A Statistical Look at C.S. Lewis’ Letter Writing

Lewis at His DeskI have often heard that C.S. Lewis is one of the great letter writers of history. I can hardly make any comparison; the only other letter collections I have on my shelf are single volumes by J.R.R. Tolkien, Dylan Thomas, and James Thurber. As I am slowly moving through Walter Hooper’s impeccable 3 Volume Collected Letters of C.S. Lewis (CL)–numbering 3700 pages plus introductions and biographies–I am inclined to agree with the sentiment (even if I cannot verify the history).

Two things I do know, though. It is probably true that Lewis is one of the last great letter writers. I suspect that when some of Lewis’ contemporaries, like T.S. Eliot or Ernest Hemingway, have their letters finally published Lewis will have met his match in sheer volume. But authors who pour their wit and wisdom and literary artistry–and uncounted hours–into writing letters are from a time past. In his inaugural address upon receiving a professorship at Cambridge (1954), Lewis called himself a dinosaur. In the art of letter writing, at least, he was probably right.

If it is most likely true that Lewis is one of the last of a dying breed of letter writers, it is certainly true that he came to dread the task. Classically, Lewis said that

“it is an essential of the happy life that a man would have almost no mail and never dread the postman’s knock” (Surprised by Joy, 143).

I wrote an entire blog on Lewis’ aversion to writing the letters that he felt duty-bound to write (see here), and how his growing fame meant that he was constantly responding to fan letters and answering the questions of inquisitive Christians. As we will see, there certainly is an increase in letters as Lewis’ fame grows.

collected-letters-c-s-lewis-box-set-c-s-paperback-cover-artBut my own curiosity drove me to look deeper into how much Lewis wrote, and what sort of trends develop in his writing. I set about to the task, then, of counting the letters Lewis wrote each year. I am no statistician, but I decided also to count the number of pages these letters occupied in the Hooper 3-Volume collection and then calculate roughly how many letters per page Lewis averaged each year. The final calculation is very rough: my letter count is a single page-turn count, not a digital creation; there are footnotes that occupy a varying amount of page space; there are some duplications in the collection (as we have both the original and a translation of his letters in Latin); the titles that introduce each letter and Lewis’ signature occupy 4-9 lines whether it is a 4-page letter or a quick note; and the third volume may have a very slightly different word count per page. A true analysis would account for Lewis’ word count, but I think we can learn a lot about Lewis’ life in letters from these numbers. We should also be aware that we do not have all of Lewis’ letters, but only what have survived (or have been discovered). The entire chart is included at the end of this blog.

Number of Letters Lewis Wrote Per Yearthis chart shows the number of letters we have from Lewis each year

Before the Great War
By my rough count we have 3274 letters, ranging from quick notes of thanks to long philosophical debates. C.S. Lewis was born in 1898 and his first surviving letters are from the age of 7 and 8. In the period until 1912, we have very few letters. Letter writing only begins in earnest when Lewis is sent to boarding school after the death of his mother in the Fall 1908.  In 1911 he moved to a new school (Cherbourg)  and in the summer of 1913 Lewis began to write regularly to his father (or, at least, his father began to keep the letters faithfully). Even in these preteen letters we see a young man with a remarkable vocabulary and a sophisticated literary style.

Throughout this entire period he was very unhappy in school–a sentiment only moderately veiled in the letters. But in 1914 Lewis was moved to the home a private tutor, The Great Knock, where he flourished academically. During this period, as Lewis was preparing to enter university at Oxford, his letters become more frequent and longer. In 1913, Lewis wrote 25 letters that occupy 32 pages; in 1916 he wrote 50 letters in 102 pages–he wrote twice as many letters and they were about 50% longer. While the young Lewis becomes more faithful in his letters to his “Papy,” the increase really shows the growing friendship with Arthur Greeves. In this period about half the letters are to Arthur. Lewis continues to write to both his father and Arthur while he is at war in 1917-1918, and during his recovery from an injury near the end of the war.

Number of Letters Lewis Wrote Per Page

this chart shows a rough calculation of the number of letters per page in CL

After the War
In the postwar we see a shift in both the number and length of letters. When C.S. Lewis was injured, his father never came to visit him. Lewis was quite hurt and the letters wane as a result.

In 1921, when Lewis is at Oxford, there are 32 letters averaging a little more than 2 pages each. But it is during this period that Lewis sends long, serial letters to his brother (who continued a career in the army). After WWI, Lewis became part of a family with Mrs Moore–perhaps his lover at first–and her daughter. His father was very concerned about this situation, which caused further stress on their relationship. Letters to his father are fewer, and the great conversational letters to his friend Arthur are almost gone in this period as well. Lewis develops friendships at Oxford, and there seems to be a cooling in his friendship with Arthur.

It is also true that Lewis is genuinely very busy in the period throughout his years being educated and into his first year of teaching. There are very few letters in this period, though we do know a lot about Lewis from his journal, All My Road Before Me.

Friendships and Great Shifts
In 1926 the letters start to build as the friends he made at Oxford are spreading out. It is this period that we have the “Great War”–a philosophical battle with his good friend and believer in God, Owen Barfield. In the period of 1926-28 the letters are the longest of Lewis’ career, on average. The length is partly due to the philosophical debates, but also to a new correspondence with his brother who is, once again, overseas.

Number of Letters Lewis Wrote Per Page Per 4-5 Yr Periodthis chart shows the number of letters per page in specific time periods (about 4-5 years after childhood); a small bar means that the letters were, on average, longer (and vice versa)

1929-31 was an important period for Lewis. His academic career is settling in and his financial dependence upon his father has passed, leading to a renewal of relationship. His friendships are deepening, and with his brother overseas we get a lot of details of his life in long letters. The effect of the Great War with Owen Barfield and his literary research are beginning the process of converting his mind toward theism (sometime in 1929-30), and some of his letters reflect the shift.

But 1929 is also a year of tragedy. Lewis’ father got ill and, quite suddenly, passed away. Warren is still overseas, and Lewis is left to bury his father and deal with the estate. Lewis’ letters are a strange mix of dull business dealings and heartfelt notes to family and friends. The letters of the second sort show some regret that he had treated his father so poorly, and some relief that he is gone.

With the loss came new opportunities. When the estate is settled, the Lewis brothers and Mrs. Moore are able to buy an Oxford property, The Kilns, that Lewis made home until his death. Lewis’ time in Ireland for his father’s illness, funeral, and estate dealings also allowed Lewis to reconnect with Arthur Greeves. Their letters increase in this period, and we are grateful for it. It is in these letters that Lewis explains much of his spiritual conversion, resulting in a full commitment to Christianity in the Fall of 1931.

The 1930s
Lewis’ life after conversion is noticeably different in his letters. He has to explain his conversion to some of his old friends–though much of this was done in person in Oxford or on annual long-weekend walking tours with literary friends–and we see his conversations with editors and publishers. His essays and editorials are being printed with increasing frequency, and he has two important books published (The Pilgrim’s Regress, a spiritual allegory, and The Allegory of Love, an academic treatise).

