Let The Holidays Begin

C. S. Lewis was such a wonderful writer and storyteller. This morning I discovered a delightful detail of beauty he included in The Chronicles of Narnia.

In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe the narrator tells us when the children—Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy—heard Aslan's name spoken the first time each one felt something jump in his inside. "Edmund felt a sensation of mysterious horror. Peter felt suddenly brave and adventurous. Susan felt as if some delicious smell or some delightful strain of music had just floated by her. And Lucy got the feeling you have when you wake up in the morning and realize that it is the beginning of the holidays or the beginning of summer" (chapter 7).

And, of course, those initial feelings proved to be significant in the story. Edmund was, by that time, loyal to the White Witch. So he had accepted the Witch's animosity toward the Lion. Peter became brave and adventurous in this story and throughout the series. Susan received the numinous quality of Aslan that she ultimately lost. Lucy's reaction was an inkling of the joy and satisfaction she would know "in Aslan" in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

Yet, Lucy's reaction was also an inkling of ultimate joy, for near the end of The Last Battle Lucy says to Aslan, "We're so afraid of being sent away, Aslan. And you have sent us back into our own world so often." Aslan assures Lucy and the others listening that he will no longer send them back to their world. "No fear of that. Have you not guessed?" The narrator comments, "Their hearts leaped and a wild hope rose within them." So Aslan tells them, "There was a real railway accident. Your father and mother and all of you are—as you used to call it in the Shadow-Lands—dead. The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream has ended: this is the morning."

After seven stories and several years of writing, did Lewis remember Lucy's initial response to Aslan? Did he include it purposefully in The Last Battle to provide symmetry? We don't know. Perhaps that detail was part of the inspiration Lewis was under as he wrote the Chronicles. Whatever happened, I am grateful for that little stroke of beauty in the tapestry.

More than that, I am grateful that this beautiful detail will be true for us when Lord Jesus Christ brings this world to an end and takes us to our new home, the new heavens and the new earth. The term will be over: the holidays will begin. The dream will end: it will be the morning.

Theophanies and The Shack

Since my last blog about The Shack, I’ve read several reviews of it. One by Katherine Jeffrey, entitled "I Am Not Who You Think I Am," ran in the January/February 2010 issue of Books&Culture. One statement there struck a chord with me: “Theophany is strictly circumscribed in Christian literary tradition." Thus over the years religious authors have not been allowed to include speeches by God in their works. Jeffrey discusses some minor exceptions to that rule in Medieval literature and some egregious violations in recent films such as O, God!, Dogma and Evan Almighty.

I had an encounter with this principle in a preaching class in seminary. One of my sermons featured a dialogue with God in which I played His part as well as the person to whom He was speaking. Though I certainly tried to make my words consistent with the scriptures, they were not from holy writ. I foolishly thought that my dialogue would be an effective rhetorical tool; my preaching professor thought otherwise. The message I received was that I should never play the part of God in a sermon or anywhere else for that matter. It is not a safe or prudent practice.

When I read Jeffrey's dictum about theophanies in literature, I thought back to my seminary experience. I also recalled my reaction, a few years later, witnessing Morgan Freeman play the part of God in Bruce Almighty. Horrors! More recently, I admit that I have become desensitized and watched Evan Almighty without my previous strong aversion. Now, after reading Jeffrey's reminder, my appropriate sensitivity has been restored.

As Jeffrey points out, "The Shack breaks all the rules." "There are no significant Christian literary precedents for Young's exuberant representation of the Godhead." In case you haven't read the book, I note that all three persons of the Trinity have much to say in it. I consider the dialogues by Papa, Jesus and Sarayu with Mack to be one man's attempt to give greater weight to his own beliefs about "the problem of pain." He does so by using characters who represent God, and that is dangerous business.

