How helpful is the theology of Narnia really?

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‘Aslan is on the move!’

I still get chills every time I think of that line. It fills me with hope, and it makes me brave.

Like many Christians, I love the Narnia series, however unlike many Christians, I wasn’t bought up with it. I watched the movie ‘The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe’ when I was at university. And that was before I read the books as an adult.

There are some stellar theological metaphors in the world of Narnia. I really like the creation story told through the Magician’s Nephew, I love the movement of belief in The Horse and His Boy, and – like all of us – I adore the oversized, kind-but-not-safe Christ-type in the Lion, Aslan.

Then I come to Lewis’ theology of the atonement, and particularly the description of exactly what happens ‘in the tent’ between Aslan and Jadis in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, and that’s where I stump my toe.

There are more in-depth treatments of this, so I’ll be brief and just list off my main questions, and why I’d encourage youth leaders to not use this scene as a way of teaching the cross.

What is The Deep Magic?

Jadis, the devil figure, uses a concept called ‘the deep magic’ as a standard that she can hold Aslan to. Although Aslan says he was there when it was written, it is assumed that he is still bound by it in the same kind of ways that Jadis is.

This deep magic is therefore powerful, somehow ‘other’, and objectively outside of Aslan’s divinity or control. He can use his superior wisdom to navigate it, but he can’t manipulate, change, or exercise control over it. He has ‘to play by the rules’ even if those rules mean that Jadis could ultimately win.

This is very different to the language of the Bible which says it was the very image and character of God that guided God’s creation, not some outside order or form.

Further, this deep magic directly empowers Jadis. She says ‘You know that every traitor belongs to me as my lawful prey and that for every treachery I have a right to a kill… that human creature is mine. His life is forfeit to me. His blood is my property.’

The Devil, however, has no such rights. He is a fallen creature. He doesn’t decide when somebody dies, and we do not belong to him as property. Some of this comes from the Dante’s Inferno vision of Hell, where the Devil himself is ‘in charge’. This, however, is very different to the biblical picture of Hell, where the Devil is also being punished.

Lewis gets around this somewhat by suggesting there is something else at play. He says, ‘that though the Witch knew the Deep Magic, there is a magic deeper still which she did not know.’ But this is still problematic. It suggests that Aslan somehow outplayed or outwitted Jadis – and by extension, Jesus only won against the Devil in this apparent game of chess because he somehow hoodwinked or tricked his opponent.

Who’s in the tent?

Jadis approaches Aslan’s camp and demands Edmund as her rightful property. Aslan invites Jadis into his tent to discuss the situation. We assume that what happens in the tent is some kind of negotiation. Aslan wants to buy Edmund’s freedom back from Jadis (as her “rightful property”) and he offers payment – his life – in exchange for Edmund’s.

On the surface, that sounds like good gospel theology. Jesus paying for our lives with His – effectively buying us back. Ok, but who is He paying? Who is He buying us back from? This is the issue with overwriting a modern view of paying a person over the more traditional concept of paying a price.

Jesus paid the price for us – the value of our lives and eternal souls. He did not pay the Devil for us. In fact, the Devil has no place in this part of the story. He has no rights and no powers over our atonement. That is all Jesus.

Jadis should be nowhere near the tent! Jesus doesn’t negotiate deals with Satan. There’s nothing to be worked out with the Devil. He has no bargaining chip, and he’s not even at the table.

Owning a debt to Satan is a version of what’s known as the ‘ransom theory’ of atonement. This is a very old view of the cross (likely beginning with Origen) but one that has been widely rejected since. Today it’s only really held in fringe eastern traditions, or in very particular Pentecostal churches. Jesus, of course, did pay a ransom (Mk. 10:45; 1 Tim. 2:5-6), but it wasn’t to the Devil.

Jadis shouldn’t have been in the tent. So, who should have been?

If God’s negotiating with anyone – and I’m using the word ‘negotiating’ a little flippantly – it’s with us. He would have needed to work this out with Edmund. He is the one who should be in the tent. However, Edmund is the one who has been left outside.

Why is this important?

Is this just being pedantic with a kid’s story? Am I just poking at a Christian message that’s largely right and trying to do good? Not if we regularly point to this as a way of explaining the cross to our young people. It creates all kinds of confusion, and it leaves young people with a pretty weird set of theological values about God, the Devil, and our relationship with Jesus.

Much of this comes from a model of the atonement called ‘Christus Victor’ where the emphasis is placed upon Jesus’ victory over the Devil. There is lots to admire in this view, and Jesus is indeed victorious at the cross! However, in isolation, we end up with precisely the problems we have found in Lewis’s depiction of the tent.

This approach places the power of life and death, the requirement for payment, the responsibility for sin, and a frankly bewildering concept of negotiation with God – squarely into the hands of the Devil. He never had this power as an angel – why then would he get it as a fallen one?