So although 1933-1938 were not fruitful letter-writing years, they do show us about how he processed his faith journey and many of his literary dealings. It is also in this period that Lewis meets writer, publisher, and poet Charles Williams through mutual fan letters. Williams would prove to be influential in the next period of Lewis’ work.

Number of Pages of Letters Lewis Wrote Per Year Periodthis chart shows the number of pages that each year of letters occupy in CL

The Public Intellectual
In 1938 Lewis published his first Science Fiction book, Out of the Silent Planet,  and The Problem of Pain, a book defending Christianity, was published the following year, followed closely by The Screwtape Letters and the BBC Broadcasts. It is in this period that we begin to see some of the “fan” correspondence. He dialogues with authors Dorothy Sayers, Arthur C. Clarke, and Evelyn Underhill. He also develops lifelong literary relationships with Sr. Penelope and Mary Neylan (who becomes a Christian largely through Lewis’ letters). As such, we see a spike in the number and length of letters in 1939-1941–it is only at the height of the Narnia series that we see so much paper coming from Lewis’ desk.

Part of the reason for the 1939-1940 letter bulk is that C.S. Lewis’ brother is once again at war. What takes place as WWII carries on and Warren returns home is that the correspondents multiply while the length of the letters decrease. From 1941 until his death in 1963, Lewis’ letters will slowly decrease in length while slowly increasing in number (except for 1950-51); letters average about a page per letter through the 1940s.

Intriguingly, as WWII continues, there is a drop in the amount of writing that Lewis does, even as the number of letters slowly creeps up. Lewis published prolifically during WWII and is successful in four series of Broadcast Talks. His profile on campus is increasing, and WWII finishes with the last two volumes of his Ransom Cycle, The Great Divorce, and a number of published essays.

While WWII is the most fertile period of publication, the letters follow the war. We see fans asking about the Ransom books, Christian thinkers talking about Lewis’ apologetic books, and a number of letters to editors. We also begin to hear from Americans in this post-WWII period, including Chad Walsh–an early Lewis biographer–and a number of Christians who sent Lewis food and supplies in the lean times after the war.

Number of Letters Lewis Wrote Per 4-5 Year Periodthis chart groups the letter count into 4-5 year segments

1949 is a very productive letter year and is filled with letters to Lewis’ friends, literary correspondents, and fans. The early 1950s is the beginning of the Narnia period and printing of Mere Christianity. It is in this period that the fan letters begin in earnest–including some wonderful letters to children–and Lewis is busy until his death. 1954 sees Lewis’ career shift to Cambridge, and the number of letters that year–the most ever–is buoyed by notes (both mundane and personal) about the change.

The number of letters increase in this period dramatically, and although they decrease in 1957, that period through 1963 is remarkable in the number of correspondents Lewis maintains. Letters to an American Lady shows the patience that Lewis showed to the people who sent him notes. In the American Lady series of 141 letters, Lewis criticizes poetry, offers advice, gives Christian encouragement, provides financial support, and puts up with a number of complaints from his correspondent.

As the 1950s continues, we see the surprising marriage of Lewis to Joy Davidman, her illness and subsequent death in 1960, and the grieving process that is evident in his letters. There is a drop in letters in the two years after her death, but it seems like Lewis was picking up the pace again before he became sick in the summer of 1963.

Looking at the Numbers

Number of Pages of Letters Lewis Wrote Per 4-5 Year Periodthis chart breaks the number of pages of Lewis’ correspondence into 4-5 year segments

As we can see in this chart, the most fruitful years are during WWI, in the time leading up to his conversion, and during the post-WWII period through to the end of his life. The WWI period was filled with letters home and to his best friend, Arthur Greeves. There are surprisingly very few letters to his brother, Warren. The period around his conversion is stronger due to the fact that Lewis had a lot of business by letter and he was writing long letters to his brother. But we also see letters where he is thinking through spiritual implications with his friends–in particular with Arthur. The building demand of letters from the ’40s through the early ’60s is indicative of his growing fame, the solidity of his position as a public intellectual, his extensive relational base of support, and the business of publishing.

There were periods of extreme busyness in Lewis’ life, especially 1920-26, 1940-48 (Lewis’ student load doubled after WWII), and after his sabbatical of 1951 through his move to Cambridge in 1954. While we see a dip in letter writing during the busy period of Lewis’ education in the early ’20s, we do not see that in the ’40s. Lewis seems bound by duty or honour or opportunity to dialogue with the public, regardless of his increasing weariness. That weariness breaks, I think, with a writing sabbatical and the death of Mrs. Moore in 1951. While “schedule” was a factor in writing when Lewis was younger, the older public figure makes time to respond to friends and fans.

There seems also to be a shift in letter-writing philosophy around 1941. Warren retires from the army and begins typing letters and working as Lewis’ secretary. Letters slowly become briefer as the demand for writing increases, and probably Warren is writing some of them from Lewis’ notes. In the late ’50s Joy wrote some letters on Lewis’ behalf, as did both Warren and Walter Hooper in 1963 during his illness.

What emerges most for me are his literary friendships. I already mentioned The American Lady and Mary Neylan, but there was a more equal relationship with so many figures. There are extended discussions with Sr. Penelope, Dom Bede Griffiths, Chad Walsh, Roger Lancelyn Green, Ruth Pitter, and George Sayer. Real highlights are the extended discussions with Owen Barfield, the Latin Letters shared with Don Giovanni Calabria, the great correspondence with Dorothy Sayers, and Sheldon Vanauken’s transformational series, which became the book A Severe Mercy.

And then there is Arthur, of course. From their time of meeting through the end of WWII Lewis wrote to Arthur almost weekly. In the couple of years after WWII, when Lewis went to Oxford, the letters become monthly, and then yearly through the 1920s. The correspondence reignites with Lewis’ last visits to his father in 1929. Their boyhood pace of a letter every week or two continues through the afterglow of his conversion, then settles in to a pace of 2 or 3 letters a year until they thin out near the end of WWII, at which point they were hardly writing at all.

Arthur Greeves

As the death of Lewis’ father reignited their friendship in 1929, the death of Arthur’s mother in Jan 1, 1949 had the same effect. Lewis followed up with a month-long visit with Arthur in Belfast that summer, and then again for two weeks in 1951 after Mrs. Moore’s death. Their visits were almost annual after this point and the letters, though frequent in the 1950s, are filled with details of travel and jovial notes rather than the deep talks of their youth. In the late ’50s the letters become more personal again as they share news of their own journeys of aging, of Lewis’ marriage to and loss of Joy Davidman, and the sharing of literature. Here is a note that captures the more personal side of their later letters:

The Kilns,
Headington Quarry,
Oxford
12 March 1960

My dear Arthur
I am afraid it is rather an understatement to say that Joy is ‘not so well’. The last x-ray test revealed that cancer is returning in almost every part of her skeleton. They do something with radiotherapy, but as soon as they have silenced an ache in one place one breaks out in another. The doctors hold out no hope of a cure; it is only a question of how soon the end comes and how painful it will be. She is still, however, mostly free from pain and able to get about and unbelievably cheerful. We hope to do a lightning trip to Greece by air this vacation. We hardly dare to look as far ahead as next summer….
Yours,
Jack

Though Joy did pass away, Lewis was able to visit that next summer. But in his last letter to Arthur, Sep 11, 1963, Lewis shared that he is then retired and a cheerful invalid. These are some of his last words to his friend:

The only real snag is that it looks as if you and I shall never meet again in this life. This often saddens me v. much.

