A Catholic in Wheaton: Who Owns C.S. Lewis?

It's been 50 years since C.S. Lewis' passing. I have a profound respect and admiration for the man. The fact that I'm one of thousands writing about him this week is a testament to his influence and legacy.

There's nothing wrong with Lewis, humanly imperfect as I'm sure he was. I love him. But here comes the honest part: part of me is sick of how we see and talk about him. Part of me is sick of how Evangelicals see and talk about him.

Living in Wheaton, there's a joke that Lewis is called, "St. Jack." The joke is somewhat obvious - that Lewis is held in such high regard he's practically a saint. But the joke, though everyone in Wheaton seems to be in on it, has a surprising non-effect. Wheaties appear to like to joke about how much they overly esteem Lewis with one breath and then continue praising him with the next.

The articles and posts I've seen written about Lewis in the past few weeks are smart. They know their stuff. They know that Lewis is an apologist who didn't have degrees in theology or religion nor did he claim such credentials. They know that Jack's strengths lie in his imagination and storytelling.

But like Relevant Magazine's recent post on Lewis, while admitting Lewis never claimed to be a theologian, Evangelicals continue specifically calling him "theologian." Religious fields - ethics, apologetics, theology, biblical studies - can all overlap and be connected to one another but they're not interchangeable. Lewis was an utterly fantastic apologist. He understood love perhaps as well as anyone. And the writings we know and cherish from him cover the realm of spirituality. But spirituality is not theology any more than general mathematics is advanced calculus. And Evangelicals regularly don't seem to know the difference.

"Big deal. Aren't you being pretty nitpicky?" you might ask. No, I'm not, and I'll tell you why.

Because Evangelicals claim Lewis as one of their own. Rather than say, "we greatly admire Lewis for his unique contributions," Evangelicals seem to want to say, "Here's our man! He's just like us. He stands for us. And what he did reflects and represents us." And if you identify with him and believe he speaks for your group, then inflating his resume is a matter of self-interest.

Now, I completely admit this is just one man's opinion. There's a danger of projecting too much onto any one group when you start generalizing. But as someone who lives in arguably the most Evangelically dominated community in America, when you're close to but not necessarily a card-carrying member of that community, you notice exclusion. You notice being left out. And this view of Lewis is a prime example.

In Dale Fincher's blog post from Soulation he does call Lewis a theologian but more importantly he claims that it's fairly obvious Lewis' influence on Christianity is greater than anyone else in the 20th century. Think about that claim for a second and at first glance, do you disagree? If you're Evangelical, chances are higher that you don't.

I know someone who personally knows the aforementioned blogger, and certainly nothing ill was meant by that statement. He has a great voice and this claim wasn't even the main point of the post. But that's also kind of the point: a certain view of (Evangelical) Lewis-as-most-important is simply and subtly assumed. The truth is such a claim is not obvious to "Christians," it only seems obvious to Evangelical Christians.

I, for one, could point out that whereas Lewis understands love like no one else, J.R.R. Tolkien perhaps understands the subtle nature of evil better than anyone I've ever read. I could point out that Thomas Merton's writings contain as much spiritual depth as Lewis'. I could call to mind that Mother Teresa's legacy has more widespread recognition, reach, and teaching than Lewis' works (wildly popular as they are within Evangelicalism). Or I could give the example of Pope John Paul II - the leader of 1 billion Christians - who not only could claim supreme spiritual sway over 1/6 of the world's population but was also one of the main forces causing the fall of communism, a legacy whose practical, moral, and spiritual effects will be felt for centuries.

In my more generous moments this Evangelical view that Lewis is something like the most influential Christian of the 20th century seems simply due to the fact that his writings prove so accessible and universal. In my more cynical moments, I conclude that Evangelicals assume their sphere is the only Christian one and that all of the above figures aren't considered equally influential Christians because, well, they're Catholic.

I'm struggling with myself. I don't know exactly why I have such a strong knee-jerk reaction to all of the "C.S.-Lewis-is-the-best" craze. I think it's partly the inaccuracy of the "theologian" and "ethicist" labels for him. Part of it is wanting to turn a critical eye to the bandwagon that most people seem to be jumping on this week. But part of it is a feeling of exclusion.

I don't get the sense that Evangelicals feel they share Lewis or need to. I get the sense that they claim ownership of him. It's frustrating to feel that some of Lewis' other beliefs are flat-out ignored for the sake of convenience, like, say, the ones in affirmation of purgatory, the communion of the saints, and the Real Presence in the Eucharist. (Of course, any claims that Lewis was 'practically Catholic' are also inaccurate.)

It's this sense of exclusion I feel from the way Lewis is talked about that eventually starts to get under my skin. It's the same frustration I experience when I hear people talk about "Christians" (meaning Protestants or Evangelicals) vs. "Catholics" (who somehow aren't Christian?). It's the same frustration I feel when I hear that Evangelical missionaries are "taking the gospel to Latin America," all predominantly Catholic countries where missionaries are needed but not because the gospel failed to arrive almost 500 years ago with Catholicism. And it's the same frustration I experience with the simple title of Christianity Today magazine*. As well-intentioned as I believe Billy Graham's magazine title to be, it's a little insulting to every Christian outside of Evangelicalism. Imagine being a woman and picking up a copy of Americans Today only to find its content was exclusively catered to men and male-specific issues. It would be difficult not to feel excluded. If one is to use an inclusive label like "Christian" one shouldn't do so exclusive-ly.

