Imagin

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In this issue Essays: Painting Where God Is: Barnett Newman and the Problem of Religious Art, by Brett Potter “All is Grace”: Sound and Grace in Robert Bresson’s Diary of a Country Priest, by Justin Ponder Knowing the Language but not the Dialect: Bill Viola and the Churches, by Matthias Berger Response to James Watkins’ “Creativity as Sacrifice,” by Jeremy S. Begbie Lewis and the Divine: An Imaginary Conversation between C.S. Lewis and the Westminster Confession of Faith, by Eric Bryan Reviews: C.S. Lewis and the Arts: Creativity in the Shadowlands, Ed. Ron Miller, Reviewed by Arthur Pontynen Resounding Truth: Christian Wisdom in the World of Music, Jeremy S. Begbie, Reviewed by Neil R. Coulter Way to Water: A Theopoetics Primer, L. Callid Keefe-Perry, Reviewed by Kory Douglass

Volume 4 2015 www.imaginatioetratio.org

A Journal of Theology and the Arts

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Lewis and the Divine: An Imaginary Conversation between C.S. Lewis and the Westminster Confession of Faith Eric Bryan

--------- CASUALTY REPORT ---------

PATIENT: LEWIS, CLIVE S. 2ND LIEUTENANT, SOMERSET LIGHT INFANTRY, 1ST BATALLION

WOUNDED: EXPLODED SHELL FRAGMENTS 15 APRIL 1918. BATTLE OF ARRAS: MONT-BERNENCHON, FRANCE

DIAGNOSIS: LEFT CHEST POST-AXILLARY REGION . . . HAEMOPTYSIS AND EPISTAXIS, COMPLICATED WITH FRACTURE OF LEFT 4TH RIB LEFT WRIST, QUITE SUPERFICIAL LEFT LEG JUST ABOVE POPLITEAL SPACE

PRESENT CONDITION: . . . GOOD ENTRY OF AIR INTO THE LUNG, BUT THE LEFT UPPER LOBE BEHIND IS DULL. FOREIGN BODY STILL PRESENT IN CHEST. REMOVAL NOT CONTEMPLATED . . .

PROGNOSIS: NON-LIFE THREATENING1

I: Lieutenant Lewis

(Endsleigh Palace Hospital, London. Friday, 7 June 1918)

Westminster had the look of a man in his forties though he might have been much older. The weather had been uncommonly dry for the month of June, but that very morning the clouds were beginning to show their quality. Westminster leaned somewhat into the makeshift hospital room, raincoat draped over one arm, and tapped on the open door to call for the young man’s attention. “It’s Lieutenant Lewis, is it not?” he asked with a look of introduction.

Young Lieutenant Lewis enjoyed a private room at Endsleigh, which, until that moment, had been a great luxury. Despite the occasional nurse or orderly bustling outside his door on their way to tend to other patients, Lewis had largely been left to his own devices during his convalescence. When he looked up from his book to find the somewhat disheveled older gentleman looking in, however, Lewis instantly suffered that particular discomfort of an intimacy undesired. In a vain attempt to restore a sense of formality, Lewis straightened his bedclothes and folded his book upon his lap before answering: “It is,” he said at last. “How may I help you, sir?”

“You’re looking rather fit, Lewis. I had thought you might appear less so.” “Ah . . . thank you,” Lewis replied. “Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

1 This report is extracted and modified from Colin Duriez’s C.S. Lewis: A Biography of Friendship (Oxford: Lion Hudson, 2013), p. 67.

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“I thought we might have a talk, actually,” Westminster said with his own air of formality.

Lewis assumed a slightly perturbed tone. “Sorry . . .You want to have a talk? About what, exactly?”

“My, but we are efficient this morning, Lewis. Very well, then. I thought we might have a talk about God, if you want to know, and perhaps about the Holy Spirit.”

“Ah yes, I see,” said Lewis. “You’re very kind. There’s been some mistake, however. I only caught a few shell fragments—won’t be needing a priest, thank God.”

“Oh but I am not a priest,” said Westminster with humble reproach. “Ah. . . . What then?” asked Lewis. “Oh come on now, Lewis. I only want to talk a bit. Is that so hard to understand?” “ . . . about God . . . of course,” said Lewis, still puzzled. “Yes, and perhaps the Holy Spirit.” Lewis looked past the man into the hallway: “Excuse me,” he said to Westminster, then

more loudly, “Orderly!!!” But no one seemed to hear. “Oh, Lewis! Don’t be a bother about all this,” urged Westminster. “I only want to have a

nice chat. I’ve read some of your poetry, you know.” “My poetry . . .” Lewis considered for a moment. “Has Arthur put you up to this? He

must have received my last letter and thought he would have a laugh. Is the rogue here?!?” “Lewis, now listen,” Westminster went on in a slightly hurried tone. “I am not here on

behalf of Mr. Greeves, I am not a priest, and I am not with the hospital. I happened upon some of your poetry, and I thought it might be engaging to have a conversation with you.”

