit

While I don't lament not having to write multiple-page reflections on our readings every week, I do feel like I never quite do the subjects I approach in these posts justice. I feel like every topic deserves its own essay or chapter in a book, but I suppose men and women more capable than I probably have given these subjects a proper treatment elsewhere. But now to return to Lewis...

While reflecting on some of the passages in Miracles, particularly in chapter 7, I came face-to-face with something that bothers me more and more the older I get. That is, that while many people are arrogant concerning themselves, perhaps even more are arrogant towards mankind in general. To talk with some of my associates, you'd think that humanity had discovered all there was to discover and stood at the apex of understanding, comprehending the entire universe complete. Logically, then (according to some), the miracles we hear about surely must be falsehoods because they do not concur with the ironclad proofs of our perfect grasp of science! 

This line of thinking usually lasts until the person is confronted with something inexplicable, at which point he or she will often concede that humans don't, of course, understand everything, but rather everything except for this one particular anomaly. Give them five years and of course it will all make sense then. 

I think it would all be rather humorous if it wasn't so corrosive to the spirits of those who feel this way. Instead, it's just pitiful to watch individuals stand upon small piles of pebbles in the foothills and proclaim that they stand upon the highest peak.

A Divorce of Ideas

It's not often that I find myself disagreeing with Lewis on a matter that isn't doctrine. However, I confess that I do not see eye-to-eye with him on some of his social views regarding the division of responsibilities in marriage. There are some particular points that I believe, if taken as general ideas and not specific directives as he states, could provide a valuable framework to divvying up areas of authority or presidency in a marriage. For doesn't Lewis have a point that, when a difference of opinion in an area that affects both partners arises and neither of them can agree with the other, one must win out if a compromise cannot be reached? I have seen the arrangement of designated areas of authority between spouses practiced to great success. For instance, the wife was the end authority on all matters inside the home, whereas the husband was ultimately in charge of decisions concerning the exterior and grounds. Thus, when they had a disagreement about what to do in a certain area in or around the home, there was not any confusion about who had the "say" if they failed to come to a consensus.

If Lewis had done as was his custom and gave general counsel based on principles rather than specifics, I believe most readers would be able to see where he was coming from. I can't help but wonder, however, if his feelings shifted after he personally experienced what he had given advice for in marriage.

The Tragic Tragedian

This entry was inspired by an account in The Great Divorce. Near the conclusion of the novel, the ghost through whose eyes and ears we experience the grandeurs and terrors of Heaven-Hell (depending on your perspective) observes a particularly bizarre exchange between an unfathomably resplendent angel, Sarah, and her (former?) husband, Frank. However, the husband's person has been split into a dwarfed figure (his real soul) and an actor-spokesman, specifically described as a tragedian. The tragedian holds the man's dwarfed soul on a chain. The conversation is far too long to relate or do justice summarizing, so I will have to refer any interested readers to the book itself.

For the purposes of this journal, what I found so interesting here was not so much what was exchanged verbally in the conversation (although it does provide crucial context), but rather the symbolism of Frank's split form. The tragedian was not a genuine part of the man's soul, but was a self-absorbed creation who he set up to try to obtain power by taking advantage of others' compassion and love. The tragedian was a false character, an image who had no real substance to him. However, by Frank refusing to let go of him, to let go of his effort to exert power through pity, he could not obtain joy. He was swallowed up until the tragedian was all that was visibly left, and thus became a partaker of what I believe is a much worse kind of misery than he was trying to instil in others.

To me, the message is that whenever we play the martyr or put on a false performance to take advantage of the goodness of another, we are putting forth an image of a pitiful creature that does not actually exist. And, if not controlled, that creature threatens to swallow our selves into it.

Do What Makes You Happy? Screwtape Has Other Ideas

I've decided that what I am most fond of in Jack's writing is how he could point out a feeling, characteristic, or behavior that is so very universal throughout the human race but yet we still don't realize that it even exists at all until he points it out. I came to appreciate this afresh when I was reading the account in The Screwtape Letters wherein Screwtape advises Wormwood not to try to influence his "patient" to give in to temptation and do things he ought not, but rather instead to influence him to whittle away his time doing things that really don't do much for him at all. For instance, spending all night just staring into the fire while not doing or thinking anything productive or therapeutic.

Until I read this passage, I hadn't realized that this was a common behavior of humans. I simply figured I was among a small group of time-wasters who happen to be prone to being busily engaged about doing many things and, after its all done, really accomplishing nothing. Little did I know it was a more widespread problem and that I wasn't terribly odd at all (well, at least in this respect).

It makes me wonder how many other self-labeled "oddities" that make up my person really aren't that odd after all.

I Wish I Knew Jack

Ever since I really read my very first C.S. Lewis book as an adult, I have found it a bit tragic that I was born just a tiny bit too late and could never get the chance to meet the man before his death. It may seem a bit ridiculous, but I don't have a problem with never meeting authors that lived centuries ago yet do feel almost cheated that I missed "Jack" by just a handful of decades. Woe is me, but if not meeting Mr. Lewis is what distresses me the most, I suppose I have a lot more to be thankful for than to complain about!

It also happens that The Screwtape Letters was my first real exposure to Jack's writings. My mother did read the Chronicles of Narnia to my brothers and me when we were young, but I don't consider those experiences to be my genuine first exposure to his works.

I am excited to be able to contemplate the profound yet so plainly stated truths embedded in the pages of this short masterpiece. I consider it a privilege to do so with that work, as well as many others, in the soon-to-be-written posts on this page. I will endeavor to make them interesting for the millions of people I like to pretend will be interested in my musings, which musings I will keep convincing myself are a tiny bit profound.