Reflections on Future Adventure

I recently came across an inspiring passage in Charles H. Spurgeon’s sermon, “The Love of Jonathan, and the Love of Jesus”:

“I have told you before what I sometimes dream shall be my lot in glory, to stand not [in the pulpit] and preach to a handful of people … but to stand upon some starry orb, and preach of Christ to whole constellations at once, and thunder out my remembrances of His sweet love to myriads of beings who have never heard of Him as yet, for they have never sinned, but who will drink in all the tidings of what Jesus did for sinful men.

“And each of you, according to your training for it, shall make known to angels, and principalities, and powers, the manifold wisdom of God. There is plenty of room for you all, for God’s universe will need millions upon millions of messengers to go through it all, and tell out the story of redeeming love. And we, I believe, are here in training for that eternal work of making known to illimitable regions of space, and countless myriads of intelligent beings whom God has created, but who have never fallen, the story of this little planet, and of the God who loved it so that He came here, and died that He might save His people from their sins.”

I especially appreciate that Spurgeon says “according to your training for it.” I think this means that in eternity, each of us will do the real work God designed us to do, and it will make us not only happy, but absolutely joyful. Not only preachers, but everyone: Those who try to honor God in the stories they tell now will tell the best stories of all. Those who try to depict the beauties of creation in various artful ways now will be able to reflect all the wonders of God in ways they never thought possible. Those who make music for the glory of God now will go on to make music that is so glorious we can’t even begin to imagine what it will sound like. And so on, and on….

Spurgeon’s inspiring words also reminded me of the scene in C.S. Lewis’s Out of the Silent Planet, in which the Oyarsa of Malacandra asks Ransom to tell him about what has happened on Earth during the past few millennia. Naturally I found myself wondering: Did Lewis ever read Spurgeon?

<Time out from drafting blog post to submit question, variously worded, via search engine. Hmmm. No obvious connection off the top of results list. Doesn’t mean there isn’t one to be found upon digging deeper, but nothing immediately popped up.>

While I would love to find evidence that Spurgeon’s thoughts inspired Lewis, it’s also interesting to consider that this might simply be an instance of great Christian minds thinking rather alike (albeit minds that belonged to different denominations, not to mention generations, and who no doubt would not have agreed on every detail of theology and doctrine, had they ever had the opportunity to sit down and talk).

I find it encouraging that both were inspired by their reflections on scripture (1st Peter 1:12 seems one likely candidate) to create very different but powerful word-works that have inspired many along God-glorifying cosmic questing adventurous lines. Spurgeon was a preacher, while Lewis was an academic, teacher, and writer of popular apologetics and speculative fiction, but both saw and were moved by scripture’s cosmic implications, and worked hard to pass along their thoughts to people in desperate need of God-glorifying cosmic questing adventure. I for one am grateful for their willingness to do so. Thanks be to God!

Reading a Story for What It Is

I just finished reading Alister McGrath’s biography, C.S. Lewis – A Life: Eccentric Genius, Reluctant Prophet. This caused me to reflect once more on the relationship between Lewis and Tolkien, which in turn led (in a round-about way) to this post.

In the course of reading hundreds of reviews on Amazon and Goodreads over the past few years, I’ve noticed that instead of asking: “What question is the author asking in this story?” many readers assert (in one way or another): “This author didn’t do what they were supposed to do in this story.”

Now, I understand that in genre fiction certain tropes exist and the author should deliver them. I also understand that if a story makes a promise to the reader early on, the author must follow through on that promise by the last page of the book.

But I’m not talking about either of those things here. I’m talking about readers insisting that their preferred philosophy of story-telling is the legitimate approach to telling a story, and any story that doesn’t fit their philosophy is rubbish. IMO, this represents a rather narrow approach to reading!

One of the best examples of this gap between philosophies of story-telling is already fairly well-known among lovers of fantasy fiction: Tolkien’s dislike of The Chronicles of Narnia. If you are the type of reader who wants to know more about the authors of your favorite stories, then you probably already know that Tolkien didn’t appreciate Narnia. Apparently he disliked what he considered the patchwork quality of Lewis’s world-building.

And it’s not difficult to understand how strange Narnia would seem to Tolkien, a man who spent nearly his entire life building a world of magnificent depth and detail, and who spent many long years agonizing over continuity, rewriting passages, and rewriting them again, in an effort to achieve perfect consistency. Tolkien attempted to execute his philosophy of writer as sub-creator with exhaustive (and often exhausting) precision, and the result was an astonishing body of work that has engaged millions of people all over the world for several generations.

Now, I’ll confess right here that I don’t entirely disagree with Tolkien’s view that Narnia could have been fleshed out in more detail. I’ve often wished Lewis had done so! And I also recognize Tolkien didn’t necessarily demand that every writer measure up to the rigorous goals he set for himself. (Proof of this is in Tolkien’s positive and balanced comments about the world Lewis built in Out of the Silent Planet (the first volume in Lewis’s Space Trilogy), to be found in Tolkien’s Letters.)