“But I don’t understand. Are you a publisher?” asked Lewis. “Well, no, not precisely, though I do attend to publication of a sort. You may call me Mr.

Westminster.” Lewis blinked in astonishment and, feeling he might chase the man off, changed his tone:

“Westm— . . . What, like the abbey?!? Is that your name?” “Let us say it is a family name,” Westminster replied with an air of casual dignity. “Oh, well, that is unfortunate!” Lewis mocked. “Many families assume placenames as their surnames, and while perhaps unorth—”

Westminster started in a moderate effort to defend himself. Lewis interrupted with a loud snort and began to say something more, but his gibe

quickly deteriorated into a hoarse cough and he winced at a pain shivering down the left side of his body. By the time the fit had passed, he had contorted his body in a vain effort to find a position free from the discomfort.

Westminster took immediate concern for the young man and entered the room without further invitation: “Careful now, son,” he said as he put a hand on Lewis’s shoulder and knelt to one knee. “Shall I call a nurse?”

Lewis quickly regained his voice: “No!” he grunted out of frustration, and then more graciously he added, “. . . no . . . thank you.” Lewis collected a white towel from the bed-stand and, as discretely as the circumstances allowed, deposited an amount of sputum onto the towel. He sighed with visible relief when he saw no traces of blood on the towel. “I’ll be fine,” he said nearly in a whisper. “I apologize, Mr. . . . Westminster. It isn’t kind to mock unprovoked. I must’ve acquired the skill during my days as a schoolboy. I suppose a bit of innocent pain is my just desert for resorting to such vile tactics.” After a moment he cast aside the towel and

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continued, “the doctors tell me the fragment in my chest shouldn’t do me any real damage unless it moves. Of course, they won’t take it out, either.”

“You were at Arras . . . in France?” Westminster asked while slowly rising to his feet. “Yes, Mont-Bernenchon. But, you know, everything look the same after a time,” he said,

trying to regain some dignity by resituating himself upon the bed. “I hear things got quite rough.” “For some more than others,” Lewis replied as he once again straightened his sheets. “I

was lucky, rather.” “Lucky?” Westminster asked with raised eyebrows. “Yes, it might have been luck,

perhaps. But there may be another way to think of it. Have you considered the differences between luck and provid—”2

“Westminster, listen,” Lewis interrupted. “You seem like a nice enough fellow, but I’m not sure what we have to talk about. I frankly despair of a belief in God. Even if I believed unreservedly in a god, I wouldn’t have many good things to say about him. I’m sure you will find one of the other patients keen to talk.”

“Well, yes, yes, I daresay you’re are correct: others might be more willing. But, you know, for someone who doesn’t believe in God, Lewis, you spill a lot of ink on the subject. I was in fact rather stricken by the tenacity with which you address God in your poetry.”

Having regained some of his prior perturbation, Lewis went on, “I said I despair of a belief in God. Besides, that I find the subject of the divine useful should not imply that I believe in a deity. I’m especially impatient with Christianity, if you want to know—and with Christians. It seems a painfully opportunistic religion; whenever it has enjoyed any authority, it has badly abused it.”

“Yes, I admit it’s true,” Westminster said as he gestured to a nearby chair, asking leave to sit.

“Oh alright then,” Lewis acquiesced with no small disgruntle at having managed to get himself obliged to the conversation.

With a jovial sort of hop Westminster tossed his raincoat and hat on the table at the foot of the bed and pulled the chair nearer; he sat with his legs crossed, hands somewhat theatrically draped upon his lap, and continued: “Well that’s quite cozy. Now where were we?” he said as he tilted his head and seemed to settle himself into a resolute gaze at the young, infirmed lieutenant. “Ah yes,” he said after a pause, “you despair of a belief in God . . .”

“Yes,” Lewis said dryly. “I believe you were preparing to correct my view of the Christian Church.”

“Indeed.” Westminster picked up the thread: “Church authority, as you say, certainly is abused. One needn’t look beyond the late Middle Ages or the bloody disputes between Protestants and Catholics to see it is true. But, you know, it would be rather a grievous error to conflate Church authority and the people who assume, abuse, or even sometimes usurp leadership roles in churches. It is Christ who bestows authority on the Church, not governments or social factions, however patriotic or well-intended they might be. Who is to say that Christ himself is not the most saddened when Church leadership goes wrong?”

