If Donald needs a personal escort to the gates of hell, I'd be happy to volunteer. Abbess Catherine and I could have been golden, but then she orderedIf Donald needs a personal escort to the gates of hell, I'd be happy to volunteer. Abbess Catherine and I could have been golden, but then she ordered the killing of those kittens, which is some straight-up bull$#@! and which constitutes one of those "my good opinion, once lost, is lost forever" deals for me. Dame Veronica was insidiously obnoxious and Abbess Hester posthumously infuriating. Cecily irritated me a bit, too. Larry definitely deserved better from the narrative than that anemic post-script.
I liked most of the other characters pretty well; they and their everyday doings were wonderfully humanized. There were occasional hints of racial exoticism which I didn't enjoy. Overall, a very unique and very valuable novel, if (maybe?) a little longer than it needed to be. It provoked a lot of thought in my mind about the difference between Catholic and Protestant understandings of vocation -- most of which I had considered before, but usually more briefly -- and, rather oddly, reinforced my Protestant convictions on the subject. Still, I really enjoyed spending this time with these nuns and getting a more prolonged glimpse into the functioning of (relatively) modern monastic life, which is very conceptually interesting to me. I love and deeply respect several aspects of it, even if I don't accept all of the doctrinal and theological theories motivating it. I strongly suspect that I'll be rereading this one at some point.
{3.5 stars} (I'd round up to four, but I've been oddly discontented with several of my recent four-star ratings, so I'll leave it at three for now but may bump it up in the future.)...more
Now did her road lead down into the darkling valley, but ere she took that road she had been given grace to understand that, in the loneliness of t
Now did her road lead down into the darkling valley, but ere she took that road she had been given grace to understand that, in the loneliness of the cloister and at the gates of death, there waited for her one who had ever beheld the life of mankind as men's parishes look, seen from the mountain brow. He had seen the sin and sorrow, the love and hate, in the hearts of men, as one sees the rich manors and the humble cots, the teeming cornfields and the abandoned wastes, all borne on the bosom of the same country-side. And he had descended; his feet had trodden the peopled lands, and stood in palaces and in huts; he had gathered up the sorrows and the sins of rich and poor, and lifted them aloft with him upon a cross. Not my happiness and my pride, but my sin and my sorrow, O my sweet Lord --
I think Elizabeth said this best: "A great story. Not always told in the greatest way."
There were moments that truly spoke to me spiritually, moments I think Elizabeth said this best: "A great story. Not always told in the greatest way."
There were moments that truly spoke to me spiritually, moments that were outstanding. But there were also many moments that were not. I wanted to rate it three stars just for those passages that were so meaningful, but I knew that two stars would more accurately reflect my opinion, so here we are.
[Also I'm in increasingly desperate need of a solid 4- or 5-star read so send help plz. *sobs*]...more
I have very conflicted feelings on this book, and I want to capture them as best I can for anyone who’s interested in this series or has some of my saI have very conflicted feelings on this book, and I want to capture them as best I can for anyone who’s interested in this series or has some of my same impressions of this first one.
I’m not giving this a star rating because I don’t think one could adequately convey my thoughts. There were parts of this novel that I loved, parts that I felt could be better executed on a technical level, and one major reservation about theme.
First of all, I’ll say that I thoroughly enjoyed reading this. It’s kind of like a very accessible high fantasy, which is a genre that has a big piece of my heart. Most (most) of the writing was excellent. There were several turns of phrase that made me all kinds of happy.
More superficially, there were also a few moments where I thought that the humor and the storytelling in general were too contrived and derivative. Occasionally the narrative felt a little scattered and tangential, though that was rare. Additionally, some of the names were just odd or even lazy, not uniquely fantastical. (“Captain Catspaw”??)
My biggest problem with the book is the allegory. Allegory is not necessarily my favorite in general, but I think it can be done really effectively. The problem is, it’s a tactic that requires such precision in order to work. As a general rule, allegories should push beneath the surface and find a new and subtle way to retell the original, while also maintaining the very delicate balance of authenticity. Heartless has many explicitly allegorical elements, and in my personal opinion, they don’t all work terribly well. There were aspects of the spiritual content that I did appreciate and did find compelling, but there were many that bothered me.