All told Lewis wrote nearly 300 letters (292 by my count) to his good friend Arthur. It is true that he spoke of the burden of letter writing and the “dread of the postman’s knock.” But there were aspects of letter writing he quite enjoyed. On May 8, 1961, Lewis began a letter to Arthur with these words: “Your letter has brightened my whole sky.” For all his complaints about the work (i.e., time not doing real writing) and apologies for late replies, Lewis gained much from his correspondence.

And those of us looking back into history have gained even more, I’d wager. These letters are as humorous as they are numerous, as personal as they are necessary, and as literary and thoughtful as they are (increasingly) perfunctory. I don’t know whether this little analysis is helpful to anyone else, but it has really drawn my eye toward intriguing trends in Lewis’ everyday affairs. Now, to finish reading all the letters. Only 2000 more pages to go!

C.S. Lewis’ Letter Writing Pace (The Full Chart)
“# of Letters” means the number of surviving letters Lewis wrote each year . “pages in CL” refers to the number of pages these letters occupy in Hooper’s Collected Letters (leaving out large editorial comments, but including the letters written on Lewis’ behalf by his brother, his wife, or other secretaries). “# of letters in Vol III” refers to supplemental letters that were put in an appendix to Volume 3–letters that could not be included in the first 2 volumes or were found later. “# letters/pg” simply refers to the number of letters that would occupy a single page in CL. For example number of .5 would mean the letters averaged 2 pages per letter; a number of 2 would mean the letters averaged a half page each.

Year # of Letters pages in CL # of letters in Vol III # letters /pg
1905 1 1.25 .8
1906 1 0.5 2
1907 3 2 1.5
1908 7 4 1.75
1909 4 3.5 1.14
1910 1 1 1
1911 3 3 3
1912 1 1 1
1913 25 32 10 .78
1914 34 53 3 .64
1915 34 58 .74
1916 50 102 .49
1917 54 85 .64
1918 46 71 .65
1919 25 45 .56
1920 23 44 .53
1921 32 73 .44
1922 7 13 .54
1923 6 11 .55
1924 8 19 .42
1925 7 19 .37
1926 23 61 14 .37
1927 18 90 5 .2
1928 12 36 1 .33
1929 44 75 3 .59
1930 45 94 7 .48
1931 27 66 5 .41
1932 24 59 .41
1933 26 36 1 .72
1934 13 20 .65
1935 18 27 3 .67
1936 16 33 2 .49
1937 12 12 1
1938 14 16 1 .88
1939 34 77 1 .44
1940 57 144 3 .4
1941 39 49 4 .8
1942 48 42 4 1.14
1943 49 52 2 .94
1944 50 39 9 1.28
1945 65 67 11 .97
1946 64 58 4 1.1
1947 78 80 16 .98
1948 103 77 8 1.33
1949 157 116 10 1.35
1950 88 76 1.15
1951 89 71 1.25
1952 147 118 1.25
1953 153 125 1.22
1954 179 146 1.22
1955 160 140 1.14
1956 170 128 1.32
1957 117 83 1.4
1958 120 93 1.29
1959 137 110 1.25
1960 135 96 1 1.41
1961 115 85 1.35
1962 125 89 1.4
1963 131 82 2 1.6

If anyone finds a mistake in the chart, please let me know–there are likely to be some. This chart is meant only to be illustrative. Researchers should make their own calculations. Feel free to dialogue through the comments section.

Letter Collection Bibliography

Volume 1: The Collected Letters of C.S. Lewis: Family Letters (1905-1931). Ed. Walter Hooper. HarperSanFrancisco, NY, 2004.

Volume 2: The Collected Letters of C.S. Lewis: Books, Broadcasts, and the War (1931-1949). Ed. Walter Hooper. HarperSanFrancisco, NY, 2004.

Volume 3: The Collected Letters of C.S. Lewis: Narnia, Cambridge, and Joy (1950-1963). HarperSanFrancisco, NY, 2007.

There are also individual collections including Letters to An American Lady, Letters to Children, The Latin Letters of C.S. Lewis, They Stand Together: The letters of C.S. Lewis to Arthur Greeves, and Letters of C. S. Lewis collected by his brother, Warren Lewis. Where possible, Hooper’s three volumes include all the letters. There are bound to be other letters that could not be included. I have found four unpublished letters (hinted at here), and one published note not included. If anyone has letters that have not been published, drop me a note.

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The Effect of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Mythopoeia

THE HOBBIT: UNEXPECTED JOURNEYI am often asked what brought me into the worlds of J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. While I do love the books, it wasn’t Narnia that first captured my imagination as a thinker. It wasn’t even the world of Middle Earth and Peter Jackson’s treatment of it–though I love both. It was actually a poem–and a rather obscure one–with a clumsy title, “Philomythus to Misomythus.”

For writers and academics that sit at the feet of the Inklings, the poem is well known. In the Fall of 1931, the theist C.S. Lewis was moving steadily toward a conversion to Christianity. On Sept 19, Lewis and Tolkien had a legendary conversation with another colleague and future Inkling, Hugo Dyson. They spoke late into the night, arguing about faith and theology and history. When the topic turned to “myth,” Lewis evidently made the comment that myths were “lies breathed through silver.”

While you or I may respond with a counter-argument, Tolkien went home and wrote 148 lines of heroic couplet from the Myth-Lover (Philomythus) to the Myth-Hater J R R Tolkien - Smoking Pipe Outdoors(Misomythus). The poem came to be known as “Mythopoiea” (Myth-Maker), and is an apology for the value of myths to tell the deepest truths of human experience.

I first encountered the poem trying to find a way to help students understand the value of fiction, fantasy, and myth. I stumbled upon this poem and was transformed from the very first lines:

You look at trees and label them just so,
(for trees are ‘trees’, and growing is ‘to grow’);
you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace
one of the many minor globes of Space:
a star’s a star, some matter in a ball
compelled to courses mathematical               
amid the regimented, cold, inane,
where destined atoms are each moment slain.

I felt like I had found a poem that captured the things I believed: that we are more than our biology, that our human goings-on are more than the rusty hinges of history moving forward by the irresistible movement of atoms in their endless chain of cause and effect. In “Mythopoeia” Tolkien says “No!” to the reductionism of our age, to the popular myth that we are “just this” or “just that.” In doing so, he also resists Lewis’ claim that myths are silver-tinged lies:

He sees no stars who does not see them first
of living silver made that sudden burst
to flame like flowers beneath an ancient song,
whose very echo after-music long
has since pursued. There is no firmament,
only a void, unless a jewelled tent
myth-woven and elf-patterned; and no earth,
unless the mother’s womb whence all have birth.
The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.