“Maybe so,” Lewis said dismissively, “but who is to say Christ is saddened? If he’s concerned in the least, then he has a funny way of rectifying the situation. Anyway, I don’t need to think of abuses of power to maintain a healthful skepticism about Christianity; I only need to

2 Westminster is about to raise the subject of Providence, Westminster Confession of Faith, ch. 5, but is diverted by Lewis.

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think of God! Even if there were unequivocal evidence that the Christian God existed, I wouldn’t much want to speak to him.”

“No, I daresay you would not. But you know, Lewis, I actually find your skepticism commendable.” Lewis showed a measure of surprised and the older man continued: “I have always imagined skepticism and searching as two sides of the same coin. You don’t very often see someone skeptical about a topic in which he has nothing invested.” Westminster looked at his fingernails for a moment as though weighing his next statement. Then he continued: “You know . . . there is quite an interesting thought in Reformed theology—I think it is generally true, however. A man I once knew in the Netherlands3 had the idea that you cannot confidently begin to understand the nature and character of God until you come to realize the existence of God. The idea is quite sensible, really. It would be difficult to understand something without first knowing whether it exists.”

“I don’t know.” Lewis said dismissively. “Sounds like a bit of Cartesian nonsense, if you ask me. We might imagine all kinds of gods if we had an inkling to do so.”

“Ah, I did not say you couldn’t invent what a god might be like, should he exist. Anyone can do as much—more and often—and in so doing they produce to their own minds a god (or gods) that fits whatever image they wish to project. But that’s the problem, you see? I can create anything—ghosts, ghouls, goblins, or gods—in my own mind as often and as conveniently as I want, however I want, and whenever I want; but they will always be subject to my own invention. Coming to the realization that God exists requires us to acknowledge that what we imagined of God is not—or at least, not necessarily—what He is really like. It’s only logic, really.”

“Very well, then,” Lewis said, taking the bait. “Suppose he exists. He’s not a very likeable fellow.”

“Yes, I can see how you might think so,” Westminster continued, taking a bit of bait himself. “You are rather . . . direct with your criticism. If I remember correctly, one of your poems reads, ‘Come let us curse our Master ere we die, / For all our hopes in endless ruin lie. / The good is dead. Let us curse God most High.’4 Quite a lot of venom for a God that doesn’t exist. What brought that on, I wonder?”

“The Psalms, of course,” Lewis responded with a sliver of pride. “I would’ve thought you were familiar with them, Westminster. “De profundis clamavi ad te Domine.”5

“Yes, indeed! ‘Out of the depths I cried unto thee, Oh God.’ Of course that is your referent, Lewis, but it is not what brought about your sentiment. I think your point is that when you cried to God, he did not answer. How did you come to that?”

“Observation,” Lewis answered as he worked lose a few careless fibers on his blanket. “I could tell you about The War, but I won’t. One need only look to Nature to see the reality of the universe. If there is a god—a creator—then he quite obviously prefers darkness and coldness and death over light, warmth, and life. We are the anomaly of all existence—can’t you see that?—and he seems bent on dispensing with us as soon as possible. Life, what little of it there is in the

3 Westminster is showing his age. He refers to Johannes Cocceius, a theologian from the seventeenth century, who wrote around the time of the Westminster Divines but whose work was known substantively in English only after the WCOF had been penned. Though born and trained in Germany, Cocceius spent most of his professional life in the Netherlands, first at the University of Franeker and then at the University of Leiden. Cocceius was a stalwart theologian, and dedicated to scripture, but he clashed bitterly with other seventeenth century Dutch Reformers, namely Gijsbert Voetius, over his understanding of the Sabbath, and, more problematically, over his understanding of the justification of Old Testament saints. He was consequently viewed, perhaps unfairly, as (what we would call today) a dispensationalist. Nevertheless, Cocceius’ work is and should be well-remembered. 4 Spirits in Bondage, bk. 12, ll. 1-3. 5 Psalm 130 (Vulgate, Psalmus 129)

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universe, is riddled with pain and difficulty, and what light there is cannot reach far enough into the darkness to make any difference.”6

“And yet you seem to preserve a fascination, at least, with—what should we call it?—mythology? Romance? ‘The ancient songs they wither as the grass / And waste as doth a garment waxen old.’7 Isn’t that how your piece goes? To the untrained eye, Lewis, it might appear as though you are looking back fondly at something long lost. Is there more to the ancient songs than just their demise? Do you not feel some connection to them?”