Here’s the situation: Una, our protagonist, is presented from the get-go as an impetuous ingenue who makes unwise decisions about the suitors who court her. Aethelbald, the Prince of Farthestshore, is the “Christ figure,” here to save Una from her fate. Aethelbald, who knows the impending danger that Una and her kingdom are facing at the hands of the Dragon, comes to warn them of it and to woo Una. Una’s not very interested. Undeterred, Aethelbald proposes to her the same day they meet. Una refuses him. You would think, “Well, duh,” right? I mean, it would be the epitome of foolishness for a young princess to accept a man she literally just met a few hours ago, in strange circumstances to boot. Right? Right??
Apparently, according to the story, wrong.
The most responsible, mature, sensible decision Una makes in the whole story is billed as the most destructive.
(view spoiler)[[She then, perfectly innocently and naturally, falls in love with another prince, after a longer time. To serve the allegorical purpose, he of course proves unreliable. (Though he’s not the villain of the piece.) One thing leads to another and the Threatened Doom falls upon her/the kingdom.] (hide spoiler)]
To me, that’s a problem. It’s as though the author is trying to convince us that the only reason Una refused Aethelbald and fell for another is because Aethelbald is plain and “boring,” while this other man is “romantic” and “daring,” or whatever. But really, what she should be doing is convincing us that Una should have accepted Aethelbald, because that is what was more implausible.
And this all happened within, like, the first eighth of the book. So it was a problem all the way through.
I think that the goal here was to incorporate the scriptural message of God’s ways being different than ours, and his wisdom our folly. But it just falls through, in my opinion, and part of that is due to the way the allegory is packaged. As near as I can tell it, Una is supposed to represent us as sinners but also the Church as a corporate body, the bride of Christ which he will one day return to claim. Aethelbald, again, is supposed to represent Christ. The problem is that the story is still written as a very individual love story. Since Aethelbald was so obviously supposed to be Jesus, and since Una was so obviously a singular character, it was just bizarre at times to see their romance unfolding. It felt strange when Aethelbald literally physically kissed her on the lips. I understand and appreciate seeing our relationship to God as that of a Lover and his beloved, as prompted by Scripture such as Song of Songs. But I don’t think it works to apply that particular perspective of our faith to a fictional fantasy. (At least, not in the way that this book did it.) It becomes too confusing; it muddies what I believe are fairly important distinctions. (view spoiler)[Especially because Aethelbald also talks about losing other people he’s loved to the Dragon’s poison -- and I’m like, okay, so, with all those other people, was it just a friendship or sibling love, and Una is the only one with whom he’s ever been romantically involved? Or has he been married a bunch of times before?? (hide spoiler)]
Is any of this making sense? I know it’s not terribly fair to compare this book to something written by Lewis, but I’m going to do it anyway. Take The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Its allegory is simultaneously clearer and subtler than that of Heartless. A big part of that, I believe, is the way the Christ figure is written. Aslan inspires awe and respect as a fictional representative of God completely organically; you don’t feel like it’s a task you must complete to “see him that way.” You simply do as soon as you see his shining golden form on the green grass of Narnia. Lewis brought him to life so well that you don’t feel imposed upon. It’s not like you know you’re expected to view him any which way and so you consciously try to do so; rather, he himself makes you view him as you should. It’s a natural and somewhat involuntary process. And, what I think is even more important, Aslan’s role in each character’s life stays consistent throughout the whole book (and subsequent series). He is what he is: lord, savior, master. That’s it, and that’s everything. Simple and all-encompassing. He’s not one thing to Frank the cabby and something else to Lucy. He is the same.
Contrast that with Heartless. The presentation of Aethelbald as the Jesus figure was so effortful, for lack of a better word. He was winning as a character, but I didn’t feel unsolicited reverence for him. I knew that I was supposed to “substitute” him for Jesus and Una for myself in my mind, so I did, but I resented it. Plus, I couldn’t tell whether the author was trying to fully replicate a Jesus allegory through Aethelbald, or whether he was only supposed to be “mostly” the God figure. Because sometimes the language she used to describe him felt oddly imperfect, if it was meant to be the former. Several times she mentioned an “awkwardness” or uncertainty, which, to me, implies an idea of insufficiency that I found inappropriate for a Christ figure. Additionally, as a character, he was so many different things to so many different people. To Fidel and Felix, Una’s father and brother, he was mentor, savior, guide, etc.; but to Una, he was also romantic love interest. And it was just so spiritually confusing??