If Young were here he might respond with a query about what Lewis was doing with Aslan in The Chronicles of Narnia. Aren't Aslan's appearances theophanies? I would have to admit that Lewis came as close as he could to the line without crossing it. Here is what Lewis had to say about Aslan in a letter to some fifth grade students: "You are mistaken when you think that everything in the books 'represents' something in this world. Things do that in The Pilgrim's Progress but I'm not writing in that way. I did not say to myself 'Let us represent Jesus as He really is in our world by a Lion in Narnia': I said 'Let us suppose that there were a land like Narnia and that the Son of God, as He became a Man in our world, became a Lion there, and then imagine what would happen.' If you think about it, you will see that it is quite a different thing." Lewis's success has been verified by millions of readers, both by those who have seen resemblances to Christ in Aslan as well as those who haven't.

Lewis did something similar in the Chronicles to what Young has done in The Shack, but Lewis remained within bounds of Christian orthodoxy both in method and in message. In fact, I consider The Chronicles of Narnia to be so effective and accurate that they are able to function as a Mere Christianity for younger readers.

There are many vantage points from which to evaluate The Shack. The one I have noted from Jeffrey's review is enough to make my theological Geiger counter (as another seminary professor used to say) tick loudly and clearly.

Some Initial Thoughts on Flannery O'Connor's Fiction

This morning I completed my reading of Flannery O’Connor’s fiction by finishing her second novel, The Violent Bear It Away. Having spent the last few months immersed in the work of this gifted author, I would like to express some impressions of O’Connor’s work.

Before I do that I need to acknowledge some sources of inspiration and instruction that have come my way. First, a spiritual mentor, Dr. Timothy Hoffman, gave me the initial inspiration to read O’Connor. He also gave me some key insights and symbols to look for as I read the short stories and novels.

Then, Dr. Ralph C. Wood’s wonderful literary analysis of O’Connor’s works has been extremely helpful. In Flannery O’Connor and the Christ-Haunted South Wood weaves most of her stories into his analysis, and in Literature and Theology Wood includes a valuable essay on the short story “The River.”

Two other on-line resources have also been helpful: “The Iconographic Fiction and Christian Humanism of Flannery O'Connor” by Vigen Guroian, and “The Theology of Flannery O’Connor: Biblical Recapitulations in the Fiction of Flannery O’Connor” by Jordan Cofer.

So here are some initial thoughts:

1. O’Connor’s fiction has been described as grotesque, yet it is remarkably beautiful.

2. Even though O’Connor was a Roman Catholic, most of her characters are not.

3. Watch for recurring symbolism, especially the sun, treetops, and (as we say today) African Americans.

4. Pay attention to allusions to the scriptures and to biblical characters. O'Connor has included some surprising symbols that represent our Savior.

5. Certainly the supernatural element is present throughout the corpus.

6. There is almost always a shocking event that changes everything for the main character and, therefore, for the reader.

7. Warning: You could experience a baptism of your imagination when you read O'Connor's stories.

8. Don’t be deterred by some who would discourage you from reading the longer works: Wise Blood and The Violent Bear It Away.

Here’s one more on-line resource that I'll recommend: The Flannery O'Connor Repository titled The Comforts of Home. Within that website you are well advised to visit the Books section.

Re-Enchanted Every Morning

I plan to be re-enchanted every morning. That is, I put myself in a place and a frame of mind in which I can be re-enchanted. This belief and practice comes from several sources. Go with me as I bring them to light.

In his essay “Talking about Bicycles,” C.S. Lewis explains that there are four ages in our attitude about things: unenchantment, enchantment, disenchantment, and re-enchantment. Lewis uses a bicycle as his example. Unenchantment is the time in one’s childhood prior to knowing that bicycles exist. Enchantment happens as one dreams of riding a bicycle and learns how to ride one. Disenchantment takes place when a bicycle becomes merely a mode of transportation. Re-enchantment occurs when we are again (from time to time) “transported” into the realm of our first exhilaration of “bicycle-riding.” (Present Concerns, 67ff)

Certainly marriage is a more pertinent example. Unenchantment is the time prior to being attracted to the opposite sex. Enchantment happens during adolescence when one dreams of “having and holding” that special person. Disenchantment takes place when one’s spouse ceases to be the person of one’s dreams. Re-enchantment happens when we again (from time to time) are “transported” into the realm of “beholding our beloved.”