“I won’t deny that I have felt a connection,” Lewis confessed. “I would even say a strong one at times, but the hope one might find in the divine invariably proves itself no real hope whenever a real need arises. We’re either compelled to cling to delusion or to let it go for a taste of bitter reality. Either our love for the old gods has died, or they themselves have died, or we have ceased to maintain our illusions of them. No, lament though I might, mythology is a human, anthropological phenomenon that occurs in every culture ever observed. It is heartbreaking, I admit, but there’s nothing for it, I’m afraid.”

Lewis began to smile a confident smile but quickly put his hand to chest and winced a little as a twinge of pain rattled through his body. After a moment he collected himself and continued: “I can certainly understand the need to desire God. I have even succumbed to crying out to him, myself. In one of my poems I say, ‘Yet I too have been mad in the hour of bitter paining / And lifted up my voice to God, thinking that he could hear / the curse wherewith I cursed Him because the Good was dead.’8 We fools simply cannot help ourselves!9 It is the human need to reconcile itself with a Nature that’s hostile, almost diabolical in its disdain—a Nature that would rather we no longer trouble her. If there is a god, he is either a fool or he cannot bear the presence of us in his world. In either event, we are doomed.10

Westminster let the young man ruminate. Lewis continued after a moment: “More likely, there really is no god and our human compulsion to connect with the divine drives us into myth. It is not surprising that all mythologies are based on the common thread of Nature’s cycles, and of course on whatever we want Nature to do for us. No secret there.11 You see that common thread repeated throughout all religions. Christianity, which does the same thing as all the other religions, is frankly a rather late and unoriginal replication of something that had been done for thousands of years before it. There is nothing surprising about a God who dies and is reborn, nothing surprising about Christmas and Easter, about Heaven and Hell, gods becoming men, and all the rest. I could list twenty other gods who do the very same. Sir James Frazer cleared all this up years ago in his work on common beliefs.12 The imprint of that common thread crops up even in the medieval Arthurian legends as well, though they appear less sure of what they’re talking about there.”

6 C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain (San Francisco: Harper, 1996), 1-3. 7 Spirits in Bondage, “IV. Victory,” ll. 8-10 8 Spirits in Bondage, “IV. Victory,” ll. 28-30. 9 See C.S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy (San Francisco: Harper, 1996), p. 55 10 See Spirits in Bondage, “Preface” for more on this. See also Lewis’s letter to Arthur Greeves on 12 September 1918. 11 Lewis came into his intellectual adulthood on the heels of a bitter, epic, and very public battle between two late nineteenth/early twentieth century scholars over the condition of mythology and folklore. Max Müller insisted on an exclusively linguistic assessment of mythology while Andrew Lang denigrated folk literature to the status of children’s and “primitive” stories. Subsequent generations of scholars—of which both C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien were a part—found it difficult to preserve the integrity of their beloved fields of folklore and philology (a study of linguistics). In the meantime, anthropological, psychological, and socio-cultural studies took the center stage. Tolkien, in his brilliant but difficult to comprehend “Essay on Faerie Stories,” addresses the problem, as does Lewis in several iterations of his popular commentaries on culture and mythology. Despite their efforts, the lingering questions about mythology and folklore, and the lasting errors of that very old debate, were never properly dealt with. 12 Lewis refers to Sir James Frazer’s massive study, The Golden Bough.

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“Well, eh-hem, yes, that is, -em-, indeed rather well thought-out skepticism,” replied Westminster, who had been waiting with a patience that comes only with age. “You do make a compelling case on some points. It is certainly odd, as you say, that all peoples at every point in recorded history (and surely much beyond that) have devised similar solutions to their need to be connected with a divine creator—the common thread, I think you called it—but you know, Lewis, I think the interpretation of that fact is really where your skepticism diverts you. It is possible that those commonalities speak of an altogether different sort of truth.”

Lewis’s expression took on what appeared to be a well-practiced balance between perturbation and condescension. After a moment he answered, “. . . you know there’s a funny thing about mythology. No one who actually believes in a mythology is ever willing to call it by that name. Isn’t that peculiar? You’ll never find a Christian referring to the Christian religion as mythical, for instance. That’s because we associate myth with fantasy, and we think fairy tales are children’s stories.13 What if mythology didn’t have anything necessarily to do with gods and fairies and such, and instead it was stories about forgotten practices or offices in which we place our deepest hope? Then, you see, mythology could be anything: stories about gods, or sacred rituals, or sacred laws . . . but they’re just that: stories.14 Why would the Judeo-Christian religion be anything more than myth—stories about broken rituals and a time forgotten?”

