On Praise–C.S. Lewis


C.S. Lewis

C.S. Lewis

from Reflections on the Psalms C.S. Lewis pp.96-97

… “We are not riders but pupils in the riding school; for most of us the falls and bruises, the aching muscles and the severity of the exercise, far outweigh those few moments in which we were, to our own astonishment, actually galloping without terror and without disaster. To see what the doctrine really means, we must suppose ourselves to be in perfect love with God–drunk with, drowned in, dissolved by, that delight which, far from remaining pent up within ourselves as incommunicable, hence hardly tolerable, bliss, flows out from  us incessantly again in effortless and  perfect expression, our joy no more separable from the praise in which it liberates and utters itself than the brightness a mirror receives is separable from the brightness it sheds. The Scotch catechism says man’s chief end is “to glorify God and enjoy Him forever”. But we shall then know that these are the same thing. Fully to enjoy is to glorify. In commanding us to glorify Him, God is inviting us to enjoy Him.”

C.S. Lewis & J.R.R. Tolkien


C.S. Lewis J.R.R. TOLKIEN

From C.S. Lewis through the Shadowlands by Brian Sibley pp 51-52

“What Dyson and Tolkien showed me,” he [C.S.Lewis] wrote, “was that if I met the idea of sacrifice in a Pagan story I didn’t mind it all: again, that if I met the idea of a god sacrificing himself to himself I liked it very much and was mysteriously moved by it: again, that the idea of the dying and reviving god similarly moved me provided I met it anywhere except in the Gospels.”

With Tolkien’s help , Jack [Lewis] began to see Christianity in relation to the myths he already loved, began to believe that “the story of Christ is simply a true myth: a myth working on us in the same way as others, but with the tremendous difference that it really happened: and one must be content to accept it in the same way, remembering that it is God’s myth where the others are men’s myths: i.e. the Pagan stories are God expressing Himself through the minds of poets, using such images as He found there, while Christianity is expressing Himself through what we call ‘real things’.”

Several years later Tolkien was to develop this argument in his essay “On Fairy Stories” in which he defined the special quality of fairy stories as being the Consolation of the Happy Ending. This quality Tolkien called the eucatastrophe (the “good conclusion”).

“The gospels he [Tolkien] wrote “contain a fairy-story, or a story of a larger kind which embraces all the essence of fairy stories. They contain many marvels—peculiarly artistic, beautiful and moving: ‘Mythical’ in their perfect, self-contained significance; and among the marvels is the greatest and most complete conceivable eucatastrophe…The Birth of Christ is the eucatastrophe of Man’s history. The Resurrection is the eucatastrophe of the story of the Incarnation. This story begins and ends in Joy…There is no tale ever told that men would rather find was true, and none which so many skeptical men have accepted as true on its own merits… To reject it leads either to sadness or wrath.”

This was the somewhat cerebral process by which Jack made his way to a belief in Christ, “I know very well when, but hardly how, the final step was taken,” he was to write in his autobiography, It happened on a bright, sunny morning in 1931. Warnie (C.S. Lewis’s brother) and Jack visited Whipsnade Zoo, Jack traveling in the sidecar of Warnie’s motorbike. When we set out recalled Jack, “I did not believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and when we reached the zoo, I did. Yet I had not exactly spent the journey in thought. Nor in great emotion…It was more like when a man, after long sleep, still lying motionless in bed, becomes aware that he is now awake…”

In a theater in Moscow–by Wurmbrand


Image At the premier of a new play [in the era of Stalin] “Christ in a Fur”, the hall was overcrowded. The actor Alexander Rostovtsev had to play the main role. He belonged to the high circles of soviet life and was a convinced Marxist.
On the stage was a mockery of an altar. The cross on it was made of bottles of wine and beer. Full glasses surrounded it. Fat “clergymen” said a drunken ”liturgy” consisting of blasphemous formulas. In this sham church, “nuns” played cards, drank, and made ugly jokes while the “religious service” went on.
Then Rostovtsev appeared as Christ, dressed in a robe. He had the New Testament in his hands. He was supposed to read two verses from the Sermon on the Mount, then throw away the book in disgust and shout, “Give me my fur and my hat! I prefer a simple proletarian life.”
But something unexpected happened. The actor read not only two verses, but continued, “Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth” ( Mat. 5:5), and so on to end of the sermon (Mat. 7:27). It was in vain that the director made desperate signs for him to stop.
When Rostovtsev came to the last words of Jesus, he made the sign of the cross in the Orthodox manner, and said, “Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy Kingdom” (Luke 23: 42), and left the stage. He was never seen again. The communists disposed of him. Let us like this actor, forget the ugly roles imposed upon us by the world and allow ourselves to be enraptured by the beauties of the Savior’s words.
Richard Wurmbrand, Reaching Toward the Heights, Zondervan 1977

If I look out the window


Blonde, sunglasses
Dark suited miniskirt
Large belt
w/tight beige pants
Could be a model..
Standing at an outside table
Of this coffee house
If I look out the window
From drinking my joe
I can’t see anything else but her
Talking through her cell phone device
Clipped in her ear, just barely perceptible
Adamant, using both hands
For expression, articulate
It seems, making points,
Striding around a little round table
& between chairs
As if a stage
& this was performance.
This is all normal now..
Less than twenty years ago
This would have been observed
As psychotic behavior,
Talking to someone who is
Obviously not there & not holding a phone,
Or rehearsing a play
My friends (some of them)
Think the same of me
When I pray…

OMG!


