The problem of the human heart

Sin in The Chronicles of Narnia

My father-in-law and I used to disagree about dictionaries. He believed that the dictionary told you how words should be pronounced-- that it was prescriptive. Thus he would pronounce the word Trafalgar as Trafalgar because that's the way the dictionary--his dictionary anyway--said you should pronounce it. I believed (and still believe) that the dictionary is merely descriptive--it tells you how the majority of people choose to pronounce a certain word at a point in history. Dictionary compilers simply listen in on conversations and record what they hear. I have no doubt that, at one time, many people may have said Trafalgar, but if you are in London today and want to find the National Gallery, I would not advise you to ask the taxi driver for Trafalgar Square. You will probably get a very strange look.

In the same way, if you want to know what “sin” means, don't go to the dictionary in the first place. The dictionary will certainly tell you how the word is used in conversation in the world in general. Thus the Oxford English Dictionary is typical in informing me that sin means “transgression of the divine law.” Certainly “transgressing the divine law” is part of how the word is used in the Christian community, but it is by no means the whole truth. In fact, singling out this one dimension of sin can actually distort our understanding of the full reality. The Pharisees were very conscientious about not transgressing divine law, yet they come in for the harshest criticism from Jesus! Sin is not just about God’s law and transgressing it. There is far more to it than that.
If we want to know what the word means for Christians, there is no better way to find out that to listen in on Christian stories. Among the many Christian writings of C.S.Lewis, The Chronicles of Narnia have perhaps had the most lasting appeal. Out of the heart of these stories comes an understanding of “sin” (and of other Christian beliefs) a hundred times more helpful than anything a dictionary could ever offer.
THE LION, THE WITCH AND THE WARDROBE: sin as betrayal

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.” (Mark 12:30)

There is one fundamental point about sin which The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe makes clear. Sin is not in the first place just a matter of wrong actions, “transgressing divine law”: sin is primarily an attitude of the heart towards our Creator, an attitude which says “No” to God.

The four Pevensie children, Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy, are staying for the summer in an old house owned by an elderly and eccentric professor. There Lucy, the youngest, discovers that she can enter the magical world of Narnia through an old wardrobe. Shortly afterwards, her brother Edmund follows her lead, but in Narnia he meets the White Witch, the illegitimate ruler of Narnia, who ensures that it is “always winter but never Christmas.”¹ The Witch, who is aware of ancient prophecies foretelling her destruction at the hands of four human children, immediately begins to seduce Edmund into being her ally with simple temptations such as Turkish Delight:

The Queen knew . . . though Edmund did not, that this was enchanted Turkish Delight and that anyone who had tasted it would want more and more of it, and would even, if they were allowed, go on eating it till they killed themselves. ²

There is little subtlety about her temptations. Having appealed to his greed, she then appeals quite transparently to his pride:

“I want a nice boy whom I could bring up as a Prince and who would be King of Narnia when I am gone. While he was Prince he would wear a gold crown and eat Turkish Delight all day long; and you are much the cleverest and handsomest young man I've ever met.” ³

Edmund begins to surrender. In a sense it is true to say that he “transgresses divine law” concerning pride and greed, yet the more important question is that of loyalty: whose side is Edmund on? The answer is clear when he returns to this world and Lucy warns him that the White Witch is evil. For Edmund the wonderful memory of Turkish Delight overrules the danger signals: “[h]e was already more than half on the side of the Witch.” ⁴

To be on the side of the Witch, however, is to be on the side of evil and against good. Shortly afterwards, when all four children have entered Narnia, they hear for the first time about Aslan, the Christ-figure in the books, “the King of the whole wood and the son of the great Emperor-beyond-the-Sea . . . the great Lion.”⁵ What is revealing is how the mention of Aslan affects each child differently:

At the name of Aslan each one of them felt something jump in its inside. Edmund felt a sensation of mysterious horror. Peter suddenly felt brave and adventurous. Susan felt as if some delicious smell or some delightful strain of music had just floated up to her. And Lucy got the feeling you have when you wake up in the morning and realize that it is the beginning of the holidays or the beginning of summer.⁶

Each child already has an internal disposition either to be drawn to Aslan or to be repelled by him: the mention of the name brings to the surface something which was previously only implicit.⁷ Edmund is the only one of the four who reacts negatively to the name. The reason is obvious: he has already turned away from the light and given his allegiance to the Witch--and it has affected him deeply. As Mr. Beaver observes:

He had the look of one who has been with the Witch and eaten her food. You can always tell them if you’ve lived long in Narnia; something about their eyes.⁸

Who we give our ultimate loyalty to, however, affects every other loyalty and every other relationship. Edmund’s turning away from Aslan means that his other relationships are twisted and off-kilter. For instance, he finds himself distanced from the other children. He imagines that it is they who have changed, but in fact it is he who has changed. Instead of being involved in the adventure, like the others, he is more concerned about himself and what the others think of him:

He kept on thinking that the others were taking no notice of him and trying to give him the cold shoulder. They weren’t, but he imagined it.⁹

This theme of self--what I think of myself and how others perceive me--is one that will recur throughout these books.