“I see how it might appear so, Lewis, but even if all societies everywhere, past and present, suffer from this, let’s call it, ‘delusion of mythology,’ even if many or most of those who call themselves Christians do so out of this mythical illusion, and even if the most dedicated Christians ever to have lived had succumbed to certain mythical elements of Christianity—be it a holy relic of medieval Christianity or the pilgrimages that take place even today—even so, I see it as much a commentary on the identity of the Divine as I do on the identity of the human. You can call the Holy Scriptures myth if you want to, Lewis, but it won’t change what they say, what are. Their work is a revelation of something.”

“And of what are the Holy Scriptures a revelation?” Lewis asked with considerable condescension.

“The administration of a Covenant,”15 Westminster said energetically. “I haven’t any idea what you’re saying to me, Westminster,” said an exasperated Lewis

as he began rubbing his temples. “Think of it like this: the Christian narrative says that the evil we see in this world is here

because of a terrible, terrible thing that happened long ago. That terrible thing must now be opposed and overcome so that God might redeem his children, who, because of that terrible thing, have fallen into confusion and hatred and despair and dis-ease. Christianity says this is not the way things are supposed to be. It tells the story of how things went wrong and what God has done, is doing, and will do in order to complete the redemption of His creation. You call it myth; I call it relation.”

Young Lewis blinked as if hit by another twinge of pain, but he ignored it. “Tell me this, Lewis,” Westminster continued. “What did God do when he found Adam

and Eve covered in their fig leaves?” “Have we moved on to Bible quizzes? Very well. You know as well as I do: He cursed

them and threw them out of Paradise to suffer and die on their own. You have to admit,

13 See ftn. 11. 14 Common questions in nineteenth century discussions of mythology and folklore. These ideas are now generally referred to as a part of the Myth-Ritual Theory. 15 See WCOF, chapters I and VII

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Westminster, even for mythology that’s a rather cruel way to treat those you’re supposed to love.”

“Ah, but that is not all that He did,” Westminster beckoned. “There was something else, wasn’t there?”

Lewis looked dubiously at Westminster and said with hesitation, “He made skins for them to wear.”

“And why do you suppose He did that, Lewis? Why did God not simply throw them out of the Garden and say, Oh, and one more thing: take those fig leaves off; you look ridiculous!’ . . . or why not just let them wear the fig leaves? what’s the harm?”

Lewis said nothing so Westminster continued. “You say that no truly good and all-powerful God would permit suffering and darkness to prevail, but in fact God has not been idle. Nor was He idle in the Garden. Before he sends his children out, he gives them a message: the very first atonement. The fig leaves, you see? They were not enough! We poor humans knew we needed to do something! We tried and in fact we did the best we could, but God knew it was not enough. We thought we could cover our sins, but God knew we must not be covered but cleansed, and He knew that blood must be spilt for the cleansing.”

Lewis was becoming visibly more frustrated but refused to concede ground. “No, I think not. I see an almost platonic aspiration. The closest I can get to Christianity is a kind of Gnosticism, I think. What you would call redemption is more of a resurgence of personal spirit after it has been drenched in the material world we now cannot escape. We are all of us spirits captive to a hostile material world, Nature. I don’t believe in god, though I can concede that there is something beyond this world to which our sprits aspire. You can see in my other poetry as well. The voice of the cycle knows that Nature—matter—is only evil and that the spiritual world has the only promise of salvation. What you refer to as god, the god of creation, must be either evil or incapable of anything we would call good. The evidence for that here, in this material world, is inescapable. If there is a god, especially a god that created this wretched material world, he must be evil. All movements toward the good would be movements away from him.”

“The poetry is very moving,” Westminster said, then changed his countenance to register concern. “There is, however, one problem perhaps worth considering.”

“And what is that?” Lewis replied. “You have decided on the nature of God before you have decided whether he exists. You

remember what I said a moment ago? You have placed your entire logic of the universe, of the material and spiritual world, upon the assumption that if god exists, he must be evil. But that’s got things backwards, you see?”

“I’m afraid I do not see,” Lewis said impatiently. “You have begun by looking at the world and putting it to a description of God, when

you need to ask whether God exists before you ask about his character. In other words, you start with a theory and then treat it as law. Let us take an analogy: Suppose we look at that young fellow resting up after his surgery in the next room. There are no flowers by his bed, no gifts from home. We might say (as you have said of God): It would be cruel of his family to leave this young man in hospital with no comforts of home and no one to attend to him as he recovers. He must not have any family members, but if he does, then they must be cruel people, indeed. Then let us suppose that in an hour, we see another young man appear with flowers, a bathrobe from home, and two or three books for the invalid to read while he convalesces. Would our assumptions have been correct?”

