Why C.S. Lewis Plays a Prominent Role in My Intellectual Life

This past May, Steve Moore, CEO emeritus of the M.J. Murdock Charitable Trust, and I had the joy of leading a group of fellow Christians on a trip to Ireland and England we called "In the Footsteps of Faith." Our primary goal was to introduce the participants to Christians in those countries who had remained faithful to God's call in their time. In particular we engaged them in conversations around the writings of J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. As part of the gathering, I was asked to convey why the works of C.S. Lewis are important to me and I include those general thoughts here. They are not intended to be scholarly comments on the works of Lewis but my personal reflections on the stories and how they have affected my journey with Christ. I hope they are an encouragement to you as well. 

Most people believe that my interest in C.S. Lewis likely came from reading his children's stories as a child, but that isn’t the case. I had never heard of Lewis until I was an adult. I was raised in a strong Christian home where my mother taught us to love books and reading, but the works of Lewis, and Tolkien for that matter, did not appear on our list. My mother didn’t ignore or dislike the Lewis stories; they were simply unknown to our religious community.  

Our family has been part of the Southern Baptist church and the broader Baptist movement for several generations. Reading the Bible, memorizing Scripture, and having knowledge of the stories took precedence in our home to understand God’s work in the world. I think there was a general assumption in our community that Christian development and discipleship only required knowledge of and commitment to Scripture.

Beyond my mother’s perspective, the wider Southern Baptist network seemed to harbor a fear that "secular" stories might lead us astray, often viewing literary authors with skepticism. The sentiment was that “the imagination was the tool of the devil, and it was far better to keep a serious mind than to explore fantasy and fiction.”

Thus, when I attended a Southern Baptist university I took almost every Bible course I could find time for and made every attempt to avoid the literary world. One of my few “B” grades in college came during my senior year when I attempted to understand poetry. Despite Lewis' deep love for poetry and his original desire to become a significant poet, my professor's enthusiasm for the subject didn't rub off on me, and I gained few tools to further my appreciation.

It was not until I was in my PhD program, teaching Bible studies for Intervarsity ministries at Texas A&M, that my interest in C.S. Lewis’ writing was awakened. During a study session on Paul’s letters, a graduate student from Calvin asked if I’d ever thought about the mind being “captured for Christ.” Could one truly think “Christianly?” He noted that C.S. Lewis, the Oxford scholar, seemed to believe so, famously writing, “I believe in Christ as I believe the Sun has risen, not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.”

I thought, “How could that statement be true?” In my own Baptist upbringing I was taught a dualistic worldview. I was aware that Sunday was set aside for worship and concentration on the biblical text. The purpose of the rest of the week was to share the gospel – to communicate to those around me regarding their need for salvation. Jesus died for every person paying the penalty for their sins. His resurrection provided essential access to heaven but not much else.  

This was the “big” truth at the core of our thinking, yet the rest of our pursuit of knowledge remained disconnected. It was as if secular and religious people simply did their best to understand the human condition, regardless of their understanding of God. Our universities reinforced this by requiring Bible courses, but often left the rest of the curriculum to be taught by secular individuals who, while not necessarily disagreeing with religion, held no overt commitment to the faith.

My fellow graduate student colleagues encouraged me to read Mere Christianity and other Lewis writings. As I did, I slowly became open to a different perspective. I do not know if it was “God’s” conspiracy against my own wishes, but it began to work. After reading a number of Lewis’ apologetic works and talking continually with my graduate student friends, I was slowly converted to a different view of the world – centering my mind on Christ provided a new “lens” through which I could view the world around me. The truths I discovered in all aspects of life were directly affected by the way I understood Christ and his kingdom.  

This reshaping of my perspective wasn’t the only way God was working; he also pushed me further down this path by granting me my first job. I came out of graduate school at a difficult time (I did not know it would get worse), and it was hard to find a job. I interviewed at a number of universities – almost all secular. I wanted to stay in the South, and Texas if I could, but I did not receive any job offers.  

I eventually received two offers to work that year, and one came from Wheaton College near Chicago. I had heard about the college because Billy Graham graduated from there, and any college Rev. Graham graduated from was good enough for me – even if it was in Illinois!  

I knew Wheaton College was the home of the Wade Center – the largest collection of C.S. Lewis books and paraphernalia in the U.S. Its director, Lyle Dorsett, became one of my best friends, and he deepened my knowledge of Lewis and the Inklings. You might think that I began to replace my love of Scripture with the love of Saints Lewis and Tolkien! That is not what happened. Both Lewis and Tolkien opened my imagination to the hidden things of God. Reading their works encouraged me to ask bold questions I was never willing to ask God. I no longer feared speaking with God but began to enter into conversations that would deepen my love for God and his Word.

