This is dangerous territory–partly because some have trumbled into the “real” meaning of this or that book and caused an awful mess. When read this way the Bible most especially becomes secret code for everything from American foreign policy to the missing political allies of Atlantis to the reason why its words mean the exact opposite of what they say. That’s right, the picture to the right is about the hidden Roswell UFO links in the King James Bible.
C.S. Lewis is certainly not immune to being co-opted by this group or that. You know what I mean, I think. Moreover, Lewis warned us in the preface to The Great Divorce that we should avoid certain sorts of speculation:
“I beg readers to remember that this is a fantasy. It has of course-or I intended it to have-a moral. But the transmortal conditions are solely an imaginative supposal: they are not even a guess or a speculation at what may actually await us. The last thing I wish is to arouse factual curiosity about the details of the after-world.”
In The Great Divorce, Lewis describes heaven and hell with vivid clarity: the great, apathetic, narcissistic, blandness of hell contrasted to the bright, sharp, penetrating beauty of heaven. Lewis wants here to avoid a school of thought that would blame him for redrawing the faint lines of historic teaching about the after-life. He only wants to go as far as Dante, telling a morally invested story with the artistry that he has.
But Dante really did redraw the lines of eschatology, whether we have read him or not. His cosmography of hell, purgatory, and heaven has stuck with us, shaping our cultural understanding, repainting every bit of our imagination from catechism classes all the way up to the works of the greatest modern artists. Perhaps Lewis is trying to have the reader keep the moral, and even the tang of heaven and hell, without accepting its landscape.
So why do I push in to what he has created, trying to discern meaning that he seems to resist? Besides the Dante Effect–the reality that art and culture shape culture and thought–there are two reasons.
First, there is this little statement that Lewis makes in a letter to fellow poet Ruth Pitter. Pitter had said that there was something jarring or frightening or personally vivid about The Great Divorce. On July 6th, 1947, Lewis wrote back:
“I was rather frightened myself by the Great Divorce. — condemned out of my own mouth.”
There is something of The Great Divorce that tells the truth about C.S. Lewis’ understanding of the world. Without trying to bend Lewis, or find the super secret Bible code, that something that frightened Lewis is worth exploring.
Second, Lewis really is telling us something about his beliefs on what heaven and hell means. This is C.S. Lewis speaking in the preface:
“I believe, to be sure, that any man who reaches Heaven will find that what he abandoned (even in plucking out his right eye) was precisely nothing: that the kernel of what he was really seeking even in his most depraved wishes will be there, beyond expectation, waiting for him in “the High Countries.” In that sense it will be true for those who have completed the journey (and for no others) to say that good is everything and Heaven everywhere.”
Lewis cautions against trying to live the heaven-in-all-good now, suggesting that if we do “we are likely to embrace the false and disastrous converse and fancy that everything is good and everywhere is Heaven” (Preface). Otherwise, though, he is saying something definite about heaven and hell. We are not to imagine heaven and hell as distinct, geographically specific domains.
In this way, Lewis is carrying on a conversation begun in The Problem of Pain. His chapter on hell captures the trilemma of hell: something seems to be wrong with the teaching of a good-loving God who puts sinners in an eternal hell for conscious, non-reforming punishment. After setting aside common objections to the doctrine of hell, he chips away at our understanding of time in the after-life. Finally, he hints at a solution of the trilemma on the issue of consciousness:
“[Hell] is in no sense parallel to heaven: it is ‘the darkness outside’, the outer rim where being fades away into nonentity” (“Hell”).
This was written about 5 years before The Great Divorce. Not quite a decade later, Lewis encapsulated some of his understanding of heaven in the final Narnian chronicle, The Last Battle (1956). There is a great deal to say about that complex little book, but two sets of characters show us something of Lewis’ eschatological imagination. In one scene, a group of Dwarfs sit in a tight circle, refusing to admit that they are in heaven. In another scene, a Calormene officer, Emeth, is invited into this Narnian heaven even though he had served as an enemy of Aslan. Aslan says, “I take to me the services which thou hast done to Tash.” These two scenes show The Great Divorce idea of the continuity of earthly life into either heaven or hell, as well as the blurring of the regional boundaries.
It’s true that Lewis draws the picture in The Great Divorce a little differently than he does elsewhere. He resists George MacDonald‘s universalism–intriguingly by having MacDonald adjust his own views!–and affirms the essential difference between heaven and hell. But he does so in surprisingly unorthodox way. Here is one of those pictures, where George MacDonald, a spirit of heaven, is explaining why the saved cannot go into hell to rescue the damned:
“… a damned soul is nearly nothing: it is shrunk, shut up in itself. Good beats upon the damned incessantly as sound waves beat on the ears of the deaf, but they cannot receive it. Their fists are clenched, their teeth are clenched, their eyes fast shut. First they will not, in the end they cannot, open their hands for gifts, or their mouths for food, or their eyes to see” (ch. 13).