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“Obviously not, Westminster, but the analogy is a faulty one. If the brother turns up, especially with flowers and what-not, then I will re-consider his character.”

“So you would, and so you ought in the case of God.” “Oh this is nonsense, Westminster! Look around you! That poor chap in the next room?

He’s been shot in the chest! He won’t be around when his brother arrives! God has not turned up. He is not to be found! Produce your God and then we’ll talk, especially if he brings me flowers!”

“Lewis!” scolded Westminster. “Skepticism is a most useful sensibility, but sarcasm suggests cynicism, which is an altogether lazy substitute. Now, pay attention: that you have not seen God does not mean he is not here. That there is an absolute spiritual and moral power on which the world is utterly dependent for its origin and for its continuation, man realizes from the physical, moral and civil order, which he apprehends in the world and in the human race, and from the spirituality and moral bondage which characterizes himself.”16

Lewis grew quiet for a moment, perhaps because of the scolding. Westminster continued: “Do you know what that means, Lewis?” Lewis said nothing though he looked down to inspect his left, bandaged hand. “Lewis . . .” Westminster leaned in closer to the young man, “Lewis . . . it means that we humans—we all—know somewhere inside us that we are dependent upon something greater than ourselves. It means that we know these things not because we have no struggles; we know that there is a spiritual and moral power because humanity most certainly does struggle. We struggle, and fail. Humanity without Christ nevertheless struggles to bring about what only Christ can give: redemption. Our laws, our rituals, our learning, our money: these are our fig leaves. Without Christ, we are Adam and Eve, and our useless fig leaves have fallen to the ground and sprouted into the great nations of our fallen kingdoms. We know we must do something, but we cannot bring about the result.”

Lewis sat in thought for a moment and seemed at one point to mumble something to himself. Then he shook himself awake and went on more loudly, “Westminster, I tell you that the what you say is the very thing that leads me to unbelief.” Westminster looked dejected but said nothing, so Lewis continued, “the evidence you forward as that which ought to lead me to God has lead me to an empty seat. God is not present, not here! If he is, then he has played us all a terrible jape. Nature is vicious, the universe cold, and human kind is a juvenile, amoral, selfish rabble that will no doubt destroy itself the first chance it gets! My conclusions are sound, my evidence irrefutable. What evidence have you, Westminster? There is no order in the universe, save for that which leads to disorder. In humans, morality leads to corruption; in the world, physical strife leads to death; beyond our atmosphere, we find no death only because there is no life! If God were here then I would fight him face to face for his cruelty! Even though he would kill me, I would fight against him, still. I would fight because he has left us in the cold, dead or dying!” Lewis let his rare display of passion subside. Westminster only met the boy’s gaze. After a moment Lewis slouched back against the headboard of the bed and straightened the sheets for a third time.

Westminster continued at last: “I do not doubt your conviction, Lewis, only your logic. The fact is, you have got it backwards: You have said I have seen evidence enough to assume that, if God exists, he is evil. You have based your future perception of God (should he show up some day) on the fact you don’t see him today. Then you base your entire understanding of death, disorder, and human nature on the assumption that God is not here. Very well. You must start somewhere, and that position is better than some. But should you ever come to the realization that God does exist, you are then logically bound to acknowledge that your 16 Heinrich Heppe, Reformed Dogmatics: Set out and Illustrated from the Sources (Grand Rapids: Baker Book House, 1978), 48.

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assumptions must change as well. If the day comes that you realize God’s existence, you must start over, utterly and completely, and reconsider the entire character of God. Honor even your fool-sarcastic comment about him showing up with flowers, and start again. If you find that God exists, then it changes everything—everything—top to bottom. If God does not exist, then you are right; if he does, then you cannot trust your previous imagination of who he is any more than you can trust your previous assumptions about that boy’s family. Don’t you see? You cannot logically develop imaginary characteristics of God based on the assumption that he does not exist, and then apply those characteristics to him after he reveals himself to you as the one true, existing God. The only sensible way to hold your view is to say, ‘as long as I know that God does not exist, then the physical world is evil or pointless, but if God is shown to me, then I must reconsider everything based on that new knowledge.’ If he compels you to believe he is real, then he has proven that your assumptions about him are wrong.”