Tumnus & Lucy with Christmas packagesIn this apology we find that Tolkien also writes a manifesto. He moves past the subtle prejudices of Lewis’ myth-claim to the dreadful consequences behind them. In “Mythopoiea” Tolkien gives a generation of fantasy writers the impetus to tell great stories with great art. But he also stakes a claim against the vast wasteland of surging “progress.”

I will not walk with your progressive apes,
erect and sapient. Before them gapes
the dark abyss to which their progress tends
if by God’s mercy progress ever ends,
and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
unfruitful course with changing of a name.
I will not treat your dusty path and flat,
denoting this and that by this and that,
your world immutable wherein no part
the little maker has with maker’s art.
I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.

While we don’t have Lewis’ response to this particular poem, we do know that it worked. A week later Lewis converted to Christianity, believing that God did, indeed, use myth to tell truths about the world.

pipeThis conversation took place when Lewis and Tolkien were relatively obscure Oxford dons. History will remember them, though, for having attempted to be mythmakers themselves–to practice mythopoiea, to tell stories of deep truth in deeply creative ways. They did it quite differently–Lewis’ science fiction and Narnia and Till We Have Faces are quite different from the tales of Middle Earth–but it is difficult not to see the effect of this poem on the lives of these two men and on the history of English literature.

And on my life. “Mythopoeia” shaped my teaching, my scholarship, and my fantasy writing. I am hooked. I’ve included the entire poem here with the hope that others will find it equally transformative.

Philomythus to Misomythus aka Mythopoeia

by J.R.R. Tolkien, To one who said that myths were lies and therefore worthless, even though ‘breathed through silver’.

You look at trees and label them just so,
(for trees are ‘trees’, and growing is ‘to grow’);
you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace
one of the many minor globes of Space:
a star’s a star, some matter in a ball
compelled to courses mathematical
amid the regimented, cold, inane,
where destined atoms are each moment slain.

At bidding of a Will, to which we bend
(and must), but only dimly apprehend,
great processes march on, as Time unrolls
from dark beginnings to uncertain goals;
and as on page o’er-written without clue,
with script and limning packed of various hue,
an endless multitude of forms appear,
some grim, some frail, some beautiful, some queer,
each alien, except as kin from one
remote Origo, gnat, man, stone, and sun.
God made the petreous rocks, the arboreal trees,
tellurian earth, and stellar stars, and these
homuncular men, who walk upon the ground
with nerves that tingle touched by light and   sound.
The movements of the sea, the wind in boughs,
green grass, the large slow oddity of cows,
thunder and lightning, birds that wheel and cry,
slime crawling up from mud to live and die,
these each are duly registered and print
the brain’s contortions with a separate dint.
Yet trees are not ‘trees’, until so named and seen
and never were so named, till those had been
who speech’s involuted breath unfurled,
faint echo and dim picture of the world,
but neither record nor a photograph,
being divination, judgement, and a laugh
response of those that felt astir within
by deep monition movements that were kin
to life and death of trees, of beasts, of stars:
free captives undermining shadowy bars,
digging the foreknown from experience
and panning the vein of spirit out of sense.
Great powers they slowly brought out of themselves
and looking backward they beheld the elves
that wrought on cunning forges in the mind,
and light and dark on secret looms entwined.

He sees no stars who does not see them first
of living silver made that sudden burst
to flame like flowers beneath an ancient song,
whose very echo after-music long
has since pursued. There is no firmament,
only a void, unless a jewelled tent
myth-woven and elf-patterned; and no earth,
unless the mother’s womb whence all have birth.
The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
his world-dominion by creative act:
not his to worship the great Artefact,
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Though all the crannies of the world we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
and sowed the seed of dragons, ’twas our right
(used or misused). The right has not decayed.
We make still by the law in which we’re made.

Yes! ‘wish-fulfilment dreams’ we spin to cheat
our timid hearts and ugly Fact defeat!
Whence came the wish, and whence the power to dream,
or some things fair and others ugly deem?
All wishes are not idle, nor in vain
fulfilment we devise — for pain is pain,
not for itself to be desired, but ill;
or else to strive or to subdue the will
alike were graceless; and of Evil this
alone is deadly certain: Evil is.

Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow’s sway.

Blessed are the men of Noah’s race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith.

Blessed are the legend-makers with their rhyme
of things not found within recorded time.
It is not they that have forgot the Night,
or bid us flee to organized delight,
in lotus-isles of economic bliss
forswearing souls to gain a Circe-kiss
(and counterfeit at that, machine-produced,
bogus seduction of the twice-seduced).
Such isles they saw afar, and ones more fair,
and those that hear them yet may yet beware.
They have seen Death and ultimate defeat,
and yet they would not in despair retreat,
but oft to victory have tuned the lyre
and kindled hearts with legendary fire,
illuminating Now and dark Hath-been
with light of suns as yet by no man seen.

I would that I might with the minstrels sing
and stir the unseen with a throbbing string.
I would be with the mariners of the deep
that cut their slender planks on mountains steep
and voyage upon a vague and wandering quest,
for some have passed beyond the fabled West.
I would with the beleaguered fools be told,
that keep an inner fastness where their gold,
impure and scanty, yet they loyally bring
to mint in image blurred of distant king,
or in fantastic banners weave the sheen
heraldic emblems of a lord unseen.

I will not walk with your progressive apes,
erect and sapient. Before them gapes
the dark abyss to which their progress tends
if by God’s mercy progress ever ends,
and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
unfruitful course with changing of a name.
I will not treat your dusty path and flat,
denoting this and that by this and that,
your world immutable wherein no part
the little maker has with maker’s art.
I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.

In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
from gazing upon everlasting Day
to see the day illumined, and renew
from mirrored truth the likeness of the True.
Then looking on the Blessed Land ’twill see
that all is as it is, and yet made free:
Salvation changes not, nor yet destroys,
garden nor gardener, children nor their toys.
Evil it will not see, for evil lies
not in God’s picture but in crooked eyes,
not in the source but in malicious choice,
and not in sound but in the tuneless voice.
In Paradise they look no more awry;
and though they make anew, they make no lie.
Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All.

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What Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress Teaches us about English and Education

Evangelist points the wayOne of my first posts on A Pilgrim in Narnia was the confession that I had not really ever read John Bunyan’s classic The Pilgrim’s Progress (1678). I’m pretty sure I had pretended to read it. I had played the protagonist, Christian, in an amateur musical in college but had skipped the book. I had always, like the weak-willed character Pliable, gotten stuck in the Slough of Despond (page 23 in my edition). In this way, I had never progressed, and may have been one of the reasons I felt so lost in first reading C.S. Lewis’ own journey, The Pilgrim’s Regress (1932).