These sorts of images have led some people to draw theological conclusions using C.S. Lewis’ work. David Clark argues in C.S. Lewis Goes to Heaven that people will get a chance to accept Christ, whether that is here on earth or in heaven. Clark argues that when we follow Lewis’ understanding of heaven and hell, we will discover that:
“Lewis removed this huge stumbling block to Christianity and vindicated both the justice and mercy of God” (see here).
Another author, and one with a far greater influence, is Rob Bell. Though often missed by reviewers, Bell’s work is shot through with Lewis’ influence. In Love Wins, that book that transformed millions of readers and set the stage for his exit left from the evangelical conversation, Bell argues exactly for the continuity that Lewis sets up in The Great Divorce. Heaven and hell are both experienced here on earth, and one’s decisions sets one in a heavenward or hell-ward direction. We can bring heaven into our earthbound reality, or we can sow hell into everyday life. While Bell isn’t very clear about what this means for the actual movement of the human being into the realms beyond, it is a powerful image as a spiritual truth. Bell leans on Lewis for this road map.
Still, as we think about heaven and hell, we remember Lewis’ caution. Is this arousing “factual curiosity about the details of the after-world?” I have to admit that as he poignantly captures the landscapes of heaven and hell in imagination, I’m tempted to believe that his landscape hints at something factual. And it may be that Lewis offers something to Christian thinking about choice, salvation, and the after-life.
But I don’t think that’s the deepest meaning of The Great Divorce–as much as I like a good controversy. Through this speculative fantasy, Lewis captures the truth of the human condition–the truth of his human condition. Most of us are not murderers or rapists or dictators, yet we play with evil within the subtle inclinations of our hearts. We do this not to evil men or even to strangers. No, we rage against or manipulate the ones we claim to love. I rage against and manipulate the ones I love. In this I am sowing hell on earth, bending myself toward self–that is, bending myself toward hell.
Each of our choices here on earth invests us further into heavenliness or hellishness. In this way, The Great Divorce is not really about heaven or hell and the afterlife, but about whether or not Galatians 2:20 is true in this life:
I have been crucified with Christ. I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. So the life that I now live, I live in faith in the son of God who loves me and gave up his life for me.
What is the deeper meaning in The Great Divorce? It is, I think, the thing that shocked Lewis so much. On the great stage of this heavenly dream vision, Lewis saw his own sin and selfishness played out, scene after scene. While as readers we can close ourselves off to its message, Lewis could not. It stripped bare his willful blindness, and this is what he was left with:
“One dreadful glance over my shoulder I essayed-not long enough to see (or did I see?) the rim of the sunrise that shoots Time dead with golden arrows and puts to flight all phantasmal shapes.
“Screaming, I buried my face in the folds of my Teacher’s robe. ‘The morning! The morning!’ I cried, ‘I am caught by the morning and I am a ghost.’
“But it was too late. The light, like solid blocks, intolerable of edge and weight, came thundering upon my head. Next moment the folds of my Teacher’s garment were only the folds of the old ink-stained cloth on my study table which I had pulled down with me as I fell from my chair. The blocks of light were only the books which I had pulled off with it, falling about my head. I awoke in a cold room, hunched on the floor beside a black and empty grate, the clock striking three, and the siren howling overhead” (ch. 14).
What is the secret code of The Great Divorce? It’s the basic principle that it matters how we live, and whatever lies we tell ourselves in the dark will be set to flight in the truth of that last great sunrise.
I’m reminded of a wonderful son I was listening to today by Andrew Peterson, “Lay Me Down.” It includes a powerful line: “All the death there ever was, if you set it next to life, I believe it would barely fill a cup.”
Well worth a listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Eq4QbiJ51w
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“Song,” not “son,” although I am a pastor like his dad, and would be proud to have him for a son!
Pretty hilarious, I got the second response first and had NO idea what you were talking about. It all makes sense here!
I’m a big Andrew Peterson fan, and think I reviewed him on here somewhere.
We all know wonderful sons!
Apparently Andy Gullahorn is one of the back up musicians. Love him too.
i woke this morning thinking of the caution Lewis gave us for thinking The Great Divorce was a solid picture of Heaven and Hell. I think he was motivated by a sermon he heard and Blake’s The Marriage of Heaven and Hell ( perhaps, if my memory serves me well). I am grateful for your post. Thoughtful, insightful; feeling like a student of yours and glad for it. I think your conclusion true. (Honestly, there are days when it is frightening to think so) Insert a little MacDonald here: “Just because you are eternal, your trouble cannot be. You may cling to it, and brood over it, but you cannot keep it from blossoming into a bliss, or crumbling to dust. Be such while it lasts, that, when it passes, it shall leave you loving more, not less.” — George MacDonald, from ‘Castle Warlock'”
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Thanks so much for the response, Karen. I’m glad it connected with you. And thanks for the MacDonald link: we are one another’s students!