Still, while Tolkien had every right to find Narnia not to his taste, I’m not aware that he ever acknowledged Lewis’s goal in creating it. Lewis never intended Narnia to be primarily an exercise in sub-creation in the same way that Tolkien approached his own work. In other words, Lewis’s work didn’t live up to Tolkien’s standard, but Lewis never intended to measure up to Tolkien’s standard.

So to the extent Tolkien viewed Narnia only through his own lens, it’s no wonder he was disappointed.

Lewis said the reason he wrote The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe was in answer to a specific “supposal” (what we might call the question at the heart of a speculative work): What would it look like if Christ were to become incarnate in a world of sentient animals and mythological creatures?

This is not a question Tolkien asks in LOTR. Quite the opposite: He said that although he wrote LOTR to be consistent with Christianity, he also avoided addressing the Incarnation in his mythology.

So even though both Tolkien and Lewis wrote fantasy fiction, the goals (philosophies) behind the creation of Middle Earth and the creation of Narnia could not have been more different.

And yet, despite the vast gap between these two authors’ goals for their stories, millions of readers love them. In fact, I think it’s safe to say that many of the same readers love both Tolkien and Lewis (although people who love both undoubtedly represent a smaller subset of readers).

But the only way the same reader could love both LOTR and The Chronicles of Narnia is if that reader is willing to read each on its own terms. The reader must be willing to at least respect each author’s philosophy of story-telling, and appreciate these stories for what they were intended to be – rather than finding fault with them for what they were never intended to be.

For example: If we insist that a Christ-figure must appear in LOTR, then we’re going to spend a lot of time and energy trying to make Gandalf or Aragorn fit a Messianic profile, even though this was not Tolkien’s intent.

And if we demand that The Chronicles of Narnia measure up to Tolkien’s personal standard of world-building and myth-making, then we’re going to be disappointed, because Lewis never set out to create any such thing.

In short: Maybe we’ll be happier readers if we consider an author’s goals as one legitimate component of our reading experience.

I Came to Love You Late, Princess

For the last several years, I’ve ignored the burgeoning interest in retold fairy tales. Until recently, I didn’t even recognize some of the fairy tale themes in my own stories!

Why? In truth, I was never a fan of many fairy tales to begin with. Or rather, it was not so much fairy tales that I had a problem with (I was fascinated by the story of Hansel and Gretel). It would be more accurate to say that I was never a fan of Disney princesses.

Those princesses were always beautiful, and even as a tot I knew I would never look like them. They were loved by all except the truly wicked, and I knew I could never hope to inspire such admiration. Handsome princes were willing to brave all kinds of peril for their love. Yeah, right.

So when it came to Disney, I was not charmed by Cinderella. Instead, I loved Bambi and his forest friends, and I put up with Snow White for the sake of the dwarves. I was most impressed by Mary Poppins, who always knew the right thing to do, and came and went as she pleased, courtesy of her levitating umbrella.

In truth, songs like “Someday My Prince Will Come” made me want to hurl.

As I grew older, I loved Lucy Pevensie, who skipped being a princess altogether and went straight to being a Queen of Narnia. Her gift from Father Christmas wasn’t a doll, but a dagger – and a cool healing cordial (which certainly would come in handy following any adventures involving said dagger). She rode into battle with the other archers. She loved sailing toward adventure with her shipmates on the Dawn Treader.

More importantly, Lucy loved her brother Edmund so much that even in the face of his betrayal she begged Aslan to help him. She was kind to her spiteful cousin Eustace. She was willing to risk her life to save her companions by facing the Magician’s magic book alone.

In so many ways, Lucy had the kind of courage I wanted to have. I wanted to be like her. I still do.

For above all else Lucy knew her own faults, and was sorry for them. But she also knew that Aslan knew her as well or better than she knew herself, and that he loved her, as she loved him. This gave her hope.

Queen Lucy never appeared to be pining away, waiting for her prince to come. I mean, sure, she missed Aslan when he wasn’t physically present in Narnia, but … that’s not the same thing, right?

Hmmm….

Which leads me back to the current popularity of retold fairy tales. Turns out a fairy tale (as I’m sure countless others have observed before me) has become something like the tofu of the literary world – a template that is used to cook up a story flavored with whatever one likes:  Materialism. Eroticism. “I Am the Captain of My Soulism.”

Many tales, however (for reasons that deserve a separate post), are especially well-suited to depicting a God-centered view of reality. Therefore, I set out to find some retellings that resonate for me.

And guess what? I found an entire collection! Coming soon: A review of Once: Six Historically Inspired Fairytales.

