C.S. Lewis: The Problem of Pain (1940)
The jacket of the Fount edition, as read by thousands of 1970s era Christian students |
[Image source: https://calebdupton.wordpress.com/2013/06/14/the-suffering-god-tragedy-or-salvation-an-examination-and-comparison-of-c-s-lewis-the-problem-of-pain-and-elie-wiesels-night/ (Accompanying Caleb D. Upton's interesting comparison of Lewis and Wiesel).]
C.S. Lewis (1898-1963) was a many-sided author. His earliest
publications, up to 1930, were tentative attempts at establishing a career as a
poet; but clearly he had (to put it kindly) the wrong sort of talent. In1929 he
experienced a conversion, gave up his militant atheism and adopted a forthright
Christianity. His academic career was by now in full swing. The 1930s saw his
first scholarly books, Rehabilitations (a collection of separate essays)
and the formidable Allegory of Love (1936), which was very well received
and established him near the head of his field, which was Medieval and Renaissance literature. The creative urge had not left him and he also produced
an allegory of his own conversion called The Pilgrim’s Regress; this was
a poor book, but he was to make up for that later when he covered much of the same
ground in Surprised by Joy.
His great run of popular Christian books began with The
Problem of Pain (1940). Scholarly work continued, including the magnificent
English Literature in the Sixteenth Century (1954; the one book
of his that I have never stopped reading, and probably never will)*. He also
wrote a science fiction trilogy, and of course the popular Narnia books for
children; and much else. All his work speaks in the same, instantly
recognizable, voice; but there is some variation. During the war years, which
also produced The Screwtape Letters, Mere Christianity, and the Preface
to ‘Paradise Lost’, there is an enviable
boldness, even stridency, which must have made instant converts of many and
angered many more.
To speak personally, I don’t care anything for the science
fiction books with their thinly-disguised religious themes, and I don’t care deeply for the hastily-written Narnia series – The Voyage of the Dawn
Treader and The Silver Chair are the ones I like best. His other
fictions are not outstanding either. The excellent Screwtape Letters is
best regarded as a series of colourful sermons. Even Till we have faces (1956)
only really pleases me because it is at the opposite extreme from the stridency
of the early 1940s**. Lewis learnt from his own experiences in an oddly
child-like and definite way, and his books from the mid-1950s onward are the
work of a wiser and humbler man: Reflections on the Psalms, The Four Loves,
A Grief Observed etc.
His writing remained anathema to many progressives, though;
they were scarcely able to compete with the immense though lightly-carried
learning of books such as Studies in Words and The Discarded Image,
but they took infuriated exception to a tone that implied on almost every page
an utterly different outlook from their own. The fury was all the greater
because the fundamental simplicity of his views allied to an outstanding
limpidity and graciousness of expression produced a dangerously populist
cocktail. They knew he would be listened to, and it didn’t seem fair. It is
said that Lewis failed badly in his debate with a professional philosopher
following the publication of Miracles. The perception of those who said
so was that his cocksure cleverness went with a complete failure to understand
the point of any twentieth-century intellectual or artistic movement; he could
only make snide populist remarks like a journalist writing for the Daily Mail.
It remains a disturbing paradox, the more so because (having been so deeply
influenced by Lewis during my late teens and early twenties, when I was both a
medievalist and a born-again Christian) I am afraid that I share a good many of
his blindnesses, and am in some fundamental way arrested in an imaginary
Lewisian world of values even though my conscious opinions were never
conservative and are not now religious. (I should add that, though Lewis has
been anthologised in collections of Conservative thought, I do not remember him
ever pronouncing on a party-political matter; he seems to have been perfectly
sincere in his professed lack of interest in topics of that sort. At the same
time there’s no doubt who would have been most upset by his assaults on e.g.
modern educationalists***.)
The Problem of Pain, at its best, can be illustrated
from this passage about guilt from the chapter entitled “Human Wickedness”:
A recovery of the old sense of sin is essential to
Christianity.... [Without it,] the result is almost bound to be a certain
resentment against God as to one who is always making impossible demands and
always inexplicably angry.... Why not live and let live? What call has He, of
all beings, to be “angry”? It’s easy for Him to be good!
