“Coming from a conservative Christian background, I had heard this book trashed more times than I care to tell. One of my literature professors, whose had wife passed away suddenly, took time out of one of my graduate courses to smear the book. I even heard others reference it as an evidence that Lewis was not a true believer, or that he had fallen away from faith.
And when you read the first chapter of this book, you'll see why. Mid-chapter 2, he spits out, "If God's goodness is inconsistent with hurting us, then either God is not good or there is no God...Sometimes it is hard not to say, 'God forgive God.'"
At another point he queries:
What reason have we, except by our own desperate wishes, to believe that God is, by any standard we can conceive, 'good'? Doesn't all the prima facie evidence suggest exactly the opposite? What have we to set against it? We set Christ against it. But how if He were mistaken? Almost his last words may have a perfectly clear meaning. He had found that the Being He called Father was horribly and infinitely different from what He had supposed.
And then, in Lewis at his most Job-esque, we find the book's most famous line, "Oh God, God, why did you take such trouble to force this creature out of its shell if it is now doomed to crawl back--to be sucked back--into it?"
In short, as he comes to realize and confide to us later in the book, "If my house has collapsed at one blow, that is because it was a house of cards. The faith which 'took these things into account' was not faith but imagination." And it is here that I most understand the Lewis of this book. Perhaps the weeks of this book were the season of Lewis's conversion. Or perhaps this was merely his dark night of the soul, from which he surfaced to fresher faith. But it was an understandable season, an extended paraphrase of "Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief." After all, Joy had been an unexpected gift to him, a joyful surprise in his old age. And it becomes easy to see how Jack could struggle with Providence and Goodness when God suddenly seemed like a cackling Indian giver.
The aspect of this book that I did not know to expect was its Romance, its apostrophes to love's darkness and absence. Perhaps I have simply not read enough in this vein, but the work that his words kept echoing in my mind was Sri Lankan novelist Michael Ondaatje's novel of love and loss, The English Patient. Or perhaps Graham Greene's novel of love and loss and bitterness, The End of the Affair.
Lewis describes the fear and sudden emptiness of revisiting their favorite places, concluding, "Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything." He examines their conversations, seeking for clues of her belief or their love or her continuing presence. He praises her beauties and the rapacity of her mind and heart. But time and again, he finds himself describing his own suffering in her absence. "Did you ever know, dear, how much you took away with you when you left? You have stripped me even of my past, even of the things we never shared." But then he corrects himself at other times: "What sort of lover am I to think so much about my affliction and so much less about hers?"
Jack begins to see that his "love for H. was of much the same quality as [his] faith in God. Whether there was anything but imagination in the faith, or anything but egoism in the love, God knows. I don't." He struggles through the process of remembering her, and lacking her and one day, suddenly finds that at the very moment when he mourned her least, he remembered her best.
This short book shows conversion perhaps even clearer than does the nostalgic Surprised by Joy. Ironically, the subtitle of this much later work could be Surprised by God in the Lack of Joy. In four brief chapters he surfaces from dark bitterness and pointed accusations to honest, humble meditations on heaven and praise. Or should I rather say that he is surfaced? At the book's close, he still sees God as the One who turned off the lights in preparation for his dark night. But he comes through a process not dissimilar to Evie's in V for Vendetta, coming to know his torturer as loving. "God has not been trying an experiment on my faith or love in order to find out their quality," he concludes. "He knew it already. It was I who didn't."
The last half of the book is filled with as much confession and tears as anything else. Pain, yes. There is still the pain. In his earlier despair, he had turned to his contemporary Eliot for words: "Reality, looked at steadily, is unbearable." Late in his grief he turns to him once again, only this time the despair has matured into hopeful patience: "Two widely different convictions press more and more upon my mind. One is that the Eternal Vet is even more inexorable and the possible operations even more painful than our severest imaginings can forbode. But the other, that 'all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.'"
Ultimately, the Otherness of God and Joy and Jack's own grief becomes a source of humility and true self-knowledge. "I need Christ, not something that resembles Him," he realizes. "I want H., not something that is like her. A really good photograph might become in the end a snare, a horror, an obstacle." It is this need that Lewis comes to feel more acutely, that he, unstated, comes to see as the gift:
My idea of God is not a divine idea. It has to be shattered time after time. He shatters it Himself. He is the great iconoclast. Could we not almost say that this shattering is one of the marks of His presence? The Incarnation is the supreme example; it leaves all previous ideas of the Messiah in ruins. And most are 'offended' by the iconoclasm; and blessed are those who are not.”
willgray wrote this review Friday, July 13 2007.
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