Lewis once wrote to a young child who had written him about his fear of loving Aslan too much and loving God less. Lewis noted that there was nothing to fear. “Loving Aslan would only increase his love for God,” he said. I found that to be true as well. In the stories of Lewis and Tolkien, I was able to place myself in God’s story in a way that I never had before. They enabled me to see God’s handiwork daily – not just in the past.  

In one sense, Lewis made it possible to be an “academic” and also be a Christian. I no longer had to believe in a dualistic world, but I could fully embrace my faith in my work. I had never thought that possible. His apologetics works helped me understand that the Christian story was true in every aspect of life, and the children’s stories, which I read as an adult, opened my mind to the work of God. In fact, Lewis helped me realize that no adult is too old to enjoy a well-written children’s story. Before discovering Lewis, I would never have read a children’s story, but now I always have one on my list of essential reading.  

You might ask, “But what do you really mean? How could a children’s story really open an adult’s imagination?” Let me illustrate. In the story of Prince Caspian, one of the characters, Jill Pole, finds herself alone and separated from her companion, Eustace Scrubbs. Jill is tired and thirsty, and in front of her is a stream. She sees water and desperately wants a drink, but unfortunately a lion stands in her path between her and the stream. 

A conversation begins with the lion. “If you are thirsty, come and drink. . . are you not thirsty?” says the lion. 

“Will you promise not to do anything to me, if I do come?” she asks, and the Lion replies, “I make no promise.” Jill was so thirsty now that, without noticing it, she had come a step nearer.

“Do you eat girls?” she said.

“I have swallowed up girls and boys, women and men, kings and emperors, cities and realms,” said the Lion. It didn’t say this as if it were boasting, nor as if it were sorry, nor as if it were angry. It just said it.

“I daren’t come and drink,” said Jill.

“Then you will die of thirst,” said the Lion.

“Oh dear!” said Jill, coming another step nearer. “I suppose I must go and look for another stream then.”

“There is no other stream,” said the Lion.

I know from the gospel stories that there is only one path to God – through Jesus Christ. Sometimes when I read it in the text I come away thinking that the gospel is an exclusive “stream” with access provided only for the dedicated few. However, in this children’s story I am confronted with the truth that it is the “child” who fears the stream and the challenge the Lion might bring.

Even in this Lewis story, the “water” is about more than physical sustainability – the stream provides access to something more important – “living water” (just like in the story of the “woman and the well.”)  The “stream” is open to all, but access to living, life-transforming water requires individual transformation. One should not fear the lion, but he is not safe if you wish to keep your perspective and view of life. The person who is not willing to set all aside cannot follow, and therefore, their access to “real” life (and water) is limited.  

Lewis’s stories are invitations to explore worlds where Christ’s vision and commitments compete with the perspectives of different societies and people. He helps us travel into fictional worlds that operate much like our own. What we discover often has implications for how we live in our own world and the choices we may make. If Christians are to be about bringing God’s kingdom values to our world, then Lewis helps us consider just how to do that. He, and other significant writers, help us capture our minds for Christ, and in doing so open our hearts to Christ’s story and calling.  

Standing in Front of the Wardrobe

What is true? It is a question we are presented with daily, yet we rarely give much thought to it. How do we discern what to believe, and what criteria guide our acceptance of one argument over another?

One might not consider such a subject appropriate for a children’s story, but for C.S. Lewis, it was precisely the ideal starting point. As I write this, I find myself in East Belfast, standing before a replica of the famous Narnian wardrobe – a hidden gateway to another world, tucked away in plain sight within an old house not far from here.  

To be specific, in the story of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, four children were sent from London to the home of a professor in the rural countryside to escape bombings in London. The house was old, musty, full of books, nooks and crannies. As they explored the house, Lucy, the youngest of the four Pevensie children, discovered a wardrobe. As a child might, she stepped inside the wardrobe, and it seemed bigger than she had expected. As she pushed around, instead of coming to the end of this piece of furniture, she found that she was pushing through some evergreen trees, and before she knew it, she found herself in a forest amid winter! Edmund, her mischievous brother, followed her into the wardrobe. And thus, Lewis’ Narnian adventures began. 

When Lucy and Edmund returned to the “real” world through the wardrobe, their two older siblings, Peter and Susan, wanted to know where they had been. Lucy and Edmund told quite different stories. Lucy simply told what she had seen and experienced. Edmund, not wanting to divulge who he had met, pretended that Lucy was simply making the whole story up. After all, who would ever believe that you could gain access to another world through a wardrobe in an old house? The ensuing argument led to hurt feelings, with Peter and Susan even questioning their sister Lucy’s sanity. To resolve the issue, they visited the professor in whose house they were then residing.

The result was the next morning they decided that they really would go and tell the whole thing to the Professor. “He'll write to Father if he thinks there is really something wrong with Lu,” said Peter; “it’s getting beyond us.” So they went and knocked at the study door, and the Professor said, “Come in,” and got up and found chairs for them and said he was quite at their disposal. Then he sat listening to them with the tips of his fingers pressed together and never interrupting, till they had finished the whole story. After that he said nothing for quite a long time. Then he cleared his throat and said the last thing either of them expected:

 “How do you know,” he asked, “that your sister’s story is not true?” 

