I’ve started reading C.S. Lewis’ Mere Christianity again. It is a dated book, but only in ways that are not terribly important. I find it a wonderful book. To the extent I can, I am going to share some reflections from reading through it, perhaps as a way to restore life to this moribund blog.
To begin, a quotation from the first section of the book:
God is the only comfort. He is also the supreme terror: the thing we most need and the thing we most want to hide from. … Some people talk as if meeting the gaze of absolute goodness would be fun. They need to think again. They are still only playing at religion.
One thing that strikes me about so much religiosity I encounter is how little it regards the “terror” side of the above equation. In the church, we seem unaware of the the fact that if God is ultimate goodness, and expects us to be good, we are in a bad way.
In his book, Lewis begins with two foundational claims. First, that we as human beings believe that there is such as thing as right and wrong. We have the sense that there is a way that other people ought to behave toward us — not out of mere social convention but because it is “the right thing to do” — and we are upset when people do what is wrong. Lewis’ second point is that we ourselves often fail to act toward others in the very ways we believe they ought to act toward us. In other words, we believe in right and wrong, and we often do what is wrong.
Of course, we often justify our wrong acts. We come up with lots of reasons why it is okay to cheat a particular person or institution, why it is okay to lie, even why it is okay to commit violence against someone else, but we do not rest easy in our justifications. Indeed, the fact that we feel the need to justify such actions is often all the proof we need that we know we have done wrong. You do not need to offer excuses for why you do the right thing, after all.
Lewis argues that the source of this sense of right and wrong is God and this sense is itself evidence of God. (You can read the book to get the full argument. I am not doing it justice in this short summary.) At this point in the book, Lewis is not arguing for a Christian conception of God. He is merely arguing that we bear within us testimony to existence of a right and wrong that is beyond human creation and above our control. The vast majority of human beings throughout time have shared the conviction that there is a moral order, that a god or gods expect humans to live in accord with it, and that there are consequences for failing to do so. We long for those consequences for other people. We often reject the notion that they should apply to us. We imagine standing before God and inexplicably are not the least bit weak in the knees.
All of this leads me to ask, “How many of us in the church today are still merely playing at religion?”
How many of us have ever seriously contemplated the fact that if God stands resolutely against the wicked, he stands resolutely against us?
Sure, we have all our excuses. My wickedness, my selfishness, my sinfulness is not as bad as someone else. It’s not like I am Adolph Hitler. Or the wrongs I do are justified by some harm I have suffered or some defect that I cannot control. In the end, we tell ourselves, if God is good then that means he will ignore my sins even as he punishes the sins of others, the ones who really deserve it.
We wrap ourselves up in the comfort of God and refuse to the possibility that there might be some terror involved in coming face-to-face with a holy and good God.
We who remember what it felt like to dread having to confess to our parents some petty childhood wrong we had done think we will stand at ease in the light of God’s goodness without the least bit of worry or fear.
As Lewis says, we are playing at religion.
It is for good reason that the Bible tells us that the beginning of all wisdom is the fear of God. We should be afraid. We know our own hearts. Only if we have known the grace of holy fear of God can we truly know the grace of the relief and comfort from those fears. Yes, I am paraphrasing John Newton. I hope next time I sing his hymn, I do not gloss too lightly over that line: “‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear and grace my fear relieved.”