Yesterday, I wrote of why the public still loves C.S. Lewis - he often goes beyond the academic to address us as living human beings. But he was also a confirmed Anglican, a religion almost exactly like Roman Catholicism with that English exception, and in that includes sin and guilt and lots of it. In "The Problem of Pain," one whole chapter is devoted to how rotten we all are and how sin - and guilt - should be brought back in full, regardless of psychoanalysis. In this, we can see why certain movements in our society wish to diminish religion, for individual sin leaves no excuse, no history to blame for our rottenness. Yes, circumstances might make the holy life more difficult, but we are all obligated to try. We know how we should behave, and that is that. God does not shrug His shoulders and say, "meh" to our selfish behavior.
But why, then, are we like this? Why is our journey to goodness so difficult? What could God, who can do anything, have been thinking?
To answer, Lewis has another chapter entitled "The Fall." It is immaterial to him whether it is just or not to be blamed for Adam and Eve and the apple. In this he depicts how it could have been before the Fall: in this world, we worked in harmony with God's will; we did not have pain and suffering as we now know it; everything, from our digestive tract to our immune system was so guarded by spiritual might that death only came when our time was over, and that with great ease. This, says Lewis, was cast away when, at some point we - one and then the other - decided to become our own god, to run our own lives according to selfish motives. With this, we became less than the chosen of God and more like the animals and minerals of the material world. No longer blessed, we were simply subjected to biochemistry and disease without protection. With our rebellion, we became corpses exposed to the elements of nature. And thus our greatest sufferings were, and are, our own damned fault - not Adam and Eve's, although they may have started it. Rather, our fall is through the fault of our own free will, each and every one of us, right here and now.
This seems too much for the modern reader, myself included, but sometimes life provides an example of how this distasteful possibility might be true.
Today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent when we Christians are called to give up at least some of the daily trappings of our lives for the sake of a sacred rebirth. Ashes are put on our foreheads to remind us of our mortality - the ever present reality that one should never forget - and our complete dependence on God. This morning, for the service we had to get up a little early - too early for my liking - and walk through the ridiculous cold to endure another Mass. I say this because that was my feeling, as it often is when I force myself to go to church. Oh no, not again! - the platitudes, the saccharine songs sung poorly, the phony niceness of the congregation, the cheap sense of penitence that will soon be forgotten by all! These sentiments do not make me feel proud, but they are there, and only gradually leave as the more profound aspects of Mass take over. For me, each trip is a struggle, a tiny tale of sin and redemption.
In light of Lewis's readings, however, and in the shadow of Lent, it seemed to go deeper this morning, this cynicism. This time I could clearly understand - the resentment is indeed my rebellion, my refusal to be part of something bigger than myself. In reflection, I know this; I know that for us to be in tune with the Absolute, we must give up the false sense of self. This brings peace and enlightenment and an end to envy and anxiety and even the fear of death. But the little rebel hangs in there.
In profane life, the classic rebel smokes and drinks and screws up his life, Jimmy Dean style, the rebellion always ending, it seems, in either disaster or conversion. But really, we usually end with both; as we age, we calm the rebel, but never completely. We still must insist that we are in charge. In this, Lewis was right. It's right there for anyone to see. We do have a choice, but we cannot make the right one for long. Call it our history or our evolution or our bad childhood, but in the end, the buck stops with each and every one of us. Right to the end, we hang onto our pride, our personal rebel, and from the religious perspective we have only ourselves to blame.
But really, who of us would always turn the other cheek? Give up our cloak for someone in need- always? In that, we have learned, lies humiliation. In that lies servitude, poverty, and, for a nation, enslavement. This is why it is hard and why we rebel. We cannot serve two masters, and for our survival, we know which master we must serve: our own, our selves. The question is, then, not that of original sin, for the apple has been eaten by us all; but rather, who will be the first brave enough to turn away from the forbidden fruit? In a fallen world, it is not such an easy task. FK
But why, then, are we like this? Why is our journey to goodness so difficult? What could God, who can do anything, have been thinking?
To answer, Lewis has another chapter entitled "The Fall." It is immaterial to him whether it is just or not to be blamed for Adam and Eve and the apple. In this he depicts how it could have been before the Fall: in this world, we worked in harmony with God's will; we did not have pain and suffering as we now know it; everything, from our digestive tract to our immune system was so guarded by spiritual might that death only came when our time was over, and that with great ease. This, says Lewis, was cast away when, at some point we - one and then the other - decided to become our own god, to run our own lives according to selfish motives. With this, we became less than the chosen of God and more like the animals and minerals of the material world. No longer blessed, we were simply subjected to biochemistry and disease without protection. With our rebellion, we became corpses exposed to the elements of nature. And thus our greatest sufferings were, and are, our own damned fault - not Adam and Eve's, although they may have started it. Rather, our fall is through the fault of our own free will, each and every one of us, right here and now.
This seems too much for the modern reader, myself included, but sometimes life provides an example of how this distasteful possibility might be true.
Today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent when we Christians are called to give up at least some of the daily trappings of our lives for the sake of a sacred rebirth. Ashes are put on our foreheads to remind us of our mortality - the ever present reality that one should never forget - and our complete dependence on God. This morning, for the service we had to get up a little early - too early for my liking - and walk through the ridiculous cold to endure another Mass. I say this because that was my feeling, as it often is when I force myself to go to church. Oh no, not again! - the platitudes, the saccharine songs sung poorly, the phony niceness of the congregation, the cheap sense of penitence that will soon be forgotten by all! These sentiments do not make me feel proud, but they are there, and only gradually leave as the more profound aspects of Mass take over. For me, each trip is a struggle, a tiny tale of sin and redemption.
In light of Lewis's readings, however, and in the shadow of Lent, it seemed to go deeper this morning, this cynicism. This time I could clearly understand - the resentment is indeed my rebellion, my refusal to be part of something bigger than myself. In reflection, I know this; I know that for us to be in tune with the Absolute, we must give up the false sense of self. This brings peace and enlightenment and an end to envy and anxiety and even the fear of death. But the little rebel hangs in there.
In profane life, the classic rebel smokes and drinks and screws up his life, Jimmy Dean style, the rebellion always ending, it seems, in either disaster or conversion. But really, we usually end with both; as we age, we calm the rebel, but never completely. We still must insist that we are in charge. In this, Lewis was right. It's right there for anyone to see. We do have a choice, but we cannot make the right one for long. Call it our history or our evolution or our bad childhood, but in the end, the buck stops with each and every one of us. Right to the end, we hang onto our pride, our personal rebel, and from the religious perspective we have only ourselves to blame.
But really, who of us would always turn the other cheek? Give up our cloak for someone in need- always? In that, we have learned, lies humiliation. In that lies servitude, poverty, and, for a nation, enslavement. This is why it is hard and why we rebel. We cannot serve two masters, and for our survival, we know which master we must serve: our own, our selves. The question is, then, not that of original sin, for the apple has been eaten by us all; but rather, who will be the first brave enough to turn away from the forbidden fruit? In a fallen world, it is not such an easy task. FK
RSS Feed