Now at the moment when a man feels real guilt –
moments too rare in our lives – all these blasphemies vanish away. Much, we may
feel, can be excused to human infirmities: but not this – this
incredibly mean and ugly action which none of our friends would have done, which
even such a thorough-going little rotter as X would have been ashamed of, which
we would not for the world allow to be published. At such a moment we really do
know that our character, as revealed in this action, is, and ought to be,
hateful to all good men, and, if there are powers above man, to them. A God who
did not regard this with unappeasable distaste would not be a good being. We
cannot even wish for such a God...
In short, the “grandfather in Heaven” picture of God appeals
only to those who have no sense of a living God at all, like myself. This seems
to me a completely persuasive argument. Of course you can say that when someone
feels guilty it often makes them feel better to be particularly
self-condemnatory, taking comfort in their inner high-mindedness. But this says
nothing about the truth of the insight. A real God must be, whatever else,
inexorable.
The chapters on Hell and Heaven carry the same conviction.
Lewis was immediately criticized for defending the doctrine of Hell, which was
presumably an embarrassment to other propagators of the faith, but this
criticism amounts to nothing. Anyone can see that hell does indeed exist in
many places on earth, and therefore its metaphysical dimension poses no new
difficulty. The Christian story makes no sense if there is no hell. How can
anyone be moved by Good News unless things are seen to be bad? Why would anyone
busy themselves with saving sinners unless there is something to save them
from? Why is there a church entrusted with a mission if it is impossible for
anyone to turn away from God? It is true that hellfire preaching and hellfire
parenting had repulsively abused one element in that story, and laid the whole
Christian system open to the most violent objections, but for churchmen to just
go quiet about it was a trifling evasion, which merely demonstrated what most
people already sensed, that if you wanted to learn the truth about anything it
was no good asking a priest.
Here are some sentences from the chapter on Heaven.
You may think that there is another reason for our
silence about heaven – namely, that we do not really desire it... There have
been times when I think that we do not desire heaven; but more often I find
myself wondering whether, in our heart of hearts, we have ever desired anything
else... Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you
meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in
the best) of that something you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux
of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions,
night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for,
watching for, listening for? You have never had it. ... The thing I am
speaking of is not an experience. You have experienced only the want of
it. ... Always it has summoned you out of yourself. And if you will not go out
of yourself to follow it, if you sit down and brood on the desire and attempt
to cherish it, the desire itself will evade you. “The door into life generally
opens behind us” and “the only wisdom” for one “haunted with the scent of
unseen roses, is work.” This secret fire goes out when you use the bellows:
bank it down with what seems unlikely fuel of dogma and ethics, turn your back
on it and attend to your duties, and then it will blaze. The world is like a
picture with a golden background, and we the figures in that picture. Until you
step off the plane of the picture into the large dimensions of death you cannot
see the gold. But we have reminders of it. To change our metaphor, the
black-out is not quite complete. There are chinks. At times the daily scene
looks big with its secret.
If I call this a great piece of literary criticism (e.g. of
George Macdonald, whose words are quoted) I may seem to be unfairly limiting
the kind of writing that it is. I don’t intend that. We tend to have a mental
picture of primary writing (“literature”) that is in some way directly engaged
with life, and then
of secondary writing (“criticism”, “commentary”, “review”)
that stands lower in the hierarchy and only addresses itself to details of
primary writing, so that engagement with life has become flickering and
indirect. Unfortunately the grey bulk of any university library tends to
confirm that hierarchy. But “literary criticism” as I mean it here (and Lewis
is a prime example), if it moves away from the original writer’s words,
does not thereby move further from life, but only sideways to get a different
angle, and though further from one aspect of life nearer to another. In the
same sense I might want to say that Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar is a
great literary criticism of Plutarch.
But at the same time I do intend a limitation of my praise.