And I am blown away by your stained glass work. Wow! Are you interested in curating a little blog on either 1) children’s lit; 2) Inklings; or 3) fantasy broadly? It does not have to be writing heavy, but a few pieces highlighted with some text–either commentary, context, or quotes–with some links to your studio.
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now it is i who am blown away! Yes…yes!!
Karen, feel free to email me:
junkola [at] gmail [dot] com
Before coming to read this today, I read his poem, “Donkeys’ Delight”, first published a good couple years after The Great Divorce, on 5 November 1947: it struck me as a kind of hopeful analogue or variant of it, in miniature.
I wonder if the thought of the interrelation of life now to Heaven in The Great Divorce is related in particular to what St. Angela of Foligno says, in Dante’s Paradiso – and perhaps even especially to Williams’s treatment of it in The Figure of Beatrice.
And I wonder how Patristic/Early Church the imagery of where Lewis and the excursionists reach, is: a vision in the Passion of Sts. Perpetua and Felicity comes to mind, and also, more generally, the Shepherd of Hermas, and a phrase in the Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, though I have checked none of these before writing this comment.
Reading Lewis’s dream-vision MacDonald saying, “Their fists are clenched, […]. First they will not, in the end they cannot, open their hands for gifts”, I was reminded of a very striking passage of MacDonald’s Lilith (though I have not checked it, yet, either): is Lewis perhaps allusively suggesting the depth and breadth of hope, there, simply (rather than impliicitly to ‘correct’ the real MacDonald)?
As to Lewis seeing “his own sin and selfishness played out”, I am reminded of the story of St. Anthony saying, ““all will be saved, only I will perish.” And of the lines in Donne’s “Hymne to God the Father”, “Wilt thou forgive those sinnes through which I runne, / And doe them still: though still I doe deplore?” and “Wilt thout forgive that sinne which I did shunne / A yeare or two: but wallow’d in, a score? / When thou hast done, thou hast not done, / For, I have more.” That sickening awareness of impenitence, of no improvement…
Enjoyed learning more history behind this classic and chewing on the deeper meaning. I appreciate Lewis’s disclaimer, whereas Rob Bell likes to expound as if he has a fresh interpretation on the truth. Lewis is the wiser.
The spot on way that Lewis, in the GD, can expose the way human’s justify sin and how, in the light of Truth we see it for what it is, reminds me of a scene in “Til We Have Faces.” When Orual has brought her book of complaints to shove in the face of the gods . . . and looks down to find it is but a scrawny, scrawled piece of paper, “a vile scribble,” with no real substance. She reads it over and over again, though she’s not aware she’s doing so, until a judge interrupts her.
After all her plans to write a tome that would express the injustice of the gods, she is silenced by her own sin, now fully exposed, as she reads the raw reality behind her complaints. I’m sure you’re better acquainted than I with this story, but I remember how I felt the weightiness of the truth when I read this scene. How we love to babble about our rights, how we’ve been wronged, and tout our own virtues. How we will see those things for what they really are when we are in the presence of the Omniscient God.
I found that part of TWHF to be almost dreamlike, like stream consciousness writing. It is a brilliant move in a strong book. I have notes that link GD and TWHF, but I haven’t gone back to them for a year or so.
Rob Bell might be right, but he is not clear enough for me to know for sure. I think he asks the right questions. His chapter on “Heaven has Flames” is pretty good.
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By the way, I started working on a fictional piece to submit for your GD focus, but have had other projects more pressing. The GD emphasis ends this month, correct?
Well, strictly speaking it does. But I can run GD things any time. Keep working on it and let me know. Did you send me an email? I’m about 2 wks behind.
Ok, great! I didn’t email.
send a note to junkola [at] gmail [dot] com when ready.
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I don’t know Rob Bell’s work (yet), but it may be worth mentioning an interesting blog for related matters, Fr. Aidan Kimel’s Eclectic Orthodoxy.
I am a follower of Eclectic Orthodoxy!
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Reblogged this on Thoughts and Such and commented:
Thinking through ideas of heaven and came across this…
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Me thinks, you to have hit this nail squarely on the head. Very well said!
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Reading this, I have to ask the question: Isn’t this precisely the role of our imaginations? The mind of C.S. Lewis proved exceptionally fertile, and his fiction about heaven and hell certainly bring some startling but valuable possibilities for consideration. I would like to think that God seeds each generation (what a time bound restriction!) with the possibility of reimagining the likes of heaven and hell, if, for nothing else, to invite thought (unease? ecstasy? terror?) and knock us off doctrinal dryness. Perhaps that’s one of the workings of the Spirit?
Why does the image of Spock, lifted eyebrows and the terse “Fascinating” come to mind?
I remain, lollygaggingly an avid reader.
Intriguing suggestion–the imagination of heaven and hell as a living idea within our moments. Maybe, yes. Interesting it is. It is pretty clear that we have little in Scripture about the factual realities, and so we seem to be invited as artists and writers and preachers to add some images.
However, a lot of that is pretty badly done. I don’t know. But I do think this hell and heaven and purgatory book is really about now, rather than then.
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