Lewis had grown angry: “I do not believe in God,” Lewis grumbled through his teeth at Westminster.

“No, you despair of a belief in God, don’t you? But even that is not clear to me, Lewis. You say there is no evidence of redemption, yet you also proclaim that countless religions enact the process of rebirth in nature. You say there is nothing good in nature, yet you look longingly back at the pagan gods who celebrate food and drink and nature and beauty. You see only death and decay in the universe, but then you say that death and decay are somehow beautiful. Did you not write, ‘Atoms dead could never thus / Stir the human heart of us / Unless the beauty that we see / The veil of endless beauty be, / filled full of spirits that have trod / Far hence along the heavenly sod / And see the bright footprints of God’?17 What is the connection? Why the paradox, Lewis?”

“I know my own poetry,” Lewis snapped. “I’ve had quite enough of—” “Lewis, you appear to be under the impression that you have already done your searching

for God, that you have finished, and that your conclusions are sound. I am here to tell you that you have only just begun your searching. In fact, you have hardly begun at all. Do you think the death of your mother is the only pain you will suffer in this life?”

“This conversation is over!” Lewis was incensed. “Bastard! You will not speak of my mother! Orderly!!!” Lewis tried to lift himself out of bed despite his injuries.

Westminster continued as though Lewis had not spoken at all: “Do you remember the story of Jacob?”

“Order— Wha—, What?!? Jacob? How could that possibly have any relevance?” Lewis scowled but did not manage a look at Westminster. Lewis began shaking his head, looking for a way to direct his anger. Still, no orderly came into the room.

“Do you remember how he got his name, his real name?” continued Westminster. “Have you never wondered at the profound inconsistencies in his story? Here is Jacob running from Esau with his family and servants in tow. They get to the night’s campground by the river, and Jacob sends everyone over the river to camp on the other side. He is to sleep alone. Why would he do that? Does he know the ‘strange man’ is coming? Has he been expecting him? When the ‘strange man’ arrives, they wrestle all night long. In the end, the man seizes Jacob’s hip in one touch. ‘Let me go, he says, for the day is breaking’. But Jacob does not let him go until the man promises to bless him.”

“Hebrew folklore. Ridiculous folk—”

17 Spirits in Bondage, bk. 26, ll. 19-25.

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“If the man could seize Jacob’s hip with one touch, why does he wait to do it? Why not do it at the beginning of the night? The man blesses Jacob by giving him a new name, Israel: The One who Struggles with God. Was God unable to defeat one man? Why would God wrestle with him at all? Why not just annihilate him if he wanted to defeat him?”

“Because he is cruel. Or incapable! The fool apparition probably could not fight after night had ended. Must have been a ghost,” Lewis groped bitterly.

“Come now, Lewis. Even Jacob . . .even Israel knew better than that. He calls the place Penuel, ‘For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life is preserved.’ I ask you this: Was it God or Jacob who would not survive the dawn?”

“I don’t care who would have survived, you old fool! Get out! What do you want, you ridiculous old . . .” Lewis stammered, searching for an insult, but by now he was beginning to turn introspective.

Westminster stood and spoke in a firm voice: “I want you to struggle with God, son. I want you never to stop. Never let up even for a moment. Never give him an inch until he takes it from you. Rail at him, call him cruel, call him whatever you want, push as hard as you can, as long as it comes from your heart, your soul, and your mind. If you do that and God does not answer you, then you may call me an old fool. But if you should see the sunrise . . . if God should seize your hip . . . if He should take from you so much as an inch or a mile, do not pretend that he has not. Don’t delude yourself into thinking that you still own a plot of land that now belongs to God.” Lewis said nothing. Westminster collected his raincoat. He returned the chair to its place in the corner and said at last, “Be as reluctant as you want, son, as reluctant as you possibly can be. God has built his kingdom out of reluctant converts.”

Westminster exited the room without further salutation. Lewis sat gaping at the door; after a moment he looked down to discover that his bedclothes were disheveled once again.