Our relationship with God is another case in point. The four stages are certainly identifiable. Enchantment happens when one has a vision of the beauty of God that leads to an intimate relationship with Him. Re-enchantment occurs when we again (from time to time) are transported into the realm of our first delight in the beauty of God.

Human beings are naturally in the state of disenchantment. That is, we are not always having beatific visions of God, of one’s spouse, or (even) of bicycles. Yet we try to regularly re-enchant our world. For example at Christmas time and on birthdays, “we take off the price tag and wrap a commodity in tissue paper to remove it from the world of market-value and exchange; we turn it into a present, and thus restore it to the sacred: we enchant it, as it were.” (Allison Milbank, Chesterton and Tolkien as Theologians, 118)

This world is also a disenchanting place. Sadly, it doesn't take long for my re-enchantments to be broken by daily flopsam and jetsam. Yet the world is an enchanted place because it is filled with God’s presence. We need eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts to understand. We can put ourselves in the frame of mind in which re-enchantment can happen. That is what I endeavor to do every morning.

For me, the possibility of being re-enchanted is enhanced by reading something of the Christian mythopoeic writers. A short list of those mythmakers includes George MacDonald, G. K. Chesterton, Charles Williams, J. R. R. Tolkien, and C. S. Lewis. All of them invite us to go to a place where re-enchantment can happen.

Alison Milbank in her book Chesterton and Tolkien as Theologians explains how the re-enchantment process works. She observes that fairy-tales are enchanting. I will use the well known example of Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe as my example.

According to Milbank, Fairy-tales work in us in four ways. First, they estrange us from the familiar. In LWW Lucy is transported from mid-twentieth-century England to the land of Narnia. As we travel with Lucy and her siblings, the myriad ways Narnia is different than our world become obvious.

Fairy-tales also engage us in that alienation through fear and the grotesque. As we enter Narnia with Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy we experience their fear as they enter a strange and wonderful world. One of our first glimpses of the grotesque comes when Edmund “happens upon” the White Witch. She is both intriguing and enticing. It doesn’t take us long to be drawn in and to accommodate to the strangeness of that world.

Fairy-tales restore us to the real by enchantment. Lewis wants his readers to become enchanted in the world of Narnia. As soon as one adventure ends we are eager to start another.

Fairy-tales allow us to receive the world back as a gift. Lewis certainly hoped that, once we have inhabited the land of Narnia, we will forever view our world differently. I can attest that Chesterton’s response to fairy-tales is also mine. “It was good to be in a fairy tale. The test of all happiness is gratitude; and I felt grateful, though I hardly knew to whom.” (Milbank, 121)

So how can I be re-enchanted every morning? I have long been enchanted by the fairy-tales of MacDonald, Chesterton, Williams, Tolkien, and Lewis. They have taken me to the perilous realm and back again. What’s more, there are many accomplished scholars and writers (my latest discovery was Alison Milbank) who have also gone into fairyland. They serve as marvelous tour guides as I am open to re-enchantment. Their good writing is nearly as enchanting as the masters about whom they write.

I plan to be re-enchanted every morning. To one degree or another (with a little help from caffeine and my favorite classical music station) it happens.

Meditation in a Toolshed

I recently discovered a wonderful little gem in The Voyage of the "Dawn Treader." In Chapter Twelve titled "The Dark Island," the voyagers are immersed in Darkness with little hope of escape. The narrator tells us that "Lucy leaned her head on the edge of the fighting-top and whispered, 'Aslan, Aslan, if ever you loved us at all, send us help now.'"