Unquestionably the heaven suggested in this chapter is a heaven that can be
believed in and can be wished for (its very definition, indeed, is that it is
wished for). The limitation is that the kind of yearning evoked by Lewis is (I
suspect rather than know) an experience that only a few people can instantly
relate to. If it is, as one might immediately judge, really an inchoate desire
to return to the womb, then that might make it more universal. But for it to
seem like a possible hint of heaven one needs to conceive it in its developed
manifestation. That what evokes the yearning in Lewis’ own examples (“the smell
of cut wood in the workshop or the clap-clap of water against the boat’s side”)
reflects Lewis’s own tastes and nationality and gender and interests is not an
argument against it. But it appears to me that a yearning for the unrealizable
is not an intrinsic part of human experience. I don’t know; I admit that,
personally, I recognize what he’s talking about very well, but then, I share
many of his backgrounds. Human experience is overwhelmingly various.
As an outline of Lewisian Christianity, then, the book seems
to me a success. I shan’t bother much about local criticisms; the chapter on
“Animal Pain” seems to me to depend on some quite extraordinary views about
non-human life – one gathers that Lewis had no interest in nature****. But on
the general subject that his book purports to treat, i.e. suffering, I think
his success is very mediocre.
Lewis was writing when Europe
was again at war. He had served in World War I, and had ample personal
experience (not only in combat) of pain and suffering, but the book steers
clear of evocation; as the quotations may show, it treats pain rather
intellectually. If we are not religious philosophers, there is indeed something
rather offensive about the expression, “The Problem of Pain”. You wouldn’t talk
about “the problem of genocide”, or the “problem of starvation”, as if these
things were all very well in their own way but posed one or two thorny issues
for a believer. This doesn’t mean that there isn’t a theological issue, but I
think that Lewis, clearly unwilling to deal with instances in detail, has
actually failed to confront it. He thinks he can reduce e.g. Ivan Karamazov’s
terrible denunciation in Dostoyevsky’s novel to a few bare logical assertions.
But perhaps suffering cannot be reduced in that way. There are, if you want to
put it that way, at least two “problems of pain”, one for the sufferer and one
for the witness. In fact there are a million problems – they will not be
“boiled down” in the way that Lewis hopes.
The natural and right human reactions to suffering are, for
a sufferer, to endure it if possible; for a witness, to alleviate it if
possible, or else to lament it. Lewis’s book may well have cheered sufferers
and helped them to endure – in fact I’m sure it did, though he disclaims both
the intention and the skill. But his argument proves far too much, and really
leaves no room for lamentation, grief, horror or shock. One must be
appalled at Ivan Karamazov’s accounts of
children being tortured; but how can God’s world contain what one must
be appalled by? And what redemptive salvation is imaginable that can ever right
these wrongs? It is a fundamental challenge to the Christian story of a good
God.
An instance of where I think Lewis’ book is at its weakest
is his argument against the additiveness of pain. He argues, basically, that in
a waiting-room where two people have toothache, no-one is experiencing “2 x
toothache”; the pain threshold of one individual sufferer is all the pain there
ever can be. He actually uses this example of toothache, and I think you’ll
agree that it tends to trivialize the
matter. People do not question the benevolence of God because of toothache.
They question it when whole communities are ruined, when villages are burnt,
when countries starve, when cities are sacked or when people are herded into a
forest to dig their own graves.
Therefore
we ask, Monarch of all that lives,
Firm
in your heavenly throne,
While
the destroying Fury gives
Our
homes to ashes and our flesh to worms –
We
ask, and ask: What does this mean to You?
(Euripides, The Women of Troy trans. Philip
Vellacott)
It's quite true that each individual can suffer no more than
the worst a soul can suffer. But we are more than individuals; the wholesale
destruction of communities, families, cultures, ways of life, invoke feelings
that are different from those in which a single person suffers torment.
Lewis, I think, was not much of a community person. His
books are almost entirely free of patriotism or a sense of nationhood, which is
rather refreshing. He was not close to his parents (his mother died when he was
nine) and he had no children. As a scholar he had risen untrammelled out of Ulster , the
place of his childhood, and he lived and breathed the fellowship of his
colleagues; an excellent but rather anomalous kind of community. So perhaps it
was not so hard for him to see all our attachments to local culture and local
identity as things to be yielded up, being merely human and temporal constructs
in the face of an overwhelming and universal vision of God.