Essentially, that’s what kept me from wholeheartedly loving this novel. The allegory somehow felt both too on-the-nose and too unclear, and because that allegory was supposed to be so integral to the story, it tainted the whole experience. (Once again, though, I’ll reiterate that I really liked reading it. I haven’t decided yet whether or not I’ll continue the series, but I won’t be surprised if I do.)...more
There were lots of things I didn't love, but some of the spiritual passages in the latter half of the book were really encouraging and meaningful for There were lots of things I didn't love, but some of the spiritual passages in the latter half of the book were really encouraging and meaningful for me, so five stars it is....more
I planned to review this, but I've been rereading it for about a week now, and, with perfect goodwill, I'm tired of it.
At the end of the day, this isI planned to review this, but I've been rereading it for about a week now, and, with perfect goodwill, I'm tired of it.
At the end of the day, this is how I feel: Like most things, it is full of a good deal of inferiority and a good deal of merit and some occasional sparks of outright luminescence.
I can't help imagining that you will leave sooner or later, and it's fine if you have done that, or you mean to do it. This whole town does look like whatever hope becomes after it begins to weary a little, then weary a little more. But hope deferred is still hope. I love this town. I think sometimes of going into the ground here as a last wild gesture of love--I too will smolder away the time until the great and general incandescence.
Finally, Cock, at the bottom of things, this is the truth that controls the universe: that everyone hurt, hurts back; that everyone
{March 2023 Reread}
Finally, Cock, at the bottom of things, this is the truth that controls the universe: that everyone hurt, hurts back; that everyone cut, cuts back and double. And it has a name, cried the worms inside of him. Its name is Chaos.
Truly, as Wangerin writes in the epigraph to one of its parts, “the book of our sins” – our human sins visited upon the innocent and the lowly and the unspeakably, intrinsically noble. The novel is brutal and cruel and comforting and true, eviscerating in its use of anthropomorphism and spirituality to expose how human man has failed in his most primal, most profound Creational calling: to steward, nurture, and protect all animal life. It meditates on grief, priesthood, and the innate nature of good and evil. An immense and intimate book, encompassing firmaments and offering a salve for the wounds it righteously inflicts.
The Animals were a broad, dark company in the background, Creatures of the earth caught for the last time in a universal assembly, all the breeds and tribes and tongues and nations under heaven. Perhaps they would lie down and sleep right where they were. Perhaps they would travel home in the morning.
In the spring in Mississippi there were perfect days. They were storybook days.
I picWHAT. JUST. HAPPENED.
Guys, I don't even really know how to start.
In the spring in Mississippi there were perfect days. They were storybook days.
I picked up this book off my library's sale rack a while ago. I flipped through the first couple of chapters and put it on my shelf, thinking I'd get around to it eventually but not having any clear plans as to when.
Well.
Two nights ago (or rather, technically, it was very very early yesterday morning), I was feeling drained. There had been some really difficult situations going on the previous day that were still weighing on me, and I had had a weird sleep schedule for the past number of nights, and I had just seen a movie that was much sadder than I thought it would be. All in all, I was not in the best frame of mind, and even though it was high time to be in bed, I knew I would just lie there awake. So, I decided to pick up a book and try to read a bit. This one caught my eye. The author's dedication on the front page indicate a desire for the book to be a balm for hurting hearts (not quite in those words), and though I seemed to remember having some complaints about the writing from my previous scan of it, I also seemed to remember a "wholesome quality" to it, shall we say. I asked God to use the book to speak some comfort and some healing, to help me get what He wanted me to get out of it, and I started it.
GUYS. IT WAS SO GOOD.