“Oh, but -” began Susan, and then stopped. Anyone could see from the old man’s face that he was perfectly serious. Then Susan pulled herself together and said, “But Edmund said they had only been  pretending.” 

“That is a point,” said the Professor, “which certainly deserves consideration; very careful consideration. For instance – if you will excuse me for asking the question – does your experience lead you to regard your brother or your sister as the more reliable? I mean, which is the more truthful?” 

“That's just the funny thing about it, sir,” said Peter. “Up till now, I’d have said Lucy every time.”

“And what do you think, my dear?” said the Professor, turning to Susan. 

“Well,” said Susan, “in general, I’d say the same as Peter, but this couldn't be true – all this about the  wood and the Faun.” 

“That is more than I know,” said the Professor, “and a charge of lying against someone whom you have always found truthful is a very serious thing; a very serious thing indeed.” 

“We were afraid it mightn’t even be lying,” said Susan; “we thought there might be something wrong  with Lucy.” 

“Madness, you mean?” said the Professor quite coolly. “Oh, you can make your minds easy about that. One has only to look at her and talk to her to see that she is not mad.” 

“But then,” said Susan, and stopped. She had never dreamed that a grown-up would talk like the  Professor and didn’t know what to think.

“Logic!” said the Professor half to himself. “Why don’t they teach logic at these schools? There are only three possibilities. Either your sister is telling lies, or she is mad, or she is telling the truth. You know she doesn’t tell lies, and it is obvious that she is not mad. For the moment, then, and unless any further evidence turns up, we must assume that she is telling the truth.” 

Susan looked at him very hard and was quite sure from the expression on his face that he was not making fun of them. 

“But how could it be true, sir?” said Peter. 

“Why do you say that?” asked the Professor. 

“Well, for one thing,” said Peter, “if it was true, why doesn’t everyone find this country every time they go to the wardrobe? I mean, there was nothing there when we looked; even Lucy didn’t pretend there was.” 

“What has that to do with it?” said the Professor. 

“Well, sir, if things are real, they’re there all the time.” 

“Are they?” said the Professor; and Peter didn’t know quite what to say. 

“But there was no time,” said Susan. “Lucy had no time to have gone anywhere, even if there was such a place. She came running after us the very moment we were out of the room. It was less than a minute, and she pretended to have been away for hours.” 

“That is the very thing that makes her story so likely to be true,” said the Professor. “If there really is a door in this house that leads to some other world (and I should warn you that this is a very strange house, and even I know very little about it) – if, I say, she had got into another world, I should not be at all surprised to find that the other world had a separate time of its own; so that however long you stay there it would never take up any of our time. On the other hand, I don't think many girls of her age would invent that idea for themselves. If she had been pretending, she would have hidden for a reasonable time before coming out and telling her story.” 

“But do you really mean, sir,” said Peter, “that there could be other worlds – all over the place, just round the corner – like that?” 

“Nothing is more probable,” said the Professor, taking off his spectacles and beginning to polish them, while he muttered to himself, “I wonder what do they teach them at these schools.” 

Indeed, what do they “teach” in the schools? What do you notice about the professor’s reaction to the children’s story? First, he listens. He treats the concern seriously. How many times as a parent have you pushed aside the question of a child simply because it is coming from a child? He sees this as a teaching moment.

Second, he asks questions rather than providing expected answers: Who is more reliable? Is something “true” only if it happens the same way every time (bias towards science)? How does one experience time? Are other worlds possible? Peter and Susan hoped the professor would simply confirm their conclusion, but he refused. Instead, he made them rethink their understanding of truth in that situation by reconsidering their own reasoning.

Look closely, and you'll easily see the parallels between the professor's dialogue with the children and how we understand the story of Christ. During the Enlightenment, science began to erode Scripture's authority by “explaining away” much of life's mysteries. People were coming to the conclusion that Christ, although a good moral teacher, was little more than that. Christian belief was the misguided commitments of a few uneducated fishermen who weaved a tale that was accepted by the masses in the period after the first century.

Lewis encourages the reader to ask different questions about one’s experience of faith: Is Christ’s resurrection a fairy tale because it only happened once? What about other miracles? Who is more reliable in telling the stories of the first century? What makes the Gospel stories reliable? Is another world possible?

Faith, for Lewis, was not the uncritical acceptance of the biblical story, but the careful examination of God’s work over time through his people and the accumulation of evidence. He believed God’s story to be true, in a similar way to Lucy’s experience and story, because it is reliable, consistent, and provides the best explanation for our existence and our future. 