Some of the shortcomings of his treatment of suffering must
have become plain to him personally when, after the loss of his wife from
cancer, he wrote A Grief Observed. The earlier book is in the end
frivolous. In it he pretends to write about pain in order to give an athletic
display of the strength and joyousness of his conviction. It was a
calling-card.
*
A C.S. Lewis sentence and its influence
I used to read C.S. Lewis incessantly when I was eighteen, and there are several sentences in C.S. Lewis’ works that have influenced me deeply. This is one of them:
The
truly wide taste in reading is that which enables a man to find something for
his needs on the sixpenny tray outside the secondhand bookshop.
In fact, like other deeply influential sentences that became
part of my everyday mental furniture, I didn’t remember it particularly accurately. I
remembered it, approximately, as “the real sign of a good reader is being able
to find something to read on a railway station bookstall”. The variation isn’t
really all that important, but my rewording glossed over any question of what is meant
by “needs” in connection with reading.
So far as this ideal of a good reader is concerned, its lifelong influence on me is pretty obvious, e.g. in the post you are reading now. I
cultivated an interest in whatever books came to hand, and found after a while
that I never really needed to go and buy new books; I preferred to loiter in
the charity shops, since I was just as fulfilled by what I found there as by
any imaginable alternative. (It also saved my purse and it appealed vaguely to
ecological principles at the same time.)
This self-education in the books of the charity shop
eventually provoked my notion of relativism. Since it was in fact possible,
rather easily possible, to find something to read all the time, perhaps (I
surmised) no book was really any better than any other; it was all about the
reader. You could (I theorized) in principle harvest the same fruit from a
worthless detective pap novel or a book of freezer recipes as from Julius Caesar and Leaves of Grass ; after all, wasn't the whole of culture encoded in the language and the moves made within any book? And what grounds had I to condemn what might seem dull or crude
when I didn’t know the full context, when I didn’t write such books myself
and wasn't part of their natural audience and didn’t even know what it’s
like to write such books or read them in their intended context?
I don’t think Lewis would have approved that particular
extension of his thought. He plainly believed in real values, and on his
sixpenny tray he was certainly not envisaging freezer recipes. I think his example is carefully chosen, because he really thought ther was a lot
more worth reading on the sixpenny tray (some Scott or Stevenson, for instance)
than in fashionably abstruse shelves full of the Bloomsbury authors and modernism and
other things he didn’t feel interested in grasping, like Wittgenstein. But I didn't absorb that part of the message.
I didn’t remember the sentence accurately, and of course I
didn’t remember its context either, at least not consciously. It comes from the
chapter about “Affection” in The Four Loves (1960). Lewis remarks on the
indiscriminate nature of affection and how (unlike the less humble loves) its
objects are not selected; for their intelligence or sexiness, for example. We
develop affection for someone because they just happen to be around. In that
context he starts to talk about what it means to have a wide sympathy for other
people; it isn’t demonstrated by having a large number of friends or lovers
(because friends and lovers are chosen) but by a ready sympathy with people that you meet with but probably
wouldn’t choose. That’s when the analogy with reading comes along.
The whole chapter is good, but this is about me and the
sentence. Forgetting the original context, I have extended the message I took away with me from the second-hand bookshop to other art-forms, nature, places, weather and
people. It’s a seductive analogy but like all analogies it has falsity stitched
into it. It all works very smoothly so long as you aren’t trying to accomplish
anything. If things (or people) aren’t tools, why indeed should you get hung up
about value? It sounds amiable, but is limited; of course the alternative
sounds terrible – the way I’ve chosen to present it – people as tools! But
reading books (and living with humans, too), these activities are diminished if
they are just contemplative idylls, just about the mild pleasure of watching
the clouds race and not about making things happen. I know this, but my nature
didn’t want all that trouble; shrugged aside the unattractive risks of
accusation or confrontation. That’s why I find the sentence a good example of
what influence, too often, amounts to. You seize the little moment that fits
how you already feel inclined to live. This is waking life, but it works in
much the same way that dreams get composed out of materials that cohere because
of multiple, stray, happy accidents. I was really influenced, but I had reasons
for welcoming the influence.
