As a mere child, C. S. Lewis lost his faith in God and the whole of the Christian story. There were several reasons for this, all of which he describes in his lovely autobiography Surprised By Joy. But one reason particularly speaks to me; it is indeed the only thing I share in common with the young Mr. Lewis. In short, Mr. Lewis came to believe the universe was thwarting his simplest ambitions. He describes the cosmos' stubborn resistance as one of the "seeds of pessimism" that found fertile soil in his mind, a pessimism that grew till he became "an apostate, dropping my faith with no sense of loss but with the greatest relief." Permit me to quote Mr. Lewis at length:
As to the sources of my pessimism ... I am now inclined to think that the seeds of pessimism were sown before my mother's death. Ridiculous as it may sound, I believe that the clumsiness of my hands [Lewis and his brother were both born missing the first joints in their thumbs. -- Ed.] was at the root of the matter. How could this be? Not, certainly, that a child says, "I can't cut a straight line with a pair of scissors, therefore the universe is evil." Childhood has no such power of generalization and is not (to do it justice) so silly. Nor did my clumsiness produce what is ordinarily called an Inferiority Complex. I was not comparing myself with other boys; my defeats occurred in solitude. What they really bred in me was a deep (and, of course, inarticulate) sense of resistance or opposition on the part of inanimate things. Even that makes it too abstract and adult. Perhaps I had better call it a settled expectation that everything would do what you did not want it to do. Whatever you wanted to remain straight, would bend; whatever you tried to bend would fly back to the straight; all knots which you wished to be firm would come untied; all knots you wanted to untie would remain firm.
It is important to note that Mr. Lewis does not argue his public life was thwarted by the body politic or by his family. He does not suggest teachers inhibited his creative progress or some nemesis intimidated him to such a degree he fell back in retreat. Instead, what Mr. Lewis tells us is that this sense of "resistance or opposition on the part of inanimate things ... occurred in solitude." [emphasis mine] He was privately thwarted; when alone, he felt that something stood against him.
I said above that this is the only thing Mr. Lewis and I share in common, but even this commonality is distinguished in two ways. First, I do not conclude, as Mr. Lewis seems to, that the universe is poorly designed (he playfully refers to his accepting the "Argument from Undesign" as the strongest argument for atheism). I do not conclude that either the universe or God is deficient, but that I am. My inabilities and limitations tempt me to self-condemnation: I should be better; I am not good enough. Second, my pessimism is unlike Mr. Lewis' not only because mine is directed inward, but because it is something I have not outgrown. He would describe, or so I bet, his pessimism as rather adolescent. I am sure he would even see it as part of his adolescent "passion" or "lust" for the Occult. I am sure he discovered in himself a naïveté, formed in the imaginative play common to boys in solitude, that the universe was a magical place where young boys could attain mastery ("maistry", as Lewis suggests) as magicians, wizards, knights. In fact, I am quite confident he did discover that very thing, at least unconsciously, and that he would agree with what I've just written.
I, too, accepted this view of myself as a boy. I expected great things, even superpowers, of myself. In solitude I believed my knots would hold and that my aim was straight. I recall even believing I could will by sheer force of mind a heavy snowstorm resulting in a "snow day" in which school was canceled. Child that I was, there was just enough success to reinforce my illusions and just enough failure to ensure I'd delude myself that willpower and pride could attain perfection.
Interestingly, when I became a Christian; when I fully poured myself into the Faith, I brought with me this sense of the superman. Maybe it was not so much a sense of being a superman as it was of being a super sage, a sort of Christian wizard. I would attain and achieve. I would prosper. I would possess "maistry." Indeed, I really did believe that I could attain a level of spiritual invincibility where God -- my benevolent Father -- and my deep faith in His benevolence, could clear a path for my faithful feet broader than the dry lands the Israelites marched upon through the parted Red Sea.
And somehow, as St. Paul might argue, sin seized an opportunity. The fruits of faith for me began to turn sour. When thwarted I abused myself. When I stumbled I became my greatest scold. Pride cast its aspersions: What sort of fool have you become? This struggle is beneath you, you worthless clod. Look at how you flounder. Look at how others do not. See with what ease they live their lives? But you. You disgrace me.
This is not God or the universe speaking so unlovingly. It is my own soul. God is not shaking His head or wagging His finger. The universe is not out to get me; it is not, as Mr. Lewis suggested, "a menacing and unfriendly place." I am out to get me; I am an unfriendly place to myself.
I shall follow this installment of Contratimes with a tale of a knot. I intend to share this tale tomorrow. It is a fine tale about an extraordinary knot and the moment of atheism such a marvelous knot inspired. Of course I may not get to my tale as planned, since plans, especially as summer wanes, have a way of changing. But the hope is there, and where there is hope, well, there is everything.
Peace.
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