Imaginative literature, even fantastic children’s stories, can transcend their narratives to ask profound questions. Jesus himself, as recorded in Matthew 11:25, spoke to those grappling with his teachings, declaring, “I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that you have hidden these things from the wise and understanding and revealed them to little children.”

Jesus knew that children more readily set aside ingrained experiences and traditions, opening themselves to diverse understandings of life’s grand story. It was no accident he urged his disciples to let children come to him, for “theirs” was the Kingdom of Heaven. Similarly, in the Narnian stories, it’s the youngest and smallest child, Lucy, who is receptive to the Lion’s voice. As we read Lewis’ works, we should strive to be attentive, in our own lives, to the child that still rests within each of us.

Remember the Signs!

When the people of Abraham are freed from Egyptian captivity, the Lord provides them direction through commandments given first to Moses and then to the people. Those of us who are familiar with the Old Testament texts and stories know that God provided the 10 Commandments and prioritized two: “Love the Lord your God with all your mind, soul and heart,” and the second, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” 

We also learn from Israel's history that they frequently forgot the Lord’s words and commands. Their flourishing – in every sense, not just financially – was directly tied to remembering what they were to “love.” In Deuteronomy 6:6-8, the Lord emphasized this, stating, “These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads. Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates.”

Loving the Lord and your neighbor was always to be on your minds, in your conversations, and in the relationships that you had every day. The Lord knew, perhaps because the adversary, the devil, is walking about seeking people to devour, that it would be difficult to hold to these commitments. Thus, the practice of remembering was essential to living a life of discipleship that reflected God’s promises. Those who forget live aimlessly at best and move in the wrong direction at the worst. At least in God’s kingdom, remembering the signs is important.  

In The Silver Chair, another Narnian adventure, remembering specific signs becomes crucial for the mission’s success. This time, Eustace Scrubb (who we’ll discuss more later) and Jill Pole are tasked with recovering Prince Rilian.

Aslan: “I lay on you this command, that you seek this lost prince until either you have found him and brought him to his father’s house, or else died in the attempt, or else gone back to your own world.”

“How please?” said Jill.  

“I will tell you, Child,” said the Lion. “These are the signs by which I will guide you in your quest. First, as soon as the Boy Eustace sets foot in Narnia, he will meet an old and dear friend. He must greet that friend at once; if he does, you will both have good help. Second; you must journey out of Narnia to the north till you come to the ruined city of the ancient giants. Third; you shall find a writing on a stone in that ruined city, and you must do what the writing tells you. Fourth; you will know the lost prince (if you find him) by this, that he will be the first person you have met in your travels who will ask you to do something in my name, in the name of Aslan.”

. . . “But the first step is to remember. Repeat to me, in order, the four signs.”  

For Jill, the rules or guidelines fall into several general categories.

First, she must remember who she is to meet. Aslan simply states, “You will meet an old and dear friend.”  As is true of Jill, our journeys are often aided by friends who have deep wisdom and faith. 

Ruth and I recently took a trip called the Footsteps of Faith, where we guided friends into the “footsteps” and the paths of C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien and many others. Many of the people on the trip came because of our trusted friend, Steve Moore. It is also true of the university – perhaps, the mission of the university is best expressed in the relationships mentors develop with students. Those mentors are genuine guides. When I talk with graduates, they most often talk about the people at George Fox and rarely talk about the information they garnered.   

Recently, I was traveling in Houston, Texas, and I met Nathan Sundgren, who is a doctor at Baylor University College of Medicine. When we talked about his memories of George Fox, he consistently talked about people he met here such as Dwight Kimberly and Don Powers. In some difficult times in his life, these George Fox people had provided support and wisdom that made the difference in key moments.  

Second, the direction of travel was vital. In Christian circles, we often refer to this as “God’s calling.” Sometimes “calling is about what you do, but it is also about where you are called to work.” Jill had to leave the safety of Narnia and journey to a place that she did not know. In Lewis’ stories, the children always receive a challenge, and it usually means that they are going to be uncomfortable. They are going to see new places and meet new people. It is going to be “risky,” but at the same time, the risk has the potential of leading to greater trust and transformation. Aslan pushes the children to grow in character and faith on their journeys.  

It’s the same for us, isn't it? Our lives are lived amidst risk and challenge. Certainly, countless philosophers have debated why suffering and challenge exist in a God-designed world. For this discussion, let’s simply assume we’re in a divine drama, each with a role to play. God created us and assigned us tasks to advance his kingdom here. Part of life’s journey involves taking on these God-given challenges, making the journey itself inherently risky. The Bible consistently honors those who step out and take such risks.

One of the essential purposes of George Fox University's mission is to help students identify their “where” – discovering how God has equipped them and where he intends them to serve. Like the friend Jill seeks, we aim to be the mentors our students need to find their God-given place in the world. Whether in Narnia or in life, we are all part of a larger story and asked to play our role.