Oh, it's not perfect. I mean, really, is any book ever perfect? (DON'T say the Bible. You know what I meant.) I still had a few (a very few) complaints. But it didn't take long to realize that the good pretty clearly outstrips the bad.
The story takes place in 1919 and centers around a young black woman named Alena, whose near-fairytale life in Mississippi is shattered by a gruesome discovery. This discovery catapults her from her gentle, rural Mississippi home to the modern and bustling Chicago. There she has to come to grips with the new harsh realities that have been forced upon her, and to process for herself questions of racism, bitterness, forgiveness, redemption, family, faith, etc. I can't say a whole lot more than that because #spoilers, but -- just go read it. Just do yourself that favor.
Sharon Ewell Foster weaves a tale that's atmospheric, unflinching and uncompromising in its depiction of human depravity, yet gentle, light-filled, and not gratuitous. The writing is perhaps too "feeling" at times -- sometimes characters' emotional responses seem somewhat implausible, too soon, too naïve, etc. -- but the book shies away from the cloying clichés of some of the rest of Christian fiction. (Now, there is a romance, of course, and that romance does start out love-hate on one participant's part, but there are extenuating circumstances leading to that love-hate.) Sometimes characters' dialogue or thought processes also seemed repetitive, but that didn't bother me too much. The characters are still fleshed out, believable, unbelievable, likable, dislikable -- Alena, Deac, Pearl, Amos, Miranda, James, Dinah, Bates, Patrice, Evelyn, Jonathan . . . all (uncomfortably, at times) reminiscent of oneself.
The book deals with some very weighty content matter. It contains racism that will make you nauseous, descriptions of the Klan-like practices of "upstanding" town citizens, lynchings, burning, assaults, distorting of God's Word to support barbarism, etc. It contains moral dilemmas that will make you ache for the character because of how many times you've felt that same sense of entrapment. It contains happiness that will make you happy, anger that will make you angry, sorrow that will make you sorry. It contains redemption that will make you want to weep and to smile at the same time. It contains forgiveness that will challenge you and uplift you. It's good, people. In dealing with forgiveness in the face of the (humanly) unforgivable, it deals with one of the most difficult issues to discuss, but which desperately needs to be addressed. One thing I found especially impressive was how Ms. Foster didn't make all the racism/wrong one-sided. Herself a black lady, she doesn't mince words about how racism is wrong, no questions asked, no excuses holding. And it's wrong no matter which ethnicity nurtures it towards which other ethnicity.
The side stories of Deac and Pearl, and of Miranda and Bates (I guess that's less of a side story, though) are excellent. At first, I felt kind of irritated by Deac's and Pearl's constant reappearance in the story, because it seemed distracting, but in the end, it was well-done. MIRANDA AND BATES. WHAAAAAA. I felt bad for Miranda and had difficulty feeling bad for Bates (I know, I KNOW THAT WAS THE POINT, but one is human). And referring to Miranda's and Bates' cohorts as "the one with blue eyes," "the one with grey eyes," "the one who was always afraid," "the one who always agreed", and so forth? Brilliant.
OH, oh, and guys, CHAPTER 35. WHAT ON EARTH. *SPOILERS!*They came to his funeral and they sang "Amazing Grace." And then some of the others joined them and they formed the circle --just w.o.w. I had to read that part twice because GAHH.
Okay, I should leave you. But guys, I just want you to know, this book is worth reading. It's not the best thing you'll ever read in your life (at least, not from a technical standpoint), but it has some of the best lessons and truth in it that you'll ever read in a fictional book, I think.
The dedication says: ". . . I lift this book up to God. . . . May it be everything You want it to be. May it be medicine, food, sweets to Your people, to those who are isolated." Well, for me at least, it was. Oh, it was. ...more
It is still “either-or”. If we insist on keeping Hell (or even Earth) we shall not see Heaven: if we accept Heaven we shall
{June 2024 Reread}
It is still “either-or”. If we insist on keeping Hell (or even Earth) we shall not see Heaven: if we accept Heaven we shall not be able to retain even the smallest and most intimate souvenirs of Hell.