But still, Lewis was a great reader, so long as “great”
means being open to wonder. A colleague remembered him, shortly before his
death, enthusing boyishly about Les liaisons dangereuses; not a book
you might have expected him to take to. “Why has no-one told me about this
before?” he demanded.
*
Notes:
* I
picked it up to check the date of publication – it happened to be already out
of the shelves – and lost most of an evening reading the first chapter for the
hundredth time. [Aside from its own merit, it also produced a fine pendant in
the form of John Carey's essay "Sixteenth and Seventeenth Century
Prose", printed in English Poetry
and Prose 1540-1674, ed. Christopher Ricks (Sphere History of Literature in
the English Language, Vol. 2). Carey, and to some extent Ricks, are post-Lewis
critics quite as much as they are post-Leavis critics, and Carey's essay
consistently has Lewis in view; chiefly in his energetic assaults on works
canonized by Lewis such as More's Dialogue
of Comfort, Sidney's Arcadia and
Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity.
Though Carey reaches quite opposite conclusions from his master, he reads these
books in the same kind of way, as living repositories of values that must be
earnestly proclaimed or torn down. When neither likes the book, they say merely
the same things (Lyly's Euphuism), but Carey enjoys negative critique as much
as Lewis did and he is prepared to sacrifice Bunyan altogether in order to
spend a few pages ripping Walton's Lives to
shreds; Carey on Bunyan would have taxed the author much more.]
**
It is fair to say that great swathes of Christian heartland do not agree with
me. The impressive 140 reader reviews for Till We Have Faces on
amazon.com speak of it as a life-changing discovery. (The largest number of
reader reviews that I have come across is 267 for Raymond Feist’s Magician: Apprentice.) [NB I wrote this in 2004. In 2016, Till We Have Faces has 526 reviews.]
***
What Lewis did proclaim, at least when he was at his most unworldly, was
essentially the Augustinian argument of De Civitate Dei. The nature of
earthly government did not matter; one should be law-abiding, but what really
mattered was the heavenly city. In principle this view implies political
quietism; it lends no support to the idea that one kind of government is better
than another. But in practice this means lending no support to political
change, and in particular denying the aspirations of Marxist belief. A more
developed political view grew out of studying Hooker and others for the “OHEL”.
But the word “conservative”, even without a capital letter, creates a false
idea of the kind of writer Lewis was – he was not a follower of ideas but a
creator of them. It’s true that he often presented his views as if he was
revering some tradition or orthodoxy, but this only reflects his myth-making
temperament. His ideas were really a new development building on romanticism
and in particular some of its nineteenth century offshoots (e.g. George
Macdonald). For Lewis the ideas of the past were not a vague cloud of worthy
sentiments, as for a conservative, but a dynamic intellectual conflict in which
he eagerly participated as if it were all still alive (there are no “dead
issues” in Lewis’s world). Wholesale acceptance or rejection of the past would
have meant nothing to him; he grasped too much of the detail. He defended what he cared about, and tended
to re-invent it as he did it.
It's an unanswerable question whether a Lewis alive today would have agreed with Nathan Spinaze, author of a Screwtape follow-up, in being against gay marriage and outraged by western governments who "promote" Islam (i.e. by enforcing laws against hate speech). https://antipodeanwriter.wordpress.com/category/my-prose/my-reflections-vignettes/
It's an unanswerable question whether a Lewis alive today would have agreed with Nathan Spinaze, author of a Screwtape follow-up, in being against gay marriage and outraged by western governments who "promote" Islam (i.e. by enforcing laws against hate speech). https://antipodeanwriter.wordpress.com/category/my-prose/my-reflections-vignettes/
****
But he did, some years later, write a very powerful anti-vivisection essay; the
grounds were philosophical and humanist.
Labels: C.S. Lewis
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home