Third, words matter, and the stories of the Bible are vital to God’s people. Just as in Narnia, words carry weight in the biblical narrative. My great hope is for our students to deeply know the book we call the Bible. It is the passionate story of the relationship between the God of the universe and his people. Created male and female in his image, he has called us to walk with him in this world to join the great drama of building his kingdom. In Psalm 119:105, the writer noted, “Your word is a lamp to walk by, and a light to illumine my path.” God has been at work since the beginning of time. We are not alone. The stories of the Bible are presented to us to encourage, to teach, and to provide direction. God calls you not only to read it but also to enter the story. As the Bible says, “write on your heart” the words and stories that truly matter.

Finally, even though the journey may be risky and we have lots of challenging assignments, God promises us that he will be with us. While Jill was called to work in the name of Aslan, we work in the name of Jesus. Paul said it this way in Philippians 2: 9-11: “As a result God exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee shall bow – in heaven and on earth and under the earth – and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord to the glory of God the Father.”

As I read the New Testament, I am often reminded of the work that Jesus calls us to do in his name. Perhaps the most poignant request was the one he requested of Ananias. “Ananias, get up and go to the street called ‘Straight,” and at Judas’ house look for a man from Tarsus named Saul. For he is praying …” You know the story, I am sure. Saul, one of the key leaders who was persecuting early followers of Jesus, met Jesus on the road to Damascus. Ananias, of course, did not know that. He only knew Saul as the man who was killing Christians. Yet, God calls him to do something in his name. It is not a “safe” call – it is a demanding call. God does not call us to “safety” but to engage the battle where he needs us. You can be assured that if the call is in his Name, you will be moving in the direction he has asked. 

A Final Warning  

Aslan gave Jill a final warning: “I give you a warning. Here on the mountain I have spoken to you clearly: I will not often do so down in Narnia. Here on the mountain, the air is clear and your mind is clear; as you drop down into Narnia, the air will thicken. Take great care that it does not confuse your mind. And the signs which you have learned here will not look at all as you expect them to look, when you meet them there.  . . . Remember the signs and believe the signs. Nothing else matters.”  

In the Chronicles of Narnia, as in the Bible, there is someone at work trying to subvert the work of Aslan (Christ). Jesus reminded the disciples to be sober and vigilant because their adversary was at work attempting to destroy the work of the Kingdom. Thus, remembering, celebrating and worshiping are all essential aspects of staying on track in your journey. Remember God’s story – nothing else matters.

Eustace Scrubbs and The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (The Curse of Everyman)

In The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, Lewis introduces us to a character who almost makes you squirm when he enters the narrative. He reminds us of people we know and perhaps, sometimes, reminds us of ourselves.

Eustace is the kind of boy who seems to know everything and yet nothing useful at the same time. He is braggadocious, dodges work at every opportunity, and generally makes a nuisance of himself at all times. When there is work to be done, he cannot be found. He is vain and cowardly. He is the kind of person that when he leaves, it is a pleasant surprise to everyone in the room or, in the case of this story, on the ship.  

Early in the story, the Dawn Treader (the ship of sail) is damaged and is forced to go into port. There is work to be done, but Eustace quietly slips away from the work onto the island where they have anchored. While he is wandering on the island, he becomes lost and stumbles upon a dragon’s lair. Lewis described it this way (notice the comment again about reading the wrong books).  

“Most of us know what we should expect to find in a dragon’s lair, but, as I said before, Eustace had read only the wrong books. They had a lot to say about exports and imports and governments and drains, but they were weak on dragons. That is why he was so puzzled at the surface on which he was lying. Parts of it were too prickly to be stones and too hard to be thorns, and there seemed to be a great many round, flat things, and it all clinked when he moved. There was light enough at the cave’s mouth to examine it by. And of course, Eustace found it to be what any of us could have told him in advance – treasure.”

Consistent with his character, Eustace then tries to take all of the treasure he can with him. He stuffs the coins and gems in his pockets until they are overflowing. He places a bracelet just above his elbow on his arm, and then he falls asleep. Eustace, having read the wrong books, had no idea that sleeping in a dragon's lair transforms a person into a dragon.  

“He moved his right arm in order to feel his left, but stopped before he had moved it an inch and bit his lip in terror. For just in front of him, and a little on his right, where the moonlight fell clear on the floor of the cave, he saw a hideous shape moving. He knew that shape: it was a dragon’s claw. It had moved as he moved his hand and became still when he stopped moving his hand.” 

Eustace had turned into a dragon while he was asleep. Sleeping on a dragon’s hoard with greedy, dragonish thoughts in his heart, he had become a dragon himself. In this state, Eustace was not only in pain, but he also began to realize that the treasure he had pursued left him alone and isolated. Before, his isolation seemed a choice, but now it was thrust upon him, a consequence of his character becoming painfully recognizable even to himself.