At once, one of the crew saw a tiny speck of light ahead. As they all watched, a broad beam of light fell from it upon the ship, so the whole ship was lit up as if by a searchlight. The narrator points out that Lucy looked along the beam of light and saw something in it. At first it looked like a cross, then like an airplane, a kite, and at last Lucy realized that the beam of light was an albatross. The albatross circled around the mast three times and perched for an instant on the crest of the gilded dragon at the prow. "It called out in a strong sweet voice what seemed to be words though no one understood them." Then the albatross spread its wings and began to fly slowly ahead, as if to guide the ship out of the Darkness.

As the albatross circled the mast, it had whispered to Lucy, "Courage, dear heart." Lucy felt sure the voice was Aslan's. We are told, "and with the voice a delicious smell breathed in her face." The albatross led the voyagers out of the Darkness and into a glorious Light. The chapter is worth reading if only to experience Lewis's description of being in the sunlight.

So what was the gem I discovered? The narrator tells us that Lucy "looked along the beam" of light that flooded the ship. Here we have a case in point, an example of someone doing that which Lewis advises in his essay "Meditation in a Toolshed" published seven years before The Voyage of the "Dawn Treader," available to us in his collection of essays titled God In the Dock.

The message of Lewis's essay is easily conceptualized by reading Lucy's experience. When the crew of the Dawn Treader "looked at" the light, they saw merely a searchlight. When Lucy "looked along" the light, she saw her beloved Aslan.

The Tale of Despereaux

At some point (soon I hope) I want to write a review of The Tale of Despereaux (the book) by Kate DiCamillo. Before I do that I have to get The Tale of Despereaux (the film) out of my system.

I saw the film adaptation before I read the book. That was probably the better order for me because the original is such a delightful experience of Story. I'm tempted to call DiCamillo's work a perfect story since it embodies so many things I look for (long for) in a story. So if I had read the book first, I would have been sorely disappointed by the film.

I really appreciated the review of the film by Jeffrey Overstreet written for ChristianityToday.com. Note that I read the review after seeing the movie. Overstreet's review struck a chord by the time I began reading his second paragraph: "And now The Tale of Despereaux—or something resembling it—is a movie."

As mentioned, I'll write my own review of DiCamillo's story. In the mean time, here's a quick word to those who haven't experienced The Tale of Despereaux. Drop everything and read it. You will be enchanted and enriched by the experience if you read it in a child-like manner.

Oh, you want to know what it's about? Overstreet gives it a good quick summary. "Kate DiCamillo's book The Tale of Despereaux is an enchanting story about a mouse with the heart of a hero. Already considered a classic, this Newberry Award winner is a favorite of families and children's librarians everywhere." My final word is that child-like adults will enjoy it too.

Pensée With a Plot

I continue reading Les Misérables. The section I'm meditating on this morning is an encounter Fantine has with Javert. The young woman has been insulted by a dandy, so she retaliates. Javert only sees Fantine's response to the one who had mistreated her; so he immediately arrests her, assigning a sentence of six months in prison. Accordingly, Fantine pleads for mercy.

Here is a passage that conveys some of the wisdom Victor Hugo possessed. He gives a painfully beautiful description of Fantine: "She talked thus, bent double, shaken with sobs, blinded by tears, her neck bare, clenching her hands, coughing with a dry and short cough, stammering very feebly with an agonized voice. Great grief is a divine and terrible radiance which transfigures the wretched. At that moment Fantine had again become beautiful. At certain instants she stopped and tenderly kissed the policeman's coat. She would have softened a heart of granite; but you cannot soften a heart of wood."

"'Come,' said Javert, 'I have heard you. Haven't you got through? March off at once! You have your six months! The eternal Father in person could do nothing for you.'"

Literacy Without Real Education

"Literacy without real education leaves the public open to language control through the press." A belief expressed by C. S. Lewis in That Hideous Strength (Doris T. Myers, C. S. Lewis in Context, 103).