This is flawed, with some regrettable sexism (as per Lewis usual), strange creative choices,* and iffy hamartiology, but overall quite excellent. It's also a solid rebuttal to those who mistakenly label Lewis a universalist. I think the preface is arguably the most remarkable part of the book: incisive, irrefutable, heartening.
*"The Nature or Arch-Nature of that land rejoiced to have been once more ridden, and therefore consummated, in the person of the horse." Sir, this is a Wendy's??...more
I wondered how this book would hold up, five years later. See, I first read this back in the heyday of my blogg{April 2023 Reread}
Well.
*clears throat*
I wondered how this book would hold up, five years later. See, I first read this back in the heyday of my blogging experience – a time when I was so eager to enjoy the stories my friends enjoyed that I’d sometimes trick myself into believing that I enjoyed them more than I actually did. I already knew, going into this reread, that Behold the Dawn had been a casualty of this sweet but misguided phenomenon, because I remembered that even as I was writing the original review, I felt that I may have been overstating my enthusiasm a touch.
I knew, for instance, that I’d skimmed a fair bit of the book because the pacing dragged and the overall plot conflict was frankly pretty boring to me (but I hadn’t mentioned that in my original review because I was caught up in the elements I did like and the thrill of bonding over a new story with close friends). I knew that my last experience with Weiland’s writing (reading Storming last year) had been less than stellar. However, I also knew that there were some things I had genuinely enjoyed about the story, and likely would again, so all in all, I headed into the reread with an open mind.
And I wasn’t wholly betrayed by the experience – the book isn’t a dreadful one. As I said, the main plot conflict doesn’t compel me, personally, but others’ mileage may vary. The writing is frequently overwrought, but it has its decent moments. And, despite the novel of a complaint that you're about to read regarding the romance, there were still some genuinely sweet and touching moments between Marcus and Mairead.
However, I did come away from this second read with plenty of complaints. The antagonists, for instance, are cartoonishly wicked – stopping just short of rubbing their hands together with villainous glee. The narrative's commentary on the ethics of the Crusades, while brief, is also troublingly ambivalent. And what on earth is up with Weiland’s apparent penchant for Super Ultra Dramatic Heroes? Every other sentence, Marcus goes full, “this coffee is black, LikE mY sOuL” and it gets really old really fast. I get that he has legitimate trauma and guilt over the past, but honestly, people. Subtlety? Never heard of her.
Unquestionably, though, my biggest concern with this story is one that, funnily enough, I did bring up in my original review: the fade-to-black scene between Marcus and Mairead at about the sixty percent mark.
*cracks knuckles*
Kids, this doesn’t work. But before I get into all the reasons why it doesn’t work, let’s start with some backstory (trigger warning for sexual assault):
Marcus (the MC) and Mairead (the love interest) first meet when Mairead’s husband, William, is dying. William was an old friend and mentor of Marcus’s. We learn that William had married Mairead to protect her after she was raped and impregnated by one of the villains of the piece, Hugh de Guerrant. (The child died the day after he was born.) The couple had fled to the Holy Land, which is where they connect with Marcus. William asks Marcus to marry Mairead after his death, since Hugh is still pursuing her and she needs the protection of a husband’s name as she travels to the convent she plans to enter after William’s death. Marcus agrees. He and Mairead enter a totally platonic marriage of convenience that is only supposed to last for the twenty-day journey to the convent.
Of course, we all know what’s going to happen next: they’re going to fall in ✨lurve✨ and the platonic marriage of convenience will no longer be quite so platonic or convenient. That’s all fine – whatever – I don’t care. Nothing wrong with the marriage of convenience trope as such, and I actually like Marcus and Mairead as a couple well enough. They have potential, at least.
But then – a little over halfway through the book – we come to the problem scene. For context, Marcus has briefly left Mairead under the protection of one of his trusted friends while he goes off to do . . . something. I can’t remember and I don’t care enough to go back and ferret out the specifics – something to do with the main plot conflict, which involves vengeful monks and corrupt bishops and secret identities and ✨Past Trauma✨ and all that jazz. (It’s not as interesting as it sounds, I’m sorry to say.) Anyway, Marcus and Mairead split up temporarily. He thinks she’s going to be safe at his friend’s castle, but then, while Marcus is gone, his friend leaves the castle on some errand or other, and Hugh de Guerrant winds up storming it and almost recapturing Mairead. She barely gets away and somehow manages to find Marcus, who’s spending the night in some random inn. Their relationship has been ✨developing✨ this whole time, Marcus is experiencing Stirrings™ while at the inn, and then in comes Mairead, wide-eyed and trembling and vulnerable and all the other things that are apparently irresistibly aphrodisiacal to Big, Strong, Manly Men like Marcus.