“He wanted to be friends. He wanted to get back among humans and talk and laugh and share things. He realized that he was a monster cut off from the whole human race. An appalling loneliness came over him. He began to see that the others had not really been friends at all. He began to wonder if he himself had not been such a nice person as he had always supposed.”

Eustace became, in the minds of the ship’s company, a much nicer person as a dragon than he had ever been as a person. At the very least, his character was now transparent. The ship’s company begins to consider what they will do with Eustace when they leave – they can’t take him with them, can they? I mean, how do you take a dragon with you on a ship? The more he considers his circumstances, the more Eustace becomes depressed. All he can think about is his pain – the bracelet on his arm. Knowing that he is a reptile, Eustace considers the fact that he might be able to “scratch” out of his skin. He tries again and again, but it does not work. His problem appears to be more than “skin” deep. Then he meets the lion – Aslan.

“Then the lion said – but I don’t know if it spoke – you will have to let me undress you. I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty desperate now. So I just lay down on my back to let him do it. 

The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off,  it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. Aslan threw him in the water.”

What an interesting way to consider the Biblical truth that “where your treasure is, your heart will be also.” We give little thought, most of the time, to the treasures we hold dear. We do not consider how they shape our character and our hearts. Jesus consistently encountered individuals whose hearts had been reshaped by their treasures, rendering them "dull" to His message. Examples include the rich young ruler, the man who built larger barns for his abundant goods, and the man who wished to bury his father before following Christ, as well as David’s love for Bathsheba. Jesus clearly asserted that one cannot be His disciple if their heart is not free from attachments. Lewis strongly echoed this challenge in his own stories, understanding that "where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

When Eustace became a dragon, his real problem became evident. As a human, Eustace’s character was hidden behind a mask that disappeared when he took the form of a dragon. Now, as a dragon, he began to see who he really was, and he did not like what he saw. It became obvious that what he “treasured” disrupted his relationships with his friends and his community. Was there a way to rescue him in his current state?  

Lewis knew that at the core of the Gospel is the disruption of the heart – we have loved the wrong things. When Jesus was asked what the greatest commandment was, he answered: to love the Lord your God with all your heart and mind. Only when you get your “first” love in the proper place is everything else placed in the right order. So Eustace has to have his “heart” pierced by the lion so he might experience real transformation. As Eustace needs transformation, so do we.  

Lewis did not leave the story with Eustace in isolation. It was evident that he was “cleansed” by the lion. Eustace wanted so much to complete the process himself but freeing ourselves from the objects of our affections is not something we do on our own. We need the one who rejected all to save humanity – Christ. It is Christ who reforms Eustace. His tears were deep and painful. I love the way Lewis ended this part of the story. Eustace was not healed completely in an instant. It was the beginning of a process of change.

“It would be nice, and fairly true, to say that from that time forth Eustace was a different boy. To be strictly accurate, he began to be a different boy. He had relapses. There were still many days when he could be very tiresome. But most of those I shall not notice. The cure had begun.”

We may want the “cure” to be immediate, but the real cure takes years of work through Christ. It is certainly my hope that the cure has begun in me, although there may still be many days when I am tiresome.

Considering Temptation    

Do you ever imagine that the devil or devils tempt you? C.S. Lewis did. In one of his most controversial and popular works, The Screwtape Letters, Lewis proposes a conversation between two of Satan’s minions as they consider ways to disrupt a follower of Jesus’ life. The book, which first appeared in a series of essays in an English journal, drew an unexpected popular audience. By creating a world where the devils were in dialogue, Lewis provided a window into how humans both think and are compromised. 

In our present world, the devil (Satan) is rarely mentioned and barely a believable concept. I was standing in line getting ready to board a plane recently and the lady behind me began a conversation with another person – “Yes, if it were not for ‘religion,’ this world would be much better! People are basically good, but they create all this other stuff to try to control us. If they would just leave us alone, we would be fine.”

My first thought, as a historian, was that this person knows absolutely nothing about history. With or without religion, history seems to suggest that we are just rotten to each other. The story of the Bible looks far more plausible in light of actual historical circumstances.  

In The Screwtape Letters, Lewis imagines what the devil is like by considering a conversation with the spiritual forces of the dark side tempting a Christian to leave the faith. Among the lessons we learn are the following:

1. “Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one – the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts . . .  Your affectionate uncle, Screwtape.”
2. “It is funny how mortals always picture us as putting things into their minds: in reality our best work is done by keeping things out.”
3. “Gratitude looks to the Past and love to the Present; fear, avarice, lust and ambition look ahead.”
4. “Do not be deceived, Wormwood. Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy’s will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished and asks why he has been forsaken and still obeys.”
5. “When He [God] talks of their losing their selves, He means only abandoning the clamor of self-will; once they have done that, He really gives them back all their personality, and boasts (I am afraid, sincerely) that when they are wholly His they will be more themselves than ever.”