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Part II. Jack (Oxford, Winter 1933)

Dear Mr. Westminster, I have taken great pains to find you, sir. Many years ago now, you and I spoke while I

was infirmed at Endsleigh Palace Hospital (you will remember, I daresay). I was then recovering from what has turned out to be a rather fortunate (I suspect you will wish to say ‘providential’; very well, I concede) placement of shell fragments in my chest during The War, when you saw fit to visit me for an afternoon’s worth of reluctant conversation on my part. Though I would not have made it apparent then, I have not since forgotten the kindness you displayed to me. I was, I must for my own sake confess, very rude upon our encounter, but it is my sincere hope that this letter will in some way restore me to your confidence. I have now, as you seem to have predicted so many years ago, admitted the reality of God and his son, the Christ, and have converted as wholeheartedly and fully as I can to Christianity. My conversion was hard-fought, stretching across more than a decade, as I consider it to have begun even before you and I had our little conversation. You will be delighted to know that, save but at the very end, I never freely gave over so much as a grain of sand until our Lord took it from me, although I admit that I did, as often as I thought feasible, run from Him with handfuls of sand and dirt stuffed in my pockets, in the hopes I might perpetuate my delusion of ownership for some small span of time more. Even so, even after that, the Lord was more than merciful and accepted me back with glad arms and feasting.

I hope you will consider the enclosed manuscript (I’m told will appear in print this spring), which serves, in a way, as the story of my long-fought conversion to Christianity. I have entitled it The Pilgrim’s Regress, with no small reference to that earlier work by Bunyan. I should perhaps disclose at the first that I presently apply myself to a doctrine that will not entirely coincide with your own. To that point, I am certain you will find in the enclosed manuscript several key aspects disagreeable to your doctrinal affinities, though I hope you see the points of significant connection as well.

It is true, as I’m sure you will notice, that the notion of a journey to God as I depict it in my allegory has undertones of a pilgrimage of sorts, and that pilgrimages have undertones of a salvation gained in some part by our own achievements. I will frankly admit to you that I do not now fully understand the issue of salvation by either faith or by works or by both. What I know is that my conversion was more something that happened to me than something that I did, and that Christ’s action upon me compels me to act better than I did, to pray and to worship, to love when I would have hated—not to say that I do these things flawlessly, but the mysteries of the saving grace of Christ’s sacrifice I cannot fathom. Insofar as I do understand it, to know the actions, prayers, and gestures of the church is not necessarily to do them, and if Christianity brought no healing to the impotent will, Christ’s teaching would not help us.18 In regards to my allegorical journey, I can say that my little story explains the mental and spiritual process that brought me to a relationship with Christ, not the currency with which I was bought.

I hope you find some resonance with the notion of “Diving,” which I use to symbolize as close as I can the event of submitting myself to Christ. At a point, my ‘hero,’ John, is brought to the brink of his ‘conversion’ when he is told ‘you must take off your rags . . . and then you must dive into this water.’ When John complains that he has never learned to dive, he is told ‘There is nothing to learn . . . the art of diving is not to do anything new but simply to cease doing

18 C.S. Lewis, God in the Dock: Essays on Theology (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1970), 329, from a letter responding to the criticisms forwarded by W.R. Childe.

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something. You have only to let yourself go.’ And then his friend ‘Virtue’ tells him ‘It is only necessary . . . to abandon all efforts at self-preservation.’19 It is no doubt an insufficient description, even allegorically, of the process of our submission to Christ, and one that may even find some conflict with your thoughts on such matters as infant baptism. In the case of infants, however, you may find it interesting that my hero, John, upon his ‘Regress,’ must return to the very place from which he began as a child. Questions of necessity or dependence upon the journey for salvation are to me at this point irrelevant: I only describe what happened in my case. The preparation for diving, it will not escape you, is quite painful.

As for my enclosed story, I do hope that you will find it illuminating, at least of my own conversion. The differences between you and me are, I know, inescapable. I yet sincerely hope that you will find, overall, and despite our differences, a description of conversion that confirms the most essential points of Christianity shared not just by us two but by all those who proclaim Christ as our Savior and the Son of God.

As I close this letter, I cannot help but recall something of our first meeting. You explained then an idea that has hit home in these recent years—that we most first consider the existence of God before we ponder his character. I see now that you were right, but I have to say, only partially. I, at least, am constantly realizing the existence of God, again and again, as though a body in orbit around His reality: constantly falling toward him though never fully realizing the completion of his existence. The more I fall, the more I learn; the more I learn, the heavier I become, and thus the more I fall. Over and over again, round and round. But I can never be completely commensurate with it, because he does not call us to it—only to worship, to love, and to relate to him. . . . And to one another. It is in that spirit of relation and brotherhood that I write to you now.

With my deepest sincerity I write as your brother—and I hope now your friend—in Christ our Savior,

(Jack) C.S. Lewis 1 January 1933 Oxford

P.S. I do hope you will consider this letter a standing invitation to visit me, at which time I will be very pleased to make recompense for the discourteous treatment I gave you upon our last encounter. CSL

19 C.S. Lewis, The Pilgrim’s Regress, bk. 9, ch. 4.