And . . . they have sex. (Of course, this being a Good Christian Novel, we don’t actually see them have sex, but we see the beginnings, and that’s quite enough.)
Listen, I . . . I genuinely don’t understand why Weiland thought this scene was a good or romantic idea. Mairead has just escaped from a near-rape experience – at the hands of a man who already raped her once. She and Annan have become friendlier in the past weeks, yes, but they have had no real romantic interaction prior to this moment, despite their mutual secret pinings. So why on earth did Weiland think that we as readers should be enthused about a sex scene happening with absolutely no believable build-up, a mere few hours after all of Mairead’s unspeakable sexual trauma has just been resurrected in such a terrifying way?
[image]
Moreover, as if the poor timing wasn’t bad enough, this reread revealed details that concerned me in terms of Mairead’s ability to fully consent. The whole thing starts with Marcus kissing her, and Weiland notes that though it startles Mairead, she doesn’t resist or exhibit fear. But like? That’s not even remotely sufficient proof of consent, given these particular circumstances? (It’s fight, flight, or freeze, people!!!) Especially since Mairead begins to voice concerns which Marcus dismisses before they proceed? Granted, those concerns consist of her feeling that she’s “unworthy” to have sex with Marcus because she’s been “defiled” by Hugh’s violence – a notion which Marcus obviously refutes. But still. Even though Weiland clearly implies that Mairead is a fully consenting partner, it rubs me much the wrong way.
[image]
Was Weiland trying to rehabilitate the experience of sex for Mairead? Is that what she was attempting to accomplish with this? If so, why did she feel the need to include a specific incident instead of simply leaving it to the reader’s imagination to deduce that Mairead would eventually be able to engage in a fulfilling, consensual sex life with Marcus once they decided that their marriage would be “for real”?
Also, not to get myopic about Christian sexual ethics, BUT: if neither Marcus nor Mairead had any real sincerity in conducting the marriage ceremony/speaking whatever vows couples spoke at medieval weddings – if both of them expected their association as husband and wife to end as soon as they reached the convent – if both of them fully intended to annul their marriage, in practice if not in law – then can we say that they were actually, truly married in the sight of God and therefore “cleared” to do the deed? If the marriage was essentially a technicality, a pretense to deter their enemies – was it truly “marriage” in God’s eyes? And would consummation of the marriage spiritually legitimize it? You can come to your own conclusions, of course, but for myself, I say “nay.”
So, all in all – no. I don’t love Behold the Dawn. But I’m going to keep my original review posted anyway, for nostalgia’s sake. It’s a time capsule of sorts, and it triggers many warm and fuzzy memories of happy times gone by when we were all so enthused about fangirling over our favorite stories together. ...more
I reread Out of the Silent Planet so that I could reread Perelandra. That’s how much I remember loving it.
Unfortunately, however, while Silent PlanetI reread Out of the Silent Planet so that I could reread Perelandra. That’s how much I remember loving it.
Unfortunately, however, while Silent Planet raised its initial rating by half a star and rounded up on this reread, Perelandra lowered its own by two.
Don’t get me wrong: It’s not that Perelandra is so much worse than I remember it being. It’s just that I no longer find the elements that blew me away the first time all that astonishing anymore.
For context, Perelandra explores what could have happened if God had created sentient humanoid life on multiple planets, and if not all of those planets fell from their original, sinless states. Essentially, Lewis is asking what it would look like if God had created another Adam and Eve, on another planet, and if they had not committed the first sin of disobedience when tempted to by Satan. If the Fall, in fact, never happened.