Whether it is a literary accomplishment or not I have, finally, read Bunyan’s allegorical travelogue—not just the story of Christian, but the sequel about Christiana (his wife) and her children. I was spurred on to Bunyan again by a colleague, Dr. Shannon Murray, who studies Bunyan’s work as children’s literature.

What surprised me about Murray’s work is the journey of The Pilgrim’s Progress as literature itself. At a recent presentation she gave, she noted that Bunyan’s illicit conversion narrative was met with indignation by his educated coreligionists. People who liked the content of the Progress—those who agreed with Bunyan’s work as a spiritual handbook—blamed it for not being Milton. Almost immediately there was an adaptation published in Miltonic verse to counter the “vulgar” Bunyan original.

What began as a dream narrative in everyday, simple language eventually found its way to the children’s lit shelf, as Murray notes:

“For over two centuries, The Pilgrim’s Progress was essential reading not in the university classroom but in the nursery, adopted by children who, like Louisa May Alcott’s Jo March in Little Women (1868), revelled in the journey and the adventure of Bunyan’s allegory. As a children’s book, it was so common that Frances Hodgson Burnett, L.M. Montgomery and Mark Twain could assume a basic knowledge of Christian’s journey from the City of Destruction to the Celestial City…. While Emily in Montgomery’s Emily of New Moon (1923) is proud to have both read and enjoyed Bunyan’s allegory (the only book her devout aunts let her read on Sundays), Huckleberry Finn famously judged that the allegory is ‘about a man that left his family, it didn’t say why. I read considerable in it now and then. The statements was interesting, but tough’” (Shannon Murray, “A Book for Boys and Girls: Or, Country Rhimes for Children: Bunyan and Literature for Children,” in The Cambridge Companion to Bunyan, 120).

Though I probably had an advantage going into the book, like Huck Finn I thought there were some tough things in it. There are pages of doctrinal discussions, the allegorical characters splitting hairs over issues that even I—who have studied evangelical theology—can’t see the significance of the distinctions.

My biggest struggle might be that I found the middle fifty pages of each book to be a bit dull. I can’t for the life of me figure out why everyone gets married near the end of Christiana’s tale. Moreover, the Progress doesn’t capture the subtleties of temptation that make the path of Christian pilgrimage so very dangerous. Vanity Fair, for example, is garish and obvious. The real temptation of consumerism, however, is the warm bath of normalcy, where the shocking reality that we treat people like transferable commodities is a simple matter of everyday policy. I suspect that an allegory simply can’t capture these subtleties without losing its universal appeal.

Rather than tough, though, when I got past the doctrinal minutia I actually found much of the book easy to read. “Vulgar” language has not changed much in the 325 years since it was written. I only had to look up a couple of words and I knew all of the allegorical allusions.

And yet, As Murray notes, Bunyan’s Christian allegory is now part of the university curriculum, and I suspect many students find it a challenging read. The Pilgrim’s Progress is also the benefactor (or victim!) of adaptations designed to make it more accessible. Most people who encounter Christian’s story, I would guess, encounter it through popular versions like Enid Blayton’s The Land Far Beyond (1942) or the Marvel Comic adaptation (1993)—both of which I have actually read!

So the literary history of The Pilgrim’s Progress is an intriguing one. It began as a street-language Christian handbook, and then migrated toward the nursery, being one of the few good books that children could read (especially on Sundays). By Mark Twain’s time, even though the story is well known, a Huck Finn character might find the language a bit of a challenge. A generation later Lucy Maud’s Emily character can be Pilgrim's Progress 20th c Religious Tract Societyproud that she is able to read and understand what was once a children’s book. About that time The Religious Tract Society of London is printing an evangelistic version, with some obsolete words translated and eight colour illustrations, for “readers of every class” (4)—the version that I have. As the century moves on, the university takes up Bunyan’s Dream as an academic study. Now Bunyan is hard, intellectual, historical, and best fed to us in short bits with colourful pictures (or stage musicals with a bad actor as the leading man).

I write this not to brag at my own accomplishment in reading the original (or blush at my heretofore embarrassing display of literary cowardice), but to show the nature of how language works. It was Tyndale, I believe, whose work was developed into the King James Bible. And it was Tyndale who once quipped,

“I defy the pope and his laws! If God spares my life, in a few years a plowboy shall know more of the Scriptures than you do.”*

Tyndale imagined his translation as “vulgar,” and now the King James is the height of English poetry and requires a sophisticated readership. We ease into Shakespeare in high school, training our brains to appreciate plays that were enjoyed by the street class illiterati who paid a penny to stand and watch.

plgrim's regressI wonder if there is more to our struggle with the classics, though, than the normal evolution of language. When I read C.S. Lewis’ The Pilgrim’s Regress for the first time in 2011, it was a real struggle. With hundreds of often un-translated French, Italian, German, Latin, and Greek words and phrases, Lewis’ little spiritual allegory is intimidating. Rereading it again this year, having educated myself in Lewis’ world and works, and it is much more approachable. This realization leads me to suspect that had I taken up Bunyan’s travelogue two years ago I would have struggled more than I did. Not only has language moved on, but so has education. We are simply less educated than the readers of the past.

pilgrim's progress marvelIn either case, despite having conquered Bunyan’s “Similitude of a Dream” I have more literary backfilling to do. I wonder if Marvel Comics has a Milton.

Actually, according to Foxe, he said, “I defy the Pope, and all his laws; and if God spares my life, ere many years, I will cause the boy that driveth the plow to know more of the Scriptures than thou dost!” But, as you know, language does evolve!

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Was C.S. Lewis Wrong about His Own Conversion?

Surprised by Joy by C.S. LewisC.S. Lewis’ conversion to Christianity is one of the 21st century’s classic spiritual stories. And the moment of his final, reluctant yielding to a belief in God has been often repeated:

“You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen, night after night, feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of Him whom I so earnestly desired not to meet. That which I greatly feared had at last come upon me. In the Trinity Term of 1929 I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England” (Surprised by Joy, ch. 14).

I have been slowly working through Lewis’ published poetry, voluminous letters, and personal diary of the 1920s. It is true that the reader can see a shift in Lewis through the period. As I was moving toward this expected “Trinity Term of 1929,” though, two publications simultaneously questioned the date of Lewis’ conversion to theism–they questioned the timing of that first reluctant prayer.

The first hint came by whispers. When I was at the Wade Center last summer, I overheard staff and researchers talking about how leading Christian intellectual Alister McGrath was doing an “insider’s” biography of Lewis. Like C.S. Lewis, McGrath is an Irish convert to Christianity from Lewis Relecutant Prophet Eccentric Genius Alister McGrathatheism, and they both centred their academic life around Oxford. In the first wave of advertising for McGrath’s C. S. Lewis – A Life: Eccentric Genius, Reluctant Prophet came the idea that McGrath challenged that conversion date, and would argue for a 1930 date rather than Spring 1929 (as Lewis himself claimed).