Three New Discoveries about Narnia

I've come across three books, both new and old, that fearture Narnia. I wasn't aware of any of them until a few weeks ago.

The first is a fairly scholarly work, the one I quoted in my last blog, C. S. Lewis in Context by Doris T. Myers.

The second is titled The Magician's Book: A Skeptic's Adventures in Narnia, by Laura Miller, a regular contributor to the New York Times Book Review, co-founder of salon.com, and a self-proclaimed non-Christian.

Then there's The Everything Guide to C. S. Lewis & Narnia, a pretty good dummies-style book by Jon Kennedy.

I'm planning on writing more about the second two books in days to come, but for now I want to quote two passages from Myers's work. She concludes her discussion of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe this way: "The children love Aslan not because they owe a debt of gratitude, but because he is beautiful. Narnia teaches them to love beauty so that later they may embrace truth and goodness" (132). That statement is so incredibly meaningful to me. Those of you that know me probably know why it has such meaning for me.

Another statement by Myers that is worth meditating on is from the beginning of her discussion of Prince Caspian. "At the end of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe the Professor advises the children about getting back into Narnia. He says, 'Don't go trying to use the same route twice. Indeed, don't try to get there at all' (186). His words echo John's experience in The Pilgrim's Regress; every time the young man tried to see his Island [Lewis's symbol for Joy] again, he attained only a substitute or a corrupted form of it. The theme of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, the attainment of Joy through the love of Aslan, is also the theme of Prince Caspian" (132).

© 2009 by Stan Bohall

Intimations of Immortality in Oliver Twist

Who would have thought Charles Dickens would include passages not unlike those of Wordsworth's "Intimations of Immortality"? I certainly didn't expect it. But Dickens wrote during the Romantic period, so why not find expressions of past and future eternal bliss in his works as in those of other Romantic authors of prose and poetry.

In reference to Oliver Twist, Dickens writes, “The boy stirred, and smiled in his sleep, as though these marks of pity and compassion had awakened some pleasant dream of a love and affection he had never known. Thus, a strain of gentle music, or the rippling of water in a silent place, or the odor of a flower, or even the mention of a familiar word, will sometimes call up sudden dim remembrances of scenes that never were, in his life; which vanish like a breath; which some brief memory of a happier existence, long gone by, would seem to have awakened; which no voluntary exertion of the mind can ever recall.” (chapter 30, paragraph 5)

Here’s another account of Oliver’s frame of mind. “Who can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace of mind and soft tranquility, the sickly boy felt in the balmy air, and among the green hills and rich woods of an inland village! Who can tell how scenes of peace and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close and noisy places, and carry their own freshness, deep into their jaded hearts! Men who have lived in crowded, pent-up streets, through lives of toil, and who have never wished for change; men to whom custom has indeed been second to nature, and who have come almost to love each brick and stone that formed the narrow boundaries of their daily walks; even they, with the hand of death upon them, have been known to yearn at last for one short glimpse of Nature’s face; and, carried far from the scenes of their old pains and pleasures, have seemed to pass at once into a new state of being. Crawling forth, from day to day, to some green sunny spot, they have had such memories wakened up within them by the sight of sky, and hill, and plain, and glistening water, that a foretaste of heaven itself has soothed their quick decline, and they have sunk into their tombs, as peacefully as the sun, whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber window but a few hours before, faded from their dim and feeble sight! The memories which peaceful country scenes call up, are not of this world, nor of its thoughts and hopes. Their gentile influence may teach us how to weave fresh garland for the graves of those we loved: may purify our thoughts, and bear down before it old enmity and hatred; but beneath all this, there lingers, in the least reflective mind, a vague and half-formed consciousness of having held such feelings long before, in some remote and distant time, which calls up solemn thoughts of distant times to come, and bends down pride and worldliness beneath it.” (chapter 32, paragraph 52)