My God lives, and lives
Eternally, untouched by blemish, & across time between past & present,
My living God outside Creator of time and space
Lord of my life keeps me beside
Still waters of His own breast
Dew dropped sweet smelling
Aroma of the just about to rain summer cloud coming soon like,
& to me always….
He is lifting up my soul amidst all
That will fail, my God and Lord
Of my life lives apart from a back drop
of false certainty, lives brighter than  shining
Metal of commerce & moves
Fulcrum of universal sprawl unconcerned
By the mere motor freight..
Of an Atlas rocket, my God’s mighty
Hand is on the back of enemies,
He lifts up my friends, & makes enemies friends, my God lives in
Surety of my own life,
Finally grasped, at the lofty position I fall
On my knees, bowing head, knowing worship
& utter insignificance of self, though juxtaposed to Your love
Lifts back up turns, round & I see..
Here  there are riches in poverty, & meanness in prosperity
Thankfully, now  this is turned upside down because of our daily bread, on earth as in Heaven & hovering beside an estate of evil in residence, a side show..really
& then turning again to see power in the seemingly
Ineffectual stillness of a quiet dawn,
Love behind the giving way of hate,
Oh, my God, personal.. and there, my Lord, Christ Jesus
Who drug His cross, who heard,
“Where is his God now…why didn’t He…
“Get a home in the Jerusalem suburbs, “or, “build up
his fathers business, so much talent wasted?”
and. “He coulda retired in Capernaum, had a couple of boats,”
or, “Why-didn’t-he-just-take-care-of-his-mother?”
my God sweet loving victorious failure to reach this material world–as it sees itself
Lord, two thousand years of sorrow & faith, pulling
Up the dying , pulling up & hoping the hopeless, straightening crooked paths..
reaching out in Love, & Life & Word to lift us to abundant life.. as
An eternal priceless gift…a secret revealed so simple,
So complex—you must understand I-am-the-richest-of-men-because
this  salvation changed all the rules in space and time!

In this life


In this life
Of mine,
If there is any good
In what I’ve made
Your hand not mine—
Only has shown it fine
Should my son see this
The fact alone, makes me truly Pater families
This time left unto me
Secretly, leave me
in need of no help
From any one but You
That help I could
Give to any who
Would accept that same gift from me
Though it comes truly from You

Missing the Mark


there are two toady men
sitting at a black formica topped
table, in a college cafeteria,

they calmly discuss Armageddon,
how Russia will start it,
where Egypt will move,
what Israels plans and counter plans
will be, they speak of the various
contingencies of this country, they
are adamant about biblical prophecy
that foretells all of this.

their movements are of an inert
manner, with one of the hands
& a self-assured sweep
of the table, crumbs &
Hawaiian islands leave the face of the planet,
a fist pounds down and Baghdad is gone,
the table where they sat
is still very much
intact after they have left

given present technology
& political uncertainty, it is possible;
however is not prophecy in any form the
basic psychic emetic for the doom foretold?

a deep gut wrenching, face straining puke
for the advent of what may be averted
instead of synchphatic applause
for everyone’s untimely funeral?

first contact


complex
the scion of ourselves
together,
Jesus coming in a leather jacket,
love being binding truth
whatall & why not w/ everything
connected to everything else
the small joke being incessantly
onus, the sleepers, compartmentalists,
bureaucrats, casual Buddhists, fundamentalists,
clients, zombiebodies in the unemployment line,
the men’s business breakfast, all up
& down cannery row
save the faithful @ mass
but all equally guiltily asleep
in the church, the chapel, the synagogue, the mosque,
the Buddha boy’s temple
& everywhere else & the numbers
click & tabulate & go ’round,
as the gas pump goes ’round
there’s been a lot of hands reaching up
there’s been only one reaching down
& the all & all being
accounted for in an extraterrestrial plexus
of where we’ve been
where we’re going
& what we shall …or
or cease to be
unless there is acknowledged–first contact

Poem for the beer drunk fishermen who were lost @ sea off the Crescent City pier in the tidal wave of 1964


fools on a spree
six-packs underarms
waving at deodorized
fumes of unreason
before the surf was up
lost long before they
were found between sausages
hamburgers and the
necessity of a mortgage
to come home to
filleted and floundered
between fishing boats
and the fuel of the barge
flipping end overend on
what was to be
the flotsam and jetsam
of what cannot live
in the terrible sound of
creation and beauty
in cataclysmic mandate
as water arcing over league
upon league roll over roll
fathom upon depth naming
an unforgiving–”You!”
@the beer tipping
realization of the mistake
about the smallness of what
was thought to ought to be

Decent


she handed it to me
then I dunno,
how I did it—knew I shouldn’t
but I just sliced me a slice
of fruit w/ the ol’ barlow knife
while I was looking at a coiled up snake,
who’d been talking to my woman,

& then first thing I know,
I was making moonshine
Skip & go naked foolin’ round til waay
after midnight every-night
everything seemed clear for a while,
but trouble was I ended up havin’-to-get-a-job, plus
plow the farm & then the woman left
& I had to take care of the kids too,
& keepin’ the house from fallen apart..

no more huntn’ & fishin’
just makin’ mortgage payments
for a farm I was given free and clear
long ago before the bank was even a notion

seems like there was a time
when there was just the plants & animals
& clear blue sky, white clouds
& the low and high blue flint hills
& the woman had really just been apart of me
that couldn’t no more leave
than I could say anything bad about anything
& hav’n kids didn’t involve them growing up
& killing each other
& back then I don’t ever remember
screaming in the middle of the night either….