Each of these points, and many more, deserves attention, but the one I resonate the most with is the first – the gradual road to disobedience. In that context, the road to Hell is a gradual one where the “enemy” gains a foothold through small, incremental steps that begin to move one off the path of obedience. Perhaps this is similar to people who are on diets to lose weight; they did not get into their current condition by eating one giant meal in 24 hours. The weight was put on slowly, one “cookie” at a time, over periods of months or even years.

The spiritual life seems to me to have similar patterns. One does not move outside the faith through drastic steps, but small incremental choices that slowly make it less comfortable to follow God. One morning, you wake up and God’s wishes – the paths he designed for followers – are no longer a consideration. You do not even notice the change because it has developed over such a long period that life without God just seems a natural conclusion.  

This seems to be evident throughout the Bible in the stories that writers craft about real humans trying to live and flourish in society. Although God had warned the Israelites to “remember the signs,” most often they forgot them, and they found ways to accommodate the culture they were a part of. They took wives and husbands who did not believe in Yahweh or the biblical text. It seemed harmless at first – I mean, these were good people they were interacting with – but it slowly dragged them in a different direction.

The biblical writers provided counter examples to the norm to encourage people to hold fast to the truth – Ruth, who was not a follower of Naomi’s God (in fact she had married Naomi’s son but was outside the faith), pledged to follow Naomi wherever she went, and that her God would also be Ruth’s. Joshua had to tell the people that it was time to choose – if you wished to follow Baal, then follow him. But as for Joshua, he and his entire family chose (and continued to choose) to follow Abraham’s God.  

I have been a college president for more than 18 years, and one of the conversations that I consistently have is with parents who rightly wish that their children follow them in their commitments to God. They emphasize to me that they want the college to make “sure” that they follow Jesus and the biblical truths we share. Whether it is through our Bible requirement, our chapel program, our discipleship programs at the university, or through the extensive network of Christian mentors who are part of George Fox, we are also committed to that outcome: Students who attend and graduate from George Fox should be effective followers of Jesus.  

It is true that sometimes students, despite parental care, prayer and the commitment of the university, choose a different path that is inconsistent with the one that Christ would chart for them. Amid the frustration we have when we experience a loved one making this choice, we often look to see who is to blame. At times, there may be someone or some group that has failed. But most often, I have found the path away from Christian faith to be the product of dozens or even hundreds of small decisions made over many years.

As Lewis made clear in The Screwtape Letters, the safest road to Hell is the gradual one with no dramatic turns. Our role, either as parents or the university, is to continue to place Christ in front of our students, knowing that God is continually seeking to make himself known to them. The best example we can provide is modeling Christian discipleship daily.  

Final Thoughts  

There are so many ways that C.S. Lewis awakened my imagination that I cannot begin to cover them all in a few brief essays. The truths in Narnia aren't mere allegories of Scripture. From Lewis’s perspective, if a story is truly authentic, it will inherently reflect the singular truth found in the Bible, because Christ teaches what is true. I often find the dilemmas the children face in Narnia mirror my own in the “real” world.

As I have journeyed on my life path, I sometimes see the Lord and hear his voice clearly, but I choose not to follow. My choice not to follow may be the result of perceived criticism or the difficulty of completing the task itself. Inaction then seems the best course of action – let me just stay where I am.

In Prince Caspian, Lucy felt the same way. The children were struggling on their journey, and she saw Aslan several times, but she chose to ignore him. She did not want to say anything to her siblings for fear that they would not believe her. So, she failed to act by engaging Aslan. When she finally changed her mind and spoke to Aslan, it was clear that it was a difficult conversation. She at first blamed her siblings for their lack of faith – “Aslan, they would not have believed me” – which always seems to be my first thought as well. Aslan did not speak; he only provided a low “growl.” Then, if that was inappropriate, Lucy changed directions and wanted to know what would have happened if she had made the “right” choice? 

The Lion looked straight into her eyes.

“Oh, Aslan,” said Lucy. “You don't mean it was? How could I—I couldn't have left the others and come up to you alone, how could I? Don't look at me like that...oh well, I suppose I could. Yes, and it wouldn't have been alone, I know, not if I was with you. But what would have been the good?”

Aslan said nothing.

“You mean,” said Lucy rather faintly, “that it would have turned out all right—somehow? But how? Please, Aslan! Am I not to know?”

“To know what would have happened, child?” said Aslan. “No. Nobody is ever told that.”

“Oh dear,” said Lucy.

“But anyone can find out what will happen,” said Aslan. “If you go back to the others now, and wake them up; and tell them you have seen me again; and that you must all get up at once and follow me – what will happen? There is only one way of finding out.”

