From Where I Stand

Tag: C.S.Lewis

  • A bit Screwy: What Screwtape Letters reveals about ourselves and what we want to deny most of all.

    I’ve been on a bit of a C.S. Lewis kick lately, and I’d say “bear with me,” but there’s no need to merely bear with Lewis.

    Yes, I am indebted to his works—as they opened the door to forming a theology that is anything but stale or useless. I’m not a “Christian” alone, nor would I consider an introduction to me as “religious.” Those terms don’t capture the depth of a relationship with the Creator. Instead, I like to say that I’m a believer—but even that feels like saying I saw the sun today. I believe in many things, including the energy that flows through the world and that animals and plants have more purpose than we typically assign them. But I wouldn’t say I “believe” in trees or nature—it’s so obvious they exist that the term feels almost beneath the truth.

    No, I consider myself a child of God, reborn from a previous fallen state by the grace of God and the Spirit’s work in my life—allowing me to see truth apart from the everyday mentality of the world.

    This brings me to a fun little read by Mr. Lewis: The Screwtape Letters. I’m writing about this work because it reveals how easy it can be to lose your soul—and how the smallest, everyday choices quietly contribute to that loss.

    Sure, no one wants to lose their very essence—the thing that makes them them—but as fallen creatures of God, I think we ought to know just how insidious and crafty Satan’s minions are in their attempt to feast on souls.

    Now, a scholar could give you far more than I can, but I’ll do my best.

    My dearest audience,

    You know that little comment in the back of your mind—the one that lingers when you talk to that loved one? It judges what they do while preserving your behavior in context. That little comment of resentment may not be so little after all. It may be the seed of hatred, growing over years into full-grown disdain for all humans—including the One who made such detestable creatures.

    But surely you are not one of them. You’re just telling people the truth. Setting boundaries. Clearing your chest. Yes, the demons love it when you hold on to what makes you better than everyone else. When it’s always someone else’s fault, or someone else’s lack of judgment wounding you. Especially when you justify your snarky response as being “within context,” while the other person is judged at face value.

    Yes, they are hurting you, aren’t they? Making your life miserable. They need to be rebuked. After all, we are in total charge of our environments, aren’t we? Some of us already act like gods.

    Of course, no one says this stuff out loud. That would be ridiculous. We’re not bad people—we’re just misunderstood. We don’t need to change, just correct everyone to be more like us. On our noblest days, we may admit to certain faults—but never the ones we hold others accountable for.

    The other day, I saw a man walking, wearing a T-shirt that read: “Today’s good time is brought to you by WEED.” Well, certainly he was wrong. I stared at him from afar because of it. I even constructed a narrative in my head, depicting him as someone more worthy of disdain.

    I might as well have joined the demons at a local bar and dined with them on my own flesh, for what I chose to do with my mind—investing in thoughts that lead to bitterness and judgment. I could’ve driven my vehicle off a bridge and been better for it than to sit afar, condoning myself while casting a can-you-believe-this look at anyone who’d make eye contact.

    I’ve read the attempts of demons to capture souls, and I must agree with Mr. Lewis—Satan doesn’t want us to think too hard about the state of our soul, or to speak the thoughts in our head out loud. He wants them locked up, hidden, so we can keep convincing ourselves that we’re good people. Maybe even good enough. But never the bad ones. Surely not.

    Nobody wants to be a bad person, do they?

    Stay on guard. Stay bitter. Get yours at all costs.

    There’s your one-way ticket to losing your soul—giving it up to the world, living for dying things, and being only as good as your last success.

    Yes, people will leave you. And you’ll justify it, saying they didn’t “get” you.

    Stay in hiding. Satan loves hiding. He also loves shame. And ego. And just about any activity that keeps you from facing this simple reality: God loves you and wants you back.

    The Law—the commandments—can be summarized with two phrases: Love the Lord your God, and then love your neighbor as yourself. These two things lead to a fruitful life.

    So, shall we heed these words during our brief time here? Shall we trust they are the remedy for the chronic ailment called sin and all its effects?

    Or, like the flesh described in Screwtape Makes a Toast, will we become rather dull and flavorless meat—too passive one way or the other to be of value to the God who made us… or even to the demons who’d feast on us?