Any critical historian would immediately challenge McGrath’s conclusion based on the testimony of the man himself! But a second stream of questioning came from a second, independent source. More than confirmation, though, this is a primary source: C.S. Lewis’ own words, pinning down his theistic conversion to June, 1930. American C.S. Lewis scholar Andrew Lazo connected the dots based on his work in an early conversion narrative of C.S. Lewis’ that is now housed at the Wade. He is publishing the results in VII: An Anglo-American Literary Review, which has just been released.

I have been waiting until I read all the material for myself to make a judgment. As is proper historically, I have read through all of Lewis’ published work before looking at what other scholars say–in particular, his letters and journal. I must admit, based on his letters, I don’t think that Lewis had converted to theism in Spring 1929. His belief seems, to me, to come on strong through Fall ’29 through Spring ’30. We know that he has converted by the end of 1930. In a Christmas Eve 1930 letter to his best Collected Letters vol 1friend, Arthur Greeves, his conversion is a fait accompli–he admits that he has personal doubt, though he has no reason intellectually to doubt the existence of God. And in a June 1, 1930 letter he speaks of temptation and sin, which fits with Lazo’s target date.

But I have some doubts. In a Mar 21st, 1930 letter to A.K. Hamilton Jenkin, Lewis writes:

“On my side there are changes perhaps bigger: you will be surprised to hear that my outlook is now definitely religious. It is not precisely Christianity, though it may turn out that way in the end. I can’t express the change better than by saying that whereas once I would have said ‘Shall I adopt Christianity’, I now wait to see whether it will adopt me: i. e., I now know there is another Party in the affair—that I’m playing poker, not Patience, as I once supposed.”

This sounds much like the Surprised by Joy quotation above–taken from a chapter entitled “Checkmate”–though perhaps that’s where Lewis has finally lost the hand of poker! Moving back further, in Feb 1930 Lewis writes to his anthroposophical friend, Owen Barfield:

“Terrible things are happening to me. The ‘Spirit’ or ‘Real I’ is showing an alarming tendency to become much more personal and is taking the offensive, and behaving just like God. You’d better come on Monday at the latest or I may have entered a monastery.”

About the same time, Lewis writes to Arthur Greeves that materialism is definitely not what he believes and speaks of a group of “us” when it comes to religious belief. That winter of 1929-30 Lewis speaks of his spiritual growth and meditation practices. And in a Jan 26, 1930 letter to Arthur Greeves I found what I can only describe as the first “Lewisian” moral statement–an idea with that upside down quality we see in his WWII books:

“I suppose there is such a thing as imagining you have got beyond the stage of hating bad men, when in reality you haven’t got as far as hating them. Divine charity must be very different from human truckling to bullies, or human indulgence for rotters because they are amusing…”

Alister McGrathThere are hints in 1929 of spiritual growth but nothing like that Mar 21, 1930 letter to Jenkin. Now that I have read Lewis’ work up through The Pilgrim’s Regress (1933)–which I am almost through for the second time–I will look at the work of McGrath and Lazo and come to conclusion. I think, though, they are on to something. Winter of 1929-30 was spiritually very rich for Lewis, and it seems that he finally gave in during the first half of 1930 (rather than late Spring of 1929).

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On the Shoulders of Giants: C.S. Lewis’ Preface to “The Allegory of Love” (1935)

Allegory of Love CS Lewis 1976 reprintI’ve talked before about the value of reading the prefaces and introductions to books. It’s amazing how much we miss when we skip them. I’m a big fan of the fore-matter.

C.S. Lewis’ preface to The Allegory of Love (1936) is no exception. Hidden within this short set up to Lewis’ first academic book–the research that really put him on the map as a literary historian–is filled with little hints of Lewis’ personal story. The Allegory of Love began in 1929, before Lewis converted to Christianity. The book, then, stretches back into the foundational years of his intellectual conversion, through the period when he became a Christian, and after he “came out” as a believer with the publication of The Pilgrim’s Regress (1933). 

We see in this preface Lewis’ famous brevity–laced with wit–as well as his deferential style of apologizing (in both senses of the word) for his work. In particular, we see in this note the people that helped shape C.S. Lewis intellectually and spiritually as he moved toward conversion. He tenderly mentions his father, who died while chapter two was being written. The names Tolkien, Onions, Dyson, and Smith are part of “a far larger circle of those who have helped me, directly or indirectly, when neither they” knew it or not. And as he also does in Surprised by Joy (1955), Lewis gives special credit to Owen Barfield, who

“taught me not to patronize the past, and has trained me to see the present as itself a ‘period’. I desire for myself no higher function than to be one of the instruments whereby his theory and practice in such matters may become more widely effective.”

Indeed, the entire book is dedicated

TO
OWEN BARFIELD
WISEST AND BEST
OF MY
UNOFFICIAL
TEACHERS

The Allegory of Love is an important academic book for Lewis. But he never claims to be a lone scholar, a solitary intellectual, or an autodidact (that Greek word at the end of the preface). Lewis was a collector of influences, and his literary genius comes out of a large circle of official and “unofficial” teachers–Lewis indeed stands on the shoulders of giants, even if we see him as one of those giants now. Here is the preface in its entirety.

Allegory of Love CS Lewis 1936 1st edIT is to be hoped that the purpose of this book is sufficiently explained in the text and the preface need therefore be occupied with nothing but thanks where thanks, so far as I can recall, are due. But I cannot promise to remember all my debts, and I am well aware, like the philosopher, that ‘if I had succeeded in owing more, I might then perhaps have gained more of a claim to be original.’

Of unambiguous debts my first is naturally to the Delegates of the Clarendon Press and to the skilled and patient anonymities who serve them; then to Dom André Wilmart, O.S.B., for careful criticisms of the first two chapters; to Professor C. C. J. Webb for his helpful interest in the second; to the Medieval Society of Manchester University (and specially to Professor Vinaver) for their kind hearing and useful discussion of the third; to Dr. C.T. Onions for subjecting my attempts at Middle English verse to that best criticism in which all distinction between the literary and the linguistic is resolved; and to Dr. Abercrombie, for all that is not erroneous in the Appendix on Danger. The first chapter was read and commented upon by Mr. B. Macfarlane and Professor Tolkien so long ago that they have probably forgotten the labour, but I do not therefore forget the kindness.

Thus far my task is easy; but behind these unmistakable creditors I detect a far larger circle of those who have helped me, directly or indirectly, when neither they nor I supposed that any such matter was toward. There seems to be hardly any one among my acquaintance from whom I have not learned. The greatest of these debts—that which I owe to my father for the inestimable benefit of a childhood passed mostly alone in a house full of books—is now beyond repayment; and among the rest I can only select. To have lived on the same college staircase with Professor J. A. Smith is in itself a liberal education. The untiring intellect of Mr. H. Dyson of Reading, and the selfless use which he makes of it, are at once spur and bridle to all his friends. The work of Dr. Janet Spens has encouraged me to say more boldly what I saw in Spenser and to see what I had not seen before. Above all, the friend to whom I have dedicated the book, has taught me not to patronize the past, and has trained me to see the present as itself a ‘period’. I desire for myself no higher function than to be one of the instruments whereby his theory and practice in such matters may become more widely effective.