Lewis, through his stories, depicts the children as actors in a grand play, being asked by Aslan (God) to enter into the drama with assigned tasks. They do not get to know the full story – only the part that they must play. It is their choice whether to play their role. Nevertheless, God’s redeeming grace remains for the children even amid disobedience: “Act now and we will see what happens!” The encouragement is to move into obedience, which is why Lewis did not believe in progress as it is often expressed today:  “Sometimes,” he would say, “the best forward was back,” and so it was with Lucy in Prince Caspian. I find myself often in the same dilemma – playing my role but wanting to know the whole script before I act. I want to “know” before I act, but God asks me to trust and follow. It will be all right in the end – won’t it, Lord? 

The Narnia story, The Horse and His Boy, explores one of the most difficult challenges in life: How do you understand suffering and challenge? The protagonist, the young boy Shasta, was raised under a very harsh stepfather, and told Aslan that he thought he had a bad childhood. When you read the story, you are convinced, as he is, that he is one of the most unfortunate characters in Narnia. But then he meets Aslan in the fog while riding his horse along a mountain trail. 

Aslan appears, but at the beginning of the conversation, he only hears a voice. “I do not call you unfortunate,” said the lion.

The voice then explains how he has been at the back of Shasta’s story from the beginning, guarding and guiding him so that Shasta could save Narnia and Archenland at this moment. Shasta wonders how that could be true, as he had all these negative encounters with lions. Aslan speaks: “There was only one lion ... I was the lion.” 

The voice goes on to say, “I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you.”

In our world of individual liberty, it is so difficult to believe that God is really sovereign and we are not in charge of our own lives. The story does not suggest that God is somehow causing the suffering or misery. There is no attempt to explain why bad things happen – they do. But he is at “the back” of our stories as well, guiding them, as we allow him, to a determined end. Each of our stories intermingle in a way we hardly imagine, but God knows what he is doing, or Aslan, as we think through this today.  

Finally, Lewis imagined heaven in ways that I had not considered. He tried to answer one of the most difficult questions in the Bible: Why would God make some people go to hell? I once thought that a good God could never send someone to the place known as the lake of fire.

In The Great Divorce, Lewis offered an alternative perspective. If heaven is the place where God’s will and desires reign in pure form, then hell is the place where individual desires are the most important. In the fictional story, people living in hell are offered a ride to heaven each morning. People climb on board, and the bus takes them to the outer reaches of heaven. There, they disembark and meet a guide who takes them on a tour. There, they discover that heaven is quite a different place – here, one loses a sense of self by submitting their will to another. In this process, the guides claim, they get back their real selves. How could that be true? Everyone on the bus has “requirements” before they agree to stay – they want to see someone, they want to know how this works, they want to know if they will be respected, and the list goes on. In the end, only one decides to stay. Heaven is a place where God’s will reigns supreme. Indeed, what if the way God sees the world is simply unacceptable to many? Why would they want to be in heaven? In the story, the explorers prefer the place where everyone gets what they want, even though it is a miserable place. In the end, Lewis notes, “all get what they want.”  

Perhaps, most importantly, Lewis’s stories convey that heaven is a place of personal and corporate growth – one consistently becomes more like God in his kingdom. You are invited to go “further up and further in.” I have found that imagery so appealing. As a child, my church consistently sang hymns and provided stories that described heaven as a place where we sat on clouds and walked down streets of gold. That picture did not seem consistent with the stories I found in the biblical text. God has been about bringing his kingdom to bear in this world. The end of this earthly story seems to be the beginning of a new story. I (and those who follow God) are being invited into a new story, and the experiences here have prepared us for that work. Now that picture seems more like the God I serve!  

In The Last Battle, Lewis provides a window into Aslan’s country that takes just such a theme. One might think that the story ended tragically; the children died in a railway accident. Some think it is wrong to introduce children to death so early in their lives – a sentiment Lewis did not share. But in Lewis’s world, the experience in what we call “Earth” was not the real world. Our experiences here only prepared us for what was going to happen for an eternity. We live now, for a brief time, in the shadowlands, but in the end, we are invited into the great story!

Lucy said to Aslan, “We're so afraid of being sent away, Aslan. And you have sent us back into our own world so often.”

“No fear of that,” said Aslan. “Have you not guessed?”

Their hearts leaped and a wild hope rose within them.

“There was a real railway accident,” said Aslan softly. “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 is ended: this is the morning.”

“And as He spoke, He no longer looked to them like a lion, but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story, which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.”

Humanity’s great hope is that indeed death has been defeated. We have a sense that the things we experience were not intended to be that way – we live in a fallen world. We have been promised that it will not always be this way. Christ has conquered death and redeemed this world. We are indeed experiencing the “shadowlands,” but live in light of the resurrection.  

At the end of World War II, Lewis preached one of his great sermons he titled “The Weight of Glory.” In that text, he noted, “At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendours we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so. Some day, God willing, we shall get in.”

Like the Apostle Paul, we can claim that the sufferings of this present age will not compare to the glory that we shall see. Lord, may it be so.