Of Wardrobes and Rings: A Review

There was a full house for the performance   Of Wardrobes and Rings at Gallo Center for the Arts in Modesto on February 28, 12016.  Perhaps it was general knowledge but it was a complete surprise to me that this was the premier of the show!

In a pub setting JRR Tolkien and CS Lewis meet over beer and tea (tea for Lewis because his recent heart attack has him under doctor's orders to cut out alcohol) which gave the audience a glimpse of the highlights of their famed lifelong friendship. Hattie the barmaid provided a light and youthful backdrop to showcase the somewhat stodgy academic figures of Lewis and Tolkien, or Jack and Tollers as they referred to each other.

At times they reminded one of a catty, gossipy David Niven and Bob Newhart if I must be honest. In other words, while brilliant, successful, and creative, they were so very human. There is an invisible 'fourth wall' we readers often construct that keeps us from understanding such literary icons. It is easy to forget they were people, people that nursed grudges, that wore catheters, that were turned down for promotions, and often misunderstood even by their dearest friends. Despite this laundry list of terribly human realities, the end result for me personally was that I came to respect and admire Lewis and Tolkien in a greater way, and their friendship even more.

Having seen and thoroughly been inspired by Max Maclean's stage production of CS Lewis' Screwtape Letters and The Great Divorce, I was poised for something similar.  Instead, Phil Crowley and David Payne's thoughtful dialogue had a very comfy and almost 'homey' feel, unlike Maclean's clipped stage treatment of Lewis' books. I had attempted a very heroic last minute read of Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, which I didn't quite complete, and was rewarded several times with connections to the story that I would otherwise have been oblivious to. In case you were there, I was the gaping fool who laughed a lot, and cried at the end. 

Three Deaths in Retrospect

I was five, fifty years ago when my grandfather, John Pierce Richardson died. I would eventually understand that president John F Kennedy, nicknamed, "Jack" was shot and killed the same day. Later in life I would discover the writings of Clive Staples Lewis, also known as "Jack" and realize that he too passed to his Maker on that day. Ironically, my grandfather resided in Washington DC and  is buried in Arlington Cemetery, a burial that had to be delayed because of the president's burial.

President Kennedy's death had no immediate impact on me but his shocking murder left an indelible mark on the nation that no one can escape; to encapsulate in contrast - a glorification of the Oval Office and the tragic sense that even the leader of the free world is mortal.

The world is richer because of the scholarly and brutally honest writings of Lewis, and I personally have considered him a 'faith and doubt mentor' of the finest order. His untimely death was certainly a sad day.

All of these men affected parts of my life, and of the three, as you might expect, my grandfather's life has had the biggest impact on mine, but not for the obvious reason that I was his grandchild. While the words of Lewis have both soothed and troubled my soul, the words of my grandfather have had a far different impact.

I never knew my grandfather; I only saw him once, and that one time is just a vague memory, aided by my mother's account of the visit, and a photograph I've seen in which he stands behind the bending form of my grandmother, a silent observer. I only know that he was a resourceful man and talented musically, trained as a concert pianist. For some reason, he suffered from either mental illness, or a consistently negative outlook. My mother recalls mostly angry profane words directed towards herself and her brother. That sad fact led to her glorious conversion to Christianity, to the Heavenly Father who speaks peace and love towards his children, when she was a young child.

Several months before her father died she felt a strong compulsion to write him a letter telling him of her faith and reaching out to him in a way she never had. It was a difficult choice, but she made it, not knowing of his illness and consequent death at fifty five (my current age).

There had been no form of faith in her home. Yet, it is from her that I receive the example of faith in living form, and my grandfather's model notwithstanding, a steady stream of loving and affirming words. She epitomizes the opposite of what she received.

So on this day I mourn three, but rejoice in the day, and what it has brought me.

I've Gone t' Preachin'!

Those of you who read here regularly know that I am a believer. While I do post about my faith every now and then I  choose a broad range of topics to suit what I hope is a diverse audience. One of my goals is to put out ideas that will help us all to think a little deeper about this thing we call life. I am aware that not all of my readers share my political views either, and I welcome friendly discussion on any topic on which you politely disagree.

But today I absolutely must share the spiritual insight that came to me this past weekend, a couple of days that I devoted (along with my mother and sister and several hundred other women) to hear what God might want to say to us. Thanks to our speakers, and in particular, Linda Sommerville from William Jessup University,  for sharing such valuable insight!

Allow me to relate it to you exactly as it dawned on my consciousness for the first time, hidden away in two stories I had heard before. The first was from my all-time favorite author CS Lewis in his book for children (wink, wink) The Horse and His Boy. The second was an ancient story of Jesus walking on water during a great storm. I invoke a bloggers license to paraphrase both for effect.

The boy walked along the dark road, unable to ride the horse beside him, further beset by the thoughts of every dark thing that had ever happened in his life. Already a bit spooked by the darkness of night, he felt the hair raise on his skin as he heard a low breathing sound. It continued and grew louder and found that it had a voice as well. "Who are you?" he finally found the courage to ask. "Are you a giant?" The breathing  continued and grew louder and he found that it had a voice as well. "Not the kind you're thinking of." The was the reply. Then the voice, the voice of the mighty Aslan himself, said a strange thing. "During all the turmoil and trouble in the your life I was the one responsible." Indeed, Aslan was a giant of sorts, and although good, he was not in any sense tame or safe.

While the disciples found themselves on the Sea of Galilee enduring the mother of all storms, Jesus himself had stayed behind on the shore, and now came to them, walking on the water. For a few terrifying moments, they thought he was a ghost, summoning them to certain death. "Don't be afraid." He said to them as he got closer. "I AM." Not only His presence, but His identity was needed to calm their wildest fears. The Eternally Existent One who was responsible for the weather, and everything else, was coming to their rescue.

God, the Almighty Maker of all things is truly the Master the Universe, not to mention the Master of every storm. He is bigger than, beyond, and yet responsible in some unfathomable way for all the evil in the world. Even Satan had to have His permission to rebel. Now, this raises all sorts of sticky and icky questions, at least for me. But it also is the key thought behind the deep peace that I have, now that I understand in a new way that the deliverer in the middle of the Storm is also the Master of the storm.  We can trust Him - not to do everything that we want - but to do us ultimate good. We cannot know what He knows, as neither the boy nor the disciples could understand in the middle of their fears what in the world was going on and why. I don't either. But I can trust the Master. And so can you.

Wanting

"Everything you ever wanted, in a permanent state..." sung Coldplay's Chris Martin, as I dropped my high schooler off this morning.

Was he singing about heaven?


Tapping into a place in me that I don't wear on my sleeve, his words brought me to tears, and I wondered how often I think about what I really want.

Modern life is like a coddling mother, offering instant food and drink, continuous social connection  and the promise of the good life through possessions that have not been available to so many people during the whole history of the world. We are perhaps numbed into a state of quasi-contentment. 

CS Lewis suggests the following:

Indeed, if we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires, not too strong, but too weak.  

For the two minutes it took me to drive back from my daughter's school after I dropped her off, I told God exactly what I wanted. 

He listened. 

He knew.

And now, so do I.