I have tried to acknowledge the assistance of previous writers wherever I was aware of it. I hope it will not be supposed that I am either ignorant or contemptuous of all the celebrated books I do not mention. In writing my last chapter I have regretted that the particular point of Allegory of Love CS Lewis new reprintview from which I was approaching Spenser did not allow me to make much use of the labours of Professor Renwick and Mr. B. E. C. Davis, or even of Professor de Selincourt’s noble preface. Such knowledge as I have of Latin poetry would have been more easily and pleasurably acquired if Mr. Raby’s great works had reached me earlier. But when all is said, doubtless I have still failed to mention many giants on whose shoulders I have stood at one time or another. Facts and inferences and even turns of expression find a lodging in a man’s mind, he scarcely remembers how; and of all writers I make least claim to be αὐτoδιδακτός.

C. S. L.

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“Exegesis of the Soul” A Reflective Response to Frederick Buechner’s Memoirs

C.S. Lewis was part of a WWII-era literary group called the Inklings that included authors like J.R.R. Tolkien,  Charles Williams, and Roger Lancelyn Green. Among those that I might consider “Honourary Inklings,” Frederick Buechner has, for me, pride of place. Buechner (pronounced Beek-ner) is an American pastor, writer, and teacher. In the literary world he is probably best known for his bestselling breakout novel, A Long Day’s Dying (1950) and his Pulitzer-nominated Godric (1981). I first encountered Buechner through his Bebb stories–brilliant short novels about a pear-shaped, bowler hat-wearing religious scam artist who still strikes the reader as utterly guileless and endearingly authentic. I soon stumbled upon Buechner’s sermons and spiritual writings, before I faced the task of reading his memoirs for Eugene Peterson’s “Soulcraft” course at Regent College a decade ago. 

I recently dug out my reflective response for that transformative class. Although I cringe at some of the writing, I am struck by how much these books gave me a voice for the various streams of vocation I was struggling with at the time. This response is a spiritual memoir of sorts, so the conversation is quite personal. But as I found that Buechner was telling my story at times, I suspect some readers will also find themselves in these words.

Even from an author’s memoir, it is sometimes difficult to know the person behind the words. From a different perspective, though, everything an author writes is autobiographical. After reading Frederick Buechner’s four memoirs and some of his fiction, I am struck by the points of contact that exist between Buechner and me. While the details of our lives are different, on the whole our lives are not radically disparate. In fact, I often felt like he was telling my story too, and it is valuable to explore the encounter of imagination that has occurred in my reading.

In Sacred Journey (1982) Buechner cleverly separates life into three periods: childhood before time began with his father’s suicide, adulthood where time is essential, and life when he began to see beyond time. The definitive point between my childhood and adulthood occurred when I was fourteen. My house caught on fire at 4:16 a.m. on February 4, 1990, and, as a result, my father and baby brother died. Unlike Buechner, buechner sacred journ (2)my movement from childhood to adulthood to eternity happened very quickly, since I became a Christian soon after the fire. We both lost fathers when we were young, and we both experienced many of the same consequences of such a loss, but our paths of healing have been quite different precisely because of my early glimpses into eternity. Like no other time in my life since, God gave me a perspective that helped me see sunlight in the darkness.

The theme of dark secrets runs throughout Buechner’s memoirs, culminating in Telling Secrets (1991). Buechner took a long time to find the courage to tell people about his father’s suicide.  The death of my father was so spectacular that I never had to tell anyone. It made national news, and everyone in my town knew who I was. Teachers and counsellors and bosses I encountered during high school had been told in whispered hushes what had happened. I had a file.

Eventually, though, people forgot, and I learned I had to tell the story of my pain. Though I did not realize this fact until years later, as a young adult I was desperately searching for a father. There is a sense where I share this in common with Buechner, but I think his search was more to know the father he had. I was a Christian by this time, and I had quickly discovered that most of my Christian mentors were willing to commit only to a very shallow level, and so I faced the darkness alone, without a father, allowing friends in only occasionally.

Like Buechner, writing became an outlet for me. My imagination, and the imaginations of my favourite authors, became my mentors. Like Buechner, I loved poetry, and sometimes explored its depths, but I knew I was not to be a poet. I remember sitting on a stack of hay, procrastinating from feeding the cows when I was eight or nine, and waiting for the first star to come out so I could make a wish. I always missed the star, but that night I caught it, and I wished that I would become a famous writer. Aspirations of being an astronaut, a scientist or the prime minister slipped away with what some call maturity, but the dream of writing remained, and remains still. I wonder if Buechner had had other dreams fade until all that was left was writing.

I had teachers encourage me here and there, but none such as Buechner had in his education—teachers who drew out his skills and tempted his imagination. When I was sixteen, I landed in a Creative Writing class that turned out to be a bird course. I decided to try anyway, and I wrote. My teacher, who had long since lost the “stuff” that teachers need to continue, was astonished that there was someone in the class who wanted to learn. So he taught me. He published my poems, and shared my stories with other classes. What I appreciated most was that he once told me one of my poems was not that great. It hurt, but he was right.

In time I wrote about the fire. I was, however, writing with others in mind, not myself.  This a trait which I think I share with Buechner. Even as I write this, I am aware and curious about the audience. I wonder what the paper marker is like, and whether he or she also connected with Buechner. I wonder if the reader thinks I have understood and reflected Buechner well, or if I am simply another freshman trying to impress the world. I wonder what mark I can get, and whether I should alter my writing and reflection style to get a better grade. More than just in writing, this sense of seeing myself outside of myself is an area I share with Buechner. I think that he fears he is a bit of a fake. In prayer, in relationships, and in my work, I have this sense of being watched or watching myself. Sometimes it is like I am performing for others, writing for others, preaching for others. I do not know if I am being a fake or if this feeling may be a normal part of life. Before I read Buechner, I had never met anyone who shared similar thoughts and feelings, let alone someone able to articulate the feeling so well.

I am supremely grateful for snippets of Buechner’s methods, thoughts, ideas, successes and failures. But I wonder if the accounts of his writing experiences are more nostalgic than realistic. Where is the pain, the toil, and the insecurity of his work? I am left with the question of whether he had any fears in the processes of writing at all. Was he ever afraid the plot would not come? Did he wonder about the people reading his work? Most other questions I would ask him centre around the question, “What do I do to be a writer?”

