From Doubt to Hope

Looking at C.S. Lewis' Journey Through Grief

Those of us who were moved at least once while watching the film Shadowlands (1993) cannot have forgotten the unexpected love story between the English writer C. S. Lewis and the American poet Joy Davidman. Theirs was a short marriage, due to her terminal illness, and certainly peculiar in many respects. The thing that those who have watched the film may not know, however, is the immense pain Lewis experienced after his wife's death, as well as the painful effort to regain a shred of peace with himself and God after that tragic separation.

The author of The Chronicles of Narnia gives us an insight into this troubled period in his book A Grief Observed (Harper San Francisco, 1996), which is nothing more than a collection of thoughts from his diaries from that period. There are many insights that can be taken from the author's sharp and very personal reflections and this makes me recommend this book, especially to anyone going through the loss of a loved one.

What I would like to dwell on with you in this post is Lewis's gradual transition from an inner climate dominated by the deafening absence of the loved one - and even of God - to a condition much fuller of hope and consolation.

I do not deny that I read with some surprise the radical doubts about God that Lewis expresses in these pages because of his excruciating pain. For those who know him as the great apologist who defended the faith with simplicity and clarity, dealing even with the problem of evil, expressions such as the following certainly arouse a certain astonishment:

‘The conclusion I dread is not “So there's no God after all,” but ’So this is what God's really like. Deceive yourself no longer”’. (pp. 6-7)

Nevertheless, I think we must state frankly that there is nothing wrong with expressing the doubts that lacerate us at a particular moment. Lewis is no less of a faithful believer because of this; quite the contrary! In fact, the honesty and lucidity with which he expresses his inner malaise are a sign of the maturity of his spiritual life. Also, it shows how much his relationship with God matters to him.

Indeed, such a frank and heartfelt way of speaking to God and about God in these situations is often a necessary and salutary stage in the grieving process. This is true even if what we can hear when we invoke God is a door slammed before our face, as Lewis says in this other passage:

‘Meanwhile, where is God? This is one of the most disquieting symptoms. When you are happy, so happy that you have no sense of needing Him, so happy that you are tempted to feel His claims upon you as an interruption, if you remember yourself and turn to Him with gratitude and praise, you will be- or so it feels-welcomed with open arms. But go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence. You may as well turn away. The longer you wait, the more emphatic the silence will become. There are no lights in the windows. It might be an empty house. Was it ever inhabited? It seemed so once. And that seeming was as strong as this. What can this mean? Why is He so present a commander in our time of prosperity and so very absent a help in time of trouble?’. (pp. 5-6)

The picture that emerges from this excerpt from Lewis's inner journey seems to be one of the most tragic, almost close to despair. It is true that one of the key-maxims of the spiritual life is to prepare during times of prosperity for times of desolation, but it is also true that life can overtake us to such an extent that we simply cannot cope. And, frankly, I think that it is right to simply admit it.

But what to do at that point? I think we should then remember another cardinal principle of the life of the spirit, which is to be patient in the storm, enduring ‘firm in hope against all hope’ (Rom 4:18), whatever our feelings may be. In other words: give ourselves the time we need. Eventually, as we see in the next quote, something positive begins to blossom within us again:

‘I have gradually been coming to feel that the door is no longer shut and bolted. Was it my own frantic need that slammed it in my face? The time when there is nothing at all in your soul except a cry for help may be just the time when God can't give it: you are like the drowning man who can't be helped because he clutches and grabs. Perhaps your own reiterated cries deafen you to the voice you hoped to hear. On the other hand, “Knock and it shall be opened”. But does knocking mean hammering and kicking the door like a maniac? And there's also ‘To him that hath shall be given. After all, you must have a capacity to receive, or even omnipotence can't give. Perhaps your own passion temporarily destroys the capacity’. (p. 46)

Here we see the return of the author's brilliant intelligence, which does not fail in its acumen even when it comes to reading himself. In fact, Lewis suggests that, perhaps, when we believe that God is not answering us, it is actually we who are too deafened by our inner screams to hear His voice. Again, this is nothing that should make us feel guilty for. But, perhaps, a possible reason why we are confronted with a God seemingly insensitive to our cry.

Perhaps, though. Lewis specifies this ‘perhaps’. Yes, because when we are faced with the great mystery of evil suddenly appearing in our lives, or with the reas why God does not make his consolation felt in a more tangible way, we cannot expect to give big thorough answers. Very often, we will not have not even small ones. Until we come to see face to face (cf. 1 Cor 13:12) and still walk in the bright cloud of faith, we must be content to put our questions before God. Simply this.

Even on this act of surrender, however, Lewis gives us an indication to live it with hope:

‘When I lay these questions before God I get no answer. But a rather special sort of “No answer”. It is not the locked door.It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze. As though He shook His head not in refusal but waiving the question. Like, “Peace, child; you don't understand”’. (p. 69)

For sure, we cannot understand everything. But at least we can be sure that God always addresses us as ‘Child’.

Picture of Magdalene College (Oxford) by Giovanni Castellano