Perhaps the saddest thing about Edmund’s defection, however, is that it fails to bring him the satisfaction it promised. This, in fact, is a another theme which surfaces from time to time in the Narnia stories: sin promises joy but fails to deliver it, while Aslan frequently invites people to hardship, yet they find joy on the other side of trials. Thus when Edmund goes to tell the Witch that he has brought his siblings into Narnia:

Edmund . . . expected that the witch would start being nice to him . . .But she said nothing at all. And when at last Edmund plucked up his courage to say, “Please, your Majesty, could I have some Turkish Delight? You—you—said--” she answered, “Silence, fool!”¹⁰

Sin, in the sense of loyalty to anyone other than the Creator, lets us down and does not fulfill its promise--any more than the serpent fulfilled its promise to Adam and Eve.¹¹ As with the runaway son in Jesus’ most famous parable¹², however, Edmund’s disillusionment actually brings about the beginning of a change in him:

All the things he had said to make himself believe that she was good and kind and that her side was really the right side sounded to him silly now. ¹³
If sin were merely “transgressing the law,” Edmund’s salvation could have been brought about quite simply by his giving up Turkish Delight. The heart of the problem, however, is much deeper than that--his betrayal of Aslan--and so his restoration requires first of all a change in his relationship to Aslan. Thus, when they meet face to face, Edmund and Aslan have a conversation whose contents we are never told, although it was “a conversation which Edmund never forgot.”¹⁴ A restored relationship with Aslan then leads to restored relationships with others. Edmund apologizes to his brother and sisters:

Edmund shook hands with each of the others and said to each of them in turn, “I’m sorry” and everyone said, “That’s all right.” ¹⁵

The change in Edmund, therefore, is not in the first place from being a nasty person to being a nice person: it is a change in fundamental loyalty, from being the Witch’s servant to being the Lion’s servant. In a moving cameo, as the Witch begins to accuse him of his wrongdoing, he does not attempt to defend himself. Instead:

Edmund had got past thinking about himself . . .He just went on looking at Aslan. It didn’t seem to matter what the Witch said.¹⁶

What he thinks of himself, or indeed what others may think of him, is no longer relevant. That was the mark of someone out of relationship with Aslan. What is important now is his new allegiance to the king.

In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, then, there is a distinction between “sin” and “sins.” “Sins” are those transgressions of divine law which are the focus of the dictionary definition: Edmund’s lust for Turkish Delight, his desire to be a prince and to lord it over his siblings. For Lewis, however, these are merely the symptoms of a much deeper disease, a disease of the heart. This is “sin”—an attitude of life, a mindset, a heartset if you like--which is opposed to the reign of Aslan in Aslan’s world. The cure is to become a subject of the true king--but that is very costly, both for the rebel and for the king. For the rebel, it requires him to lay down his arms. For the king, it costs him his life. We will return to this later.

If sin is failing to give Aslan our allegiance, the question then arises, why should we give our allegiance to Aslan? After all, our society says things like:

“Be your own person.”

“You decide what is true.”

“Believe whatever you like.”

“You choose what is right and wrong for you.”

“Don’t let anyone boss you around.”

The whole concept of obeying a higher authority has been socially unacceptable since the 1960’s. This theme of “who’s the boss?” is a useful question to bear in mind in reading The Magician’s Nephew. This story takes us back to the beginning of Narnia and tells of its creation in a way that deliberately parallels the Bible’s story of the creation of our world.

Uncle Andrew is an interesting creation. C.S. Lewis creates him in such a way that much of his outlook on life sounds perfectly normal and right to our ears. For example, he is involved in an important experiment: we understand that experiments are necessary. He believes he can decide for himself what is right and wrong: many would agree. He likes to make his own decisions: that is fundamental to western democracies. He is practical: nobody wants to be accused of being impractical. He is willing to make sacrifices for greater ends: we admire people like that. All these things sound perfectly reasonable.