    Yours in sincerity,

    Uncle Meier

  • Allegory…Imagination….and Merlin?

    Allegory…Imagination….and Merlin?

    C. S. Lewis seems like he came from another planet—his insights never grow stale; they mature like a good Calvin and Hobbes sketch- becoming more apparent the older you get.

    Speaking as a lay reader(because a scholar could really do these writings justice)—I am merely qualified to say Lewis shows profound cultural and spiritual insight, and inadvertently issues warnings to the culture in his fiction writings.

    The Cosmic Trilogy: A Transcendent View of Humanity

    In Out of the Silent Planet, Perelandra, and That Hideous Strength, Lewis maps the cosmic drama of humanity’s true nature:

    • Through the Narnia chronicles and The Screwtape Letters, he proves he can “see” with a divine perspective—individuals matter, but they also serve a greater cosmic order.
    • He anticipates modern ethical dilemmas—humanity building Babel, killing morality, creating AI—all before they became our daily headlines.

    Out of the Silent Planet: What do you mean, “more?”

    One of the most chilling exchanges comes in Out of the Silent Planet. Ransom asks the peaceful hrossa, “What if another group takes more than they need?”
    They respond simply: “Why would they take more?”
    This contrast highlights how foreign greed seems to beings who live in harmony.

    The comparison with the pfifltriggi is equally poignant:

    Pfifltrigg: “All the pfifltriggi share the work of mining and stone craft equally.”
    Ransom: “On Earth, some people mine their whole lives so others can make art.”
    Pfifltrigg: “The art is more meaningful because of the hard work it takes to get the stone.”

    On Malacandra (Mars, the actual Silent Planet is Earth because we fell out of alignment with God and therefore is considered silent), labor and reward are intrinsically linked—nothing is divorced from its purpose. Conversely, our world often separates toil from its fruits. That disconnect? Lewis refers it as “bent,” or morally twisted.

    Perelandra: What We Might Have Been

    In Perelandra, Ransom and Weston confront an Eve-like figure, exploring a world untainted by rebellion. Lewis provokes the thought, “What if humanity could have avoided The Fall?” Lewis dares us to imagine our full potential—and contrasts it with the “superior” knowledge and technology we have today.

    That Hideous Strength: A Warning for Today

    The trilogy concludes with That Hideous Strength, where a once-legendary Merlin returns amid a technocratic, demonic think tank (the N.I.C.E.). It’s terrifyingly relevant—our age of AI and corporate control would fit right in Lewis’s world. The scene where Merlin frees animals is equally unforgettable.

    In this, the third book of the interplanetary drama, the way in which Lewis refers to the advancements of human race through the use of NICE mimics the pleasantries of AI and people today in service of potentially harmful intentions.

    Beyond being a Christian apologist (see Mere Christianity, Letters to Malcolm), Lewis crafted stories so readers continue to wrestle with his truths long after he was gone. He didn’t claim perfection—only that his purpose was to write meaningful fiction that points us toward our true calling.

    What Are We Here For?

    What are we meant to do? Are we fulfilling our unique purpose, or chasing everything but that? Lewis was someone grounded enough to tell stories that pointed to difficulties within a culture, giving so much meaning about living in the world, but not of it (John 17:14-16), and brave enough to show us what could happen if things don’t change.

    You: The Universe’s Missing Piece

    Each of us holds a spark that only we contain. Our story is our own—but it also weaves into something far larger. When we live according to what we think we should want, or think we should do, we aren’t living according to what we were actually meant to do, or meant to act.

    This isn’t recommending rebellion for rebellion’s sake, but rather to be you, and live according to what matters the most to you, will inevitably lead to the greatest things, as intended. Much like when sin entered the world and distorted the way of things, we too are like the original Adam, taking the coverup and running from the greatness we were intended for. Stop covering up. Stop living in denial. Be honest with yourself. Tell the truth. Let yourself suck at a sport, but keep playing.

    If nothing else, Lewis points us to Scripture—“there is nothing new under the sun”, Ecclesiastes 1:9—and that the only deeply new thing is rediscovering whose story we are living out, ours, or a parody of someone else’s.