Now, that’s a gutsy allegorical premise, on many levels, and I could get behind it in theory. Lewis could also write allegory quite well, so, again, it could have worked. The problem, for me, is not so much the allegory itself, it’s the exposition of that allegory.
Because, in this version of cosmic history, the cataclysmic introduction of sin isn’t averted because this Adam and Eve simply make their own, freewill decision to obey God and ignore the devil. Nope, in this version, God sends an earthly human to this other planet to kill the tempter for this Adam and Eve.
And who might that chosen human be?
If you guessed our original protagonist, Elwin Ransom . . . you’re right.
Do you -- do you start to see my issue? I just . . . I don’t know, man. If you’re going to consider the possibility of a “second Eden” which never fell to darkness, you can approach it from multiple equally valid theological angles. So, on one hand, I have no real -- meaning, insurmountable -- issue with how Lewis wrote this novel. I can see how he came to the conclusions he came to, for this, and none of them are technically wrong. But part of that, of course, is because I don't know if it’s possible for any one perspective on such a premise to be “technically wrong”. On an issue so speculative, there’s plenty of room for nuance.
So, since just about anything “could,” in theory, “go” for such a story, the question is not so much what you can do with it, but what would be best for you to do with it. And, in my personal opinion, reproducing the biblical Eden situation on another planet, but bringing in a human man to act as God’s “hands” in giving this extra-terrestrial Adam and Eve some “additional help” in resisting Satan’s temptation -- making that human man, essentially, a kind of divinely designated, “substitute messiah” for this other race -- is perhaps not the best thing to do with it. You feel me, fam?
Additionally, there’s the issue of, um . . . gender . . . intrinsic to this premise. Because he’s writing a speculative, semi-allegorical Eden fantasy, Lewis is saddled -- or rather, saddles himself -- with the responsibility of describing his idea of what an Eveian woman would be like.
This . . . is . . . a delicate situation for any male author to put himself in, and I think it may be especially precarious for a male theologian. And I question the prudence of doing so at all -- or, at least, of doing so in such detail and for so long as Lewis does in this book.
Once again, there’s nothing (or not much) that is flatly wrong or unbiblical about his Eve figure. But, while revering her narratively, Lewis also emphasizes her naivete and her gullibility to an extent that is . . . dare I say, unnecessary? And troubling, considering the habits of sexism detectable in certain other of his works? It’s also . . . not great . . . that, while we only meet the Adam figure a few pages before the novel ends, Lewis takes the time to glorify him to the extent that he does.
I understand his interest in the magnificence of what a sinless Adam would be like, especially given the biblical comparison that names Jesus Christ our second Adam. I understand his interest in the magnificence of what a sinless image-bearer of God Almighty would be like. But . . . truly not trying to be petty, but . . . the Bible tells us that women are made in the image of God as well. So, without getting into a sticky biblical debate about gender, I think we can (and should) acknowledge that a sinless Eve would be just as great a marvel as a sinless Adam.
And Lewis does glory in the sinless Eve, as well -- he does dedicate quite a bit of time to her splendor, as well.
But he also explicitly states that, while this Eve figure is great, no one would think of paying her any attention if this Adam was in the same space, because he is so exponentially more radiant.
And that . . . that reads as a smidge icky, my friends. Just a smidge.
Remember, now, I absolutely loved this story when I first read it. I got really excited when I realized what Lewis was doing with the book -- how he was building it to this monolithic spiritual climax and infusing it with so much heady philosophical and theological speculation.
And that’s still cool, of course. I still love philosophical and theological speculation, and there are still bits of it in this book that I do enjoy and do find beneficial and compelling.
It’s just that, since I no longer appreciate all or even most of this speculation as much as I did at first -- since I no longer find this speculation very productive, or even very accurate -- I don’t get as excited about all the "trappings," for lack of a less depreciative term. (I’ve also realized that, on a purely recreational level, I enjoy the Malacandrian setting of Silent Planet more than I enjoy the Perelandrian setting of -- well, Perelandra.)
So, all in all, this book simply doesn’t do as much for me now as it did the first time I read it. And that is Perfectly Okay.
However, I will say:
“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, here goes -- I mean Amen,” is still one of the single most epic lines I have ever read in my entire life....more
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