I suppose my plea to Wheaties, to Evangelicals is to honor his legacy but to not be possessive of Lewis. He's not one of you and your group. He's one of us and our larger, Christian group. And maybe that's healthier. Maybe that's more than enough. Maybe you don't have to claim, "Wheaton is the Harvard of Christian schools," but broaden your mind to be more inclusive. Say, "Wheaton is the Harvard of Evangelical Christian schools," if that sort of claim is necessary or important to you. If you don't already, maybe give some thought to how you, like any Christian group, don't represent the whole but are only part of it. An important part! A wonderful part! A truly beautiful part! But just a part and not the "everything." It's quite necessary to recognize important voices and vital contributions but equally important is viewing them in their proper context. Just as we should with Lewis.

*Christianity Today is a publication I read regularly and greatly appreciate. They do absolutely wonderful work and apart from the small matter of what I think is a very poor title, I am a great fan of the magazine as well as its message and mission. I hope it goes without saying that I am also a great fan of Evangelicalism and of Wheaton, my home.

Catholics and Bibles and Ignorance - Oh My!

I was recently with some friends – all Protestant – talking about a semi-spiritual topic and they started referencing Scripture. This talent always amazes me! It really does. I grew up Protestant. I did the Bible drills, I memorized the order of the books of the Bible (something that makes me seem quite intellectual in Catholic circles, let me tell you), and I’m pretty familiar with most of the Biblical narratives.

But I don’t have verses memorized. I’m not sure I've ever met a Catholic who did who wasn't formally trained or a former Protestant. I’m fairly certain that at this point it’s an uphill battle that I wouldn't win. But Protestants whip these out like it’s second nature, and it’s really impressive.

But in Catholicism, it’s also just not as necessary. Catholics don’t believe in sola scriptura (Scripture alone) but instead have Scripture and Tradition. Both are regarded as necessary and both are equally authoritative. Scripture, which was inspired in the theological sense of the word, was also finite. All Christians reason that inspiration couldn't go on forever. But where Protestants and Catholics often diverge is that Catholics believe revelation is ongoing. And not just private revelation about your life but universal – catholic – revelation.

For Protestants the Bible is it. It's the cat's pajamas - the beginning and the end of all reference sheets. Sure, there are other resources but they all draw their strength directly from the Bible by supporting their arguments and ideas with Biblical references (i.e. Romans 8:28). The Bible is the sole authority for Protestants so reading it and returning to it often makes a lot of sense.

Not so with Catholics. We believe revelation began about 13 billion years ago with the creation of the universe and continues to the present age, including a lot of important developments in the last two millennia. If you picture the Bible as something like the U.S. Constitution and Tradition as something like all the other laws born out of it, then you can kind of understand the role ongoing revelation plays for Catholics.

It’s not that Scripture isn't important in Catholicism because it is. It’s just that it’s not the whole pie. It’s one half (though a very tasty one at that). Catholics have more than the Bible to turn to for authoritative knowledge and they have more authoritative resources: the rosary, papal bulls, church councils, theological works, spiritual readings, formulaic prayers, devotions, and above all, the mass. When Protestants ask themselves the question "What's the answer?" they know the one place to turn. But when Catholics ask themselves that same question, I think it's fair to say most are going to look to Tradition (often with a basis in the Bible) rather than the Bible itself.

This seems to be a simple misunderstanding. Protestants wonder why Catholics don't care about the most important thing and Catholics wonder why Protestants threw out everything else but the Bible. Both are exaggerations of course. But I'm beginning to think that ecumenicism, at its heart, means refusing to only validate others insofar as they meet our standards.

So for those who think that Catholics don’t read the Bible – they may or they may not. But it doesn't mean they aren't “good Christians” and it doesn't mean they aren't spiritual. They just have a different spirituality. And that’s okay. That's valid.

St. Francis' Window

As a Catholic, you hear it a million times: Why do you worship Mary? Why do you pray to humans (saints)? Why do you bow down to things like statues and crucifixes? Don't you know those are idols! Or I should say, as a Catholic you hear this sometimes and read it often. Online people feel anonymous, which can manifest maliciously. In person people have a lot more tact. Wheaton is the same. Although I've had a few people express anti-Catholic views to me in person, most are just pro-Protestant views that conflict with Catholicism, and there's nothing wrong with that. But one of the major objections you'll find, even in thoughtful Wheaton, is to statuary, honoring depictions of the saints, and so on. A lot of evangelicals believe Catholics focus on the physical and the human too much. "Sure the saints were great but they were just humans. Why elevate them?"
My cousin, an Evangelical, took a missions trip to Italy several years ago and actually visited Assisi. After he got back I was talking to him at a dinner and asked how his trip went. He told me about Assisi and remarked that in visiting, he was struck by the impiety of the physical church in the town. It seemed to be full of much that honored and praised St. Francis of Assisi and very little that focused on Christ himself. He said that everything in that church was about St. Francis. He spoke of a large mural depicting the saint and how he felt something almost evil in overlooking Christ - God - in favor of a human. Where was Christ’s even bigger mural?