The main problems, then, is it overpowers the Devil while simultaneously underpowering Jesus, underpowering God, and underpowering sin. It also impersonalises our relationship with Jesus and leaves us out in the cold.

Narnia as a world is a beautiful place, full of imagination and goodness. However, just because it was written by a fabulous Christian, that shouldn’t make it our de facto story for teaching about the cross.

 

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One of the worst pieces of advice I was ever given

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This is related to a post I put up a few weeks back on part of my journey with bullying when I worked for the Church of England. About ten years ago I decided to share some of this story of abuse with a Christian leader at a conference who was offering to talk and pray with people over exactly these kinds of stories.

When I mustered up the courage to go and talk to him, I felt so overcome that all I could get out was that I had worked previously for a church, and that they didn’t treat me very well. He did pray for me, very briefly and generically, and then said something before running off abruptly at the end which now on reflection, I realised was really not helpful at all.

He said, ‘Tim, I don’t think anyone is holding on to this now accept you.’

At first I tried to find that liberating. I tried to think that it gave me the power to fix it all by myself. Like my pain was in my hands. This is only a half-truth though. In reality, because of where I was in my journey, it just ended up making me feel even more isolated and alone. It made me feel like I was just being silly; that I must have been hanging on to the pain out of spite, and that I was over-victimising myself. I started to imagine just how ‘over it’ everyone else was and how little effect it had had on those who had hurt me. The worst of it was when it turned out that I couldn’t just let go, move on, or ‘fix it’, it just left me feeling more powerless, defensive, and afraid.

And that was the last time I ever asked for prayer for healing on this issue.

How we respond to stories like these matters. Empathy, active listening, compassion are all essential tools – and none of them take a degree in theology. We don’t have to have clever prophetic-sounding answers, just ears that listen and a heart that cares. When someone shares a story with us we should feel responsible not important.

This post is just to gently say take care in how you respond to people’s stories. They are precious things and often offered with great vulnerability.

 

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When did we stop cherishing children at play?

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Play is, in my opinion, an essential quality in a human being. It’s one of the ways that we learn to interact with people, to solve problems, to relive stress, and – most importantly – to discover something of the spark of the divine within us.

Play is a concept you can trace throughout world cultures and throughout history. It’s something hardwired into our DNA. It was designed for permanence.

The classic mantra of the grandparent is how they love to watch their grandchildren play outside their windows. Balls and bikes, hoops and skipping ropes, tag and chase. It comes with squawks of laughter, and it’s all obvious and clear to us what’s going on. It feels safe and ‘wholesome’.

Although it’s not though, is it? Let’s be clear that when we see balls and hoops, they see interdimensional space portals, and mysterious relics recovered from dark dungeons. We see push bikes; they see rocket ships. Imagination is always at work, and we’re always at least one step detached from what they’re doing.

There’s something in the play of a child that is in unfamiliar or indecipherable to us. And that’s because play is primarily theirs. If we want to understand it better, we don’t just watch, but we ask to join in! First though, we need to recognise what they’re doing as play.

Is screen time play?

Which brings me to screen-based play, particularly phones and computer games. It’s become very natural for us to view young people and screens with immediate suspicion. We see this kind of play as not really play at all. And that’s troubling.

Even if we don’t approve, understand, appreciate, enjoy, or like them playing on a screen, that is part of what screen time is about for a young person. Screens mean a lot of things, but one of them is play. One quarter of all apps are games, and almost half of all smartphone usage is gameplay.

Play on screens – as isolating as it looks – tends to be hugely communal. Screens mean networks, which means people, which means society, which – can – mean community, and friends and relationships. Play on a screen today is often immensely interactive, from live chat, to shared exploring and problem-solving, to even something as simple as leader boards.

Play on a screen can also be an absolute feast for imaginations. There are so many possibilities and such potential for wonder in these experiences. Game developers are always looking to add to the whimsy and creativity – as well as add to the ability to share the experience with others.

I get it, it’s scary, and in isolation too much screen time truly is unhealthy. But young people, at least to some degree, are truly engaging with play online. There are toys, and games, and imagination rolling around the digital gardens. We perhaps should try to look on playing young people today with a similar joy and cherishing as we do when we see them with bikes and balls.

I believe kids need to play, and they do need to play physical games with sticks and balls, outside, stretching their muscles and learning to dodge and weave. But play should not be limited to purely what we can understand.

Full disclosure, I kinda wish screen-time wasn’t really a thing. Sure. I like to build stuff with young people, and to play classic games with them. I think that’s good for them too – and is becoming rarer. But I can share that with them and offer them it’s joys without being dark and suspicious with the play that they know.

Start with real interest and joy, seek to understand, and help to keep your young people on their screens safe and wise. Then maybe ask to join in the game occasionally – then maybe we’ll start to cherish watching them play all over again.

 

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‘You can’t say anything anymore!’ Ok, but should you?