I had decided long ago I wanted to capture people’s imagination in novels, and quietly feed their captured mind meals of love and grace and redemptive pain. I am now curious about his other writings. I have read Buechner’s Bebb books and his four memoirs, but was he as successful in capturing the themes of his faith in his other books? How did his readers react to his change of worldview when he became a Christian? As a fledgling Now and Then by Frederick Buechnerwriter, I am extremely grateful for the tales of his experiences, but I am still left with many questions. Though Now and Then (1983) is primarily about his vocational life, Buechner does not share enough about how ministry and teaching and writing fit together. This is a little disappointing because these are the vocations I want to hang together in my life—and I have the sneaking suspicion that they do not hang together perfectly. I am left hungry for more about his vocational experiences.

Underlying all of Buechner’s remembering is theology. He teaches in narrative, and entertains in his sermons. He captures my imagination, drawing truth out of images that have long lain dormant. His approaches to teaching and preaching–particularly his choice of language and perspective–are what I am trying to do. The difference is this: he began teaching the way he did partly because he did not know any better, whereas I have to intentionally break habits of fundamentalist language and a narrow worldview. He makes a good study of how to do what I am trying to do because he lives it. He believes that theology is autobiography, and I believe he may be right.

One of the key points of theology that has come out of Buechner’s writing is the truth about the providence of God. I have also seen the providential hand working in my life in timely tragedies, camps, sermons, and coincidental meetings. Unlike Buechner, these have been large, pivotal events, not seemingly small ones. While there have been some small events that have turned out to be quite important in my path, my life instead has seemed to include sweeping changes of direction, not just little turns in the road. My start in ministry, like Buechner’s, was somewhat accidental. Though I had a sense of pastoral call, I had not followed that up with any career decisions. I surprised myself and everyone else one day in high school when I said “I want to be a youth minister.” I did not know what a youth minister was, but there was a Pastor’s kid in the discussion who clarified that a youth minister works with teens.

Not long after, I realized that the place I had been playing basketball regularly in was actually a Bible College. I decided to find out about the college, so one day I played hooky from high school to pick up a brochure. As I was talking to the secretary, a voice on her intercom asked her to find contact information for a “Brenton Dickieson.” The secretary and I exchanged astonished looks, and she directed me to the recruiter’s office, where we met for the first time. He had heard I was looking into how to be a youth minister, and that is how I began. More intentionally, but no less coincidentally, I began my ministry career. The wise would call these coincidences, “providence.”

When Buechner describes in Now and Then his mixed feelings regarding the vocation of helping the down and out in East Harlem, I understand his feeling.  Each morning I wake up to see the volcano Mount Asama overshadowing a lush valley of rice fields and small Japanese towns hedged in by mountains and forests.  There is a beauty here that people search their whole lives to find.  I live among a people who have never known about Jesus, and most of them will die without knowing Him.  I know that we are not supposed to be here for long, but I feel myself being called to stay–not by the Lord, but by the reality of what could be done.  And so Mt. Asama haunts me each day like the man on the street corner who Buechner helped find a job.

I hesitate to say it, but I may share some aspects of darkness with Buechner.  I hesitate because I am unsure to what degree he struggles in this area.  If it was not for Telling Secrets, I would have suspected he slid through life without significant inner pain.  There is a time when Buechner’s memories and imagination turn in on himself, which kept him from seeing the truth about his life, his mother, his daughter, and his father.  I cannot imagine that someone with his imagination and reflective ability can have escaped the demons that plague thinkers.  Perhaps London’s Little Ease dungeon he speaks of in Telling Secrets is the same as my fear, my darkness, and my self-doubt.

A deeper theme Buechner develops in his darkness, is how God works through pain and trial to communicate His loving forgiveness.  At the funeral for my father and baby brother, a nun said, “you are truly blessed to have received so many tragedies.”  It was a horrible, yet relieving thing to hear.  It felt like this woman was the first to acknowledge my true pain, yet she did it without saying “sorry.” In his pain, Buechner learned a secret lie that had haunted him: he believed that if someone he loved was unhappy, he had no right to be happy. Even in his most recent memoir, Eyes of the Heart (1999). Buechner does not share whether or not he has conquered this lie, or whether he still stumbles in the unhappiness of his loved ones. One of the truths that comes out of Buechner’s life is that telling the truth about our lives is important, but it does not mean that lies have been extinguished.

After reading his autobiographies, I feel connected to Buechner in many ways.  It has been a delight to walk with him along the journey of his life. Buechner is clearly reflective and self-aware, bringing out parts of my own life and much about the life of God.  His writings are an exegesis of the soul, pointing toward truth, and he walks there with us in his meandering, storytelling way.

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Shaking Off the Ailments of a Troublesome Term

C.S. Lewis at his deskC.S. Lewis begins a March 31, 1928 letter to his father:

“I have succeeded, at last, in shaking off the ailments of one of the most troublesome terms I have yet had.”

As I read that line I immediately understood it. Lewis goes on to explain that his ailments are quite literal—a squashed finger, the flu, a swollen gland—but the phrase “troublesome term” resonated with me deeply on another level. This entire semester, I have been completely, incredibly, irredeemably busy.

Because of a shift in teaching schedules and family needs, I took on a huge course load–about double what a typical full time university load normally looks like. I was ready for the semester to begin. I had every book and article read with copious notes, I had every lecture written, and I began the term with most of the administrative work complete. And still, I have worked from dawn to late into the evening almost every night. The schedule has been relentless.

One of the reasons the semester has been exhausting, beyond the sheer number of work hours, is the nature of the work. Reading and lecture prep are actually the most fun and rewarding aspects of teaching life. But that work was mostly complete before January. Instead, my days and nights were filled with reading 1st year composition papers. It was a great topic (“Is God or religion viable in the modern world?), most of the students improved dramatically, and there were some genuinely exciting papers. Essayist Bookshelf 2013But there is great weight in the task of going word-by-word, line-by-line through hundreds of assignments to simultaneously address semicolon usage and argumentative logic. It was nearly overwhelming.

On top of the course load, and a semester where I have seen more than 1500 assignments, is this research career I am trying to build. During this semester I also finished an article, submitted it, checked the proofs (when it was accepted), and worked on the revisions of another article. I have not written much—you can see my hopeful lament here—but I have blogged intermittently and presented my research. This semester I have also applied for a PhD, and after great preparation, have interviewed. While these pressures aren’t “sorrows,” I can say, like Paul, that, “Besides everything else, I face daily the pressure of my concern for all the churches” (2 Cor 11:28).

But, I see the light approaching. The spring is coming, and I am steadily working my way through paper. I have only 60 assignments left to mark—and they are mostly pretty good assignments—so I am starting to emerge. Another 7 or 8 days of marking Lewis books signature seriesand a week of administrative work and my life returns to normal rhythms. I no longer feel an allergic reaction to the keyboard, and the backlit screen I stare at for hours on end is no longer ominous.

And as I sit at the end of this exhausting cycle, I am already starting to look back at the semester fondly. I love my work—even the correction of semicolons and the curious poetry that is freshmen logic. I love to teach, and it is the teaching that enriches my research and writing. So while I am tired—in the bone, shoulders slumped, near-the-edge-of-sickness tired—I will miss this most troublesome of terms when it is over.

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