I recently reflected on this interaction and realized something. For many, certainly for my cousin in his Protestant tradition, that church building seemed a complete structure, a closed system representing the Church in microcosm and outside of which nothing else existed. If this is how it represents Christianity to its visitors, isn't that wrong? That building is a church but it's really only a small part of the Catholic Church. Just as at my parish I may stand directly in front of a window to stare at its depiction of St. Michael and wonder why he should get the whole window with only a small symbol of the trinity in the corner, my cousin was looking at the Assisi church and concluding Christ was made small in Catholicism in favor of humans. No, the window is only a part of the Church, and if we look around we see other windows and, always, Christ in the center of it all. There are many windows, always existing alongside others making up the building. They are meant to be seen individually but understood collectively. 

The light of the Sun is too bright to view directly. The best thing about windows is that though they can never create the celestial energy of light, they do a very good job of filtering it, making it ordered and understandable to our eyes, pleasing and sublime, magnifying and combining it in beautiful forms.  And it’s only after light shines through a window that we can see the artist’s unique use of glass in capturing light. We understand light through our windows just as we understand God through the lives of each other and especially the lives of the saints. St. Francis was one of the greatest among them. Let him have his large window. It only means that more light will shine through on us.
[Comments & questions welcome. Feedback is fuel for the writer!]

On Redemption

Okay, so it's kind of an immodest title. I know that more intelligent people (past and present...mostly past) have handled the subject with a lot more ability. But Redemption is something I think I only recently found and have begun to understand. It's an area where experience has to catch up with knowledge. I'm getting there.

And it's appropriate for a first post. I'm a social media marketer by profession and I think blogs are both my favorite social medium and the weirdest. Blogs allow a lot of freedom but that can result in some really unusual stuff. A blog seems to be somewhere near the intersection of journal, editorial, conversation, and confessional.

That's a lot to ask. But so is reading someone else's blog.

In the past six months, thanks to some amazing reads, meditation & prayer, and time (thank you, 2-hour daily commute to Chicago), I've experienced a huge growth in introspection. And I've realized a few things.

 "Christian" lies I thought were true about life:
1) You should love God but hate the self
2) Your sin/vices/compulsions are things to be overcome
3) Christians are called to gradually grow to resemble each other as placid, emotionless automatons

This is not Christianity. It's not truth.

Martin Luther expounded #1 in his 95 Theses (What would a Catholic's blog about religion and culture be without a correction of Luther?). I didn't pick up that idea from Luther but somewhere along the way I accepted this as truth, that I was just awful and that becoming a good person, detached and saintly, meant hating yourself. Or at least part of yourself.

This goes right into #2 - overcoming the worst parts of yourself. It's easy to think that we're whole persons meant to encourage certain attributes and qualities in ourselves and suppress others. There's at least some truth here: not every part of our selves needs to be given license to control us. But thinking compulsions can be overcome is ultimately garbage and I've never found true liberation from living it, even in my best moments.

Instead, we have many different selves. I have a patient self, a good listener self, etc. that people like and I've decided to embrace. But I also have a prideful self. A judging self. A perfectionist self who naturally reacts to "imperfection" with anger. These selves don't need to be fueled but they do need something: acknowledgment. They need to be named and they need to be given a permanent place at the table.

Without this they're hiding in the dark corner, unable to be seen yet impossibly present. These parts of me - and the ugly parts of anyone - need to be accepted. Sin needs to be accepted! My whole self needs to be accepted, and your whole self needs your acceptance.

Don't misunderstand me, I'm not arguing for uncontrolled vice. But if our Creator made every part of us and can accept us just as we are, shouldn't we do the same? It's the only way to redeem it.

And #3 - once we begin to experience redemption we can become more of our true selves.

The Christian life is about becoming a truer version of you! C. S. Lewis says this all the time. (Fun fact: it's a city ordinance that you can't live in Wheaton without referencing him at least once a month.) You've no idea how liberating that has been for me, to know that I wasn't called to not be rule-following, perfectionistic (my siblings would say "anal"), patient, good-listening - all of it - Sam. I'm called to be the best version of all these qualities.

It's easy to hear about the saints and think how selfless they were and then conclude that they had no selves at all. No, they did. And they used their vices as part of their saintly selves. They didn't overcome them but accepted the best part of them.

St. Paul was a fiery perfectionist. St. Ignatius of Loyola was a glutton for discipline. And that's okay. That was their fullest version and they used those qualities in a redeemed way.

Redemption has meant self-acceptance. I'd compare it to meeting someone on the street who says they know you, know everything about you, and still love you unconditionally. If you could get over how weird that would be and that it was just a little bit creepy, the beauty of it would overwhelm you. I'm learning from experience.

Does this ring true to you? Or maybe you see Redemption differently?