Yet as the story unfolds, it becomes clear that Uncle Andrew's outlook on life is totally inadequate. His experiment and his desire for power mean that everything else in his world becomes secondary, whether relationships or beauty, honour or goodness. His experiment causes him to behave callously towards both people and animals. His vision of the world, which really centres on himself, means that he cannot acknowledge anything greater than himself. He gives himself away when explaining to Digory what is involved in being an inventor:

“Men like me, who possess hidden wisdom, are freed from the common rules just as we are cut off from common pleasures.” ¹⁸

He has a sense of belonging to an elite, and of having access to knowledge that no-one else has. He believes that rules, at least the “common” rules, do not apply to him. And he makes noble sacrifices for his art, giving up “common pleasures.” He explains that he learned his art from his fairy godmother, and adds, revealingly:

“She had got to dislike ordinary, ignorant people, you understand. I do myself.”¹⁹

In other words, he has forgotten that he too is an “ordinary”, “common” human being like other ordinary, common human beings. Nor should we be too impressed by his giving up of “common pleasures”: that can be just as sinful as to be free of responsibilities. Both imply pride and independence, and a rejection of God's good gifts. Digory, however, manages to see through him:

As [Andrew] said this he sighed and looked so grave and noble and mysterious that for a second Digory really thought he was saying something rather fine. But then he remembered the ugly look he had seen on his Uncle's face . . . “All it means,” he said to himself, “is that he thinks he can do anything he likes to get anything he wants.”²⁰

expression of an mindset we have already met in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, an attitude of independence from the Creator. In a word, Andrew is a sinner.

The problem with failing to give allegiance to Aslan is that we immediately come to think that we are more important then we really are--indeed, to think of ourselves as God in some sense. This, after all, was the essence of the very first temptation: “you will be like God.”²² Human beings can be very good at being human beings: they are not created to bear the weight of being God. ²³

Not surprisingly, it is the coming of Aslan which shows up the hollowness of Uncle Andrew. His world has been entirely constructed around himself. So when Aslan appears, singing into being a new world of colour and beauty and vitality, the children love it, but Uncle Andrew hates it:

the two children had open mouths and shining eyes; they were drinking in the sound . . . Uncle Andrew's mouth was open too, but not open with joy. He looked more as if his chin had simply dropped away from the rest of his face. His shoulders were stooped and his knees shook. He was not liking the Voice.²⁴

The coming of Aslan, after all, challenges the reality of everything Andrew has built his life on. His view of the newborn Narnia, not surprisingly, is practical²⁵ and utilitarian: how can he use this world to make himself rich and powerful?

“Something might be made of this country. . . . If only we'd had guns. . . . Columbus, now, they talk about Columbus. But what was America to this? The commercial possibilities of this country are unbounded. . . . I shall be a millionaire. . . . The first thing is to get that brute shot. . . . There's no telling how long I might live if I lived here.”²⁶

Aslan, on the other hand, has a totally different outlook. His first speech to the inhabitants of Narnia makes this clear:

“Creatures, I give you yourselves,” said the strong, happy voice of Aslan. “I give to you forever this land of Narnia. I give you the woods, the fruits, the rivers. I give you the stars and I give you myself. The Dumb Beasts whom I have not chosen are yours also. Treat them gently and cherish them but do not go back to their ways lest you cease to be talking Beasts. For out of them you were taken and into them you can return. Do not so.”²⁷
Here is the opposite of sin. Aslan speaks of giving (five times in three lines); Uncle Andrew thinks only of getting. Aslan speaks of caring for those weaker than oneself; Uncle Andrew sees the weak as serving the interests of the powerful. Aslan speaks of cherishing; Uncle Andrew speaks of using. Aslan warns of the danger of becoming less than one is created to be; Andrew wants to be more than he was created to be.

What is Andrew to do? In order to maintain the self-centred world he has constructed, and to resist the new spirit of love and self-giving which derives from Aslan, he is driven to desperate measures. He has to find a way to deny this new reality Aslan is creating. He needs a way of understanding it and living in it which allows him to maintain his self-centredness. He finds himself forced to distort the reality of what he is experiencing:

[T]he longer and more beautifully the Lion sang, the harder Uncle Andrew tried to make himself believe that he could hear nothing but roaring. Now the trouble about trying to make yourself stupider than you really are is that you very often succeed. Uncle Andrew did. He soon did hear nothing but roaring in Aslan's song. Soon he couldn't have heard anything else even if he had wanted to.²⁸