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“Its political correctness gone mad!” he said. “You can’t say anything without offending anyone these days. Generation of sissy-ass snowflakes!”

Hmmmm.

We could look at this idea from the point of view of ‘rights vs responsivities’ (spoiler, you don’t get to pick one for yourself and the other for everyone else). Or we could look this from the perspective of the amorphous concept of ‘freedom’ (or as it’s often understood, my God-given right to do whatever I feel like regardless of others). Nope, this isn’t either of those posts – this is a post about James 3 and ‘the tongue.’

The tongue is a pretty wacky thing to start off with. Did you know that the tongue is not a muscle, it’s eight muscles! That the little bumps aren’t actually tastebuds – they contain them. How about the fact that there are almost as many tongues in the world as there are people? I know, right! Mind blown.

The tongue has also been demonstrably the biggest natural disaster known to humankind. More death and destruction have followed words than any action in history. In our day, the internet has provided a monstrous amplifier to the common tongue. Words steer the world.

This would be why James 3:3 likens the tongue to the control of a horse, and v.4 to the guiding of a ship, and v.5 to the spark that begins a forest fire.

The tongue is immensely powerful.

It needs to be turned (v.3), steered (v.4), and tamed (vv. 7-8). All these metaphors assume training, difficulty, effort, time, and struggle. They need help, guidance, and growing maturity. There’s no sense of ‘say what you want and let other people’s ears do the hard work.’

And there’s the problem: We too easily shift the responsibility from our tongues to others’ ears. From our words to their interpretations. From our ‘rights’ to their ‘just deal with it.’ From which part of James 3 did we get this? And at what point did we decide that the call to serve others in love – even to extreme measures and personal discomforts – doesn’t apply to what we say?

You have a right to remain silent

Let’s shift this a step further by looking at the beginning of James 3.

There seems to be an view that if one has an opinion (however ill-informed, fresh, infantile, broken, or offensive – I could even add racist, sexist, abusive, disruptive, or destructive), then one has a responsibility to verbalise that opinion. It’s seen as boldness and honesty to share, and censorship, or a removal of freedoms to not.

Why?

Freedom is the ability to do something, not the necessity. And freedom to do whatever we want, we would do well to remember, is exactly what Christ laid aside – along with His life – for the good of others. As of course did Peter, Paul, and many throughout history.

It’s almost like Paul knew we would struggle with this when in Gal. 5 he says our freedom should be used to serve one another in love (v.13-15).

James 3 begins with a stern warning to teachers – that they will be judged more strictly because of the immense power that words have. The word teacher here means to train and instruct verbally. In ancient Greek texts beyond the New Testament, it was used for those who demonstrate ideas through informed, educated, well-presented oratory, drama and poetry.

It’s not just that not many should be teachers (v.1), but not many can be. Teaching comes with the element of passing on information, sure, but it also comes with a second element. That is to lovingly serve, guide, and protect those who hear.

Teachers are called to lovingly serve, guide, and protect those who hear – not just from others, but from their own tongue.

It’s this second point that I think we miss. Teachers need to develop huge amounts of compassion, empathy, self-awareness, and care. Not many should be teachers.

By assuming our opinion needs by right to be voiced to others, regardless of the consequences, is assuming we are called to be a teacher. Then it’s assuming that the second part of classical teaching – that’s the duty of care over the listener – simply doesn’t apply to us.

That’s pretty arrogant right?

As someone who feels called to be a teacher, and has spent more than half my life working hard on it, and by God’s grace have made some small progress, I feel huge amounts of resentment at those who just dive in with some assumed right to do so. This is especially true when the duty of care for others is so causally tossed aside.

But, but… the snowflakes?

I don’t buy into this idea that this generation gets more easily offended than others. Honestly, I find that silly. I work with a lot of young people, and I have for the last fifteen years. I have been much more likely to offend older than younger people, and I don’t think that says anything either.

This is certainly a more amplified and visible generation, but that doesn’t mean they get hurt more or more easily. In fact, there’s quite a few reasons to see this as a surprisingly resilient generation, but maybe we’ll save that for another time.

James 3 ends with the writer importing us to use wisdom for the good of others. To lead a good life known through its humility (v.13). It’s this wisdom that is pure, peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy, good fruit, impartial and sincere (v.17). This is all other-people focused.

Is your freedom to speak important? Sure – use it to build one another up in love (1 Thess. 5:11). Should you speak with boldness? Yea – to share the gospel (Acts 4:24-30), fight injustice (Is. 1:17), and stand for those who can’t stand for themselves (Ps. 82:3).

The call is to build up, not tear down. To edify, not demonise. To help people walk, not just insist that they drag themselves up by their bootstraps while we’re simultaneously stepping on them.

Don’t be so easily offended by those who are offended. Approach them in love. Ask to hear their story. Lead with compassion, selflessness, and mercy, and then ask the Holy Spirit to inhabit your words to them.

We’ll all be better off.

 

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