Fearing Black Riders

I think I came to love The Lord of the Rings a bit later than many fantasy enthusiasts. This is because, although I remember trying to read it more than once as a lass, I wasn’t able to get past the Black Riders.

They terrified me.

There is evil in Narnia, but somehow, despite seeing how the characters I cared about suffered, and even faced possible painful death, I almost never felt seriously threatened by their experiences. I was eager to see how they pulled (or were pulled!) through, but somehow I always had a sense of assurance they would, and that all would be well. This kept any real sense of menace at bay. I realize now, looking back, that this underlying sense of assurance – a vain hope that there really aren’t any Black Riders, perhaps? – was one of the most important things I was looking for in the stories I lived on in my early years.

The only real exception to that Narnian sense of assurance came in the final volume of the Chronicles, The Last Battle. It was hard to read about those losses on and off the battlefield. Somehow, they represented a threat of a different magnitude. It was the first time I can remember feeling the real shadow of menace over Narnia. As a result, I didn’t reread that book with warm enthusiasm the way I repeatedly reread the others – at least, not for many years.

But how I felt about The Last Battle was nothing compared to what it was like to encounter the Black Riders. Fearing Black Riders was the sort of thing that makes one shudder and put a book down, unfinished. Which is what I did for several years with The Lord of the Rings.
As it turned out, I had to meet a few “Black Riders” in real life before I was able to appreciate their significance in fiction.

Flash forward a few years, into adulthood: There I was on the run, as it were, with my own Black Riders in pursuit. The terror was real. The horror of it was in my life!

It was only when I was beyond any hope of helping myself that it finally became clear to me that help comes from God. Not to escape in a moment of deus ex machina dramatics, but rather to bear the experience. And for me, having help to bear the fact of Black Rider presence in this sad beautiful world was significant indeed.

After that, I came to love The Lord of the Rings as I’ve loved very few other stories. What a comfort to be reminded that although the road is long and hard, following it is the only hope there is. What a comfort to be reminded that whatever astonishing burden we must bear on the road is meant for us to bear – but not without help.

What a comfort to be reminded that even though we don’t understand everything that is happening, if we only follow through as much as we can, then even when we fail, all is not necessarily lost.

“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.”

A Clean, Well-Lighted Place

I was talking with an artist friend the other day, and the name Thomas Kinkade was mentioned.

“Oh,” my friend said.  “Was he the guy who painted all of those kitschy houses?”

You remember the painter Thomas Kinkade, right?  He certainly did paint a lot of pictures of houses, some in a kind of pseudo-old-English cottage style that looks like something out of the sanitized version of a fairy tale.

And yet, the Kinkade house I remember best was set against a background of misty woods at twilight.  You can almost feel the chill of the cool evening air in the rich blue-grays and purples he used to suggest deepening shadows between those trees.

And these shadows are serious; you know at a glance that this forest is no place to go wandering alone and unprepared in the evening. Probably not during the day, either. It’s not a place you would be wise to enter without a firm purpose at any time, because it clearly is not “safe.”

It’s because of that cool shadowed forest that your eye is drawn to the light within the heart of the house at the center of the painting.  Behind the multi-paned glass of the cottage windows golden light, tinged with red, glows.  A hearth, a lantern, many candles – whatever the source, that light is there, and it tells you that within this house you will find warmth and comfort.  Of course there will be food in such a house, and drink – lots of it, whatever it is you need to make you feel better as you pause for a few moments of rest and refreshment in the midst of your quest.

Some people think this is nothing more than sheer escapism, or even a lie about the nature of reality.

But I prefer to think of it as a small yet significant moment of what Tolkien, in his essay “On Fairy Stories,” called “consolation.” He was speaking of the necessity of a happy ending in a fairy story. To me, any opportunity to come in out of the cold, even if for only one night, in the midst of one’s harrowing journey through that dark and dangerous forest, is like a promise (an earnest or token, if you will) of that final consolation.  How bleak and stark would Middle Earth be without Tom Bombadil’s house! Without Rivendell, without Lothlorien!

But this temporary respite from cold, from hunger, from darkness, and from evil, doesn’t mean we don’t acknowledge the existence of such things.  It doesn’t mean we truly believe that Mordor has gone away.  We aren’t toddlers playing peek-a-boo, believing that because we’ve hidden our faces behind our own hands no one can see us.  We know full well that just because we’re spending the night in a clean, well-lighted place doesn’t mean the dark forest is not still out there.

I don’t think Thomas Kinkade was so hugely popular because all of his fans were silly enough to believe his stuff depicted reality in the same sense that, say, Guernica depicts reality.

But why is it not realistic to acknowledge that within every human soul is a longing for the light and warmth and comfort of home?  And that sometimes, even if it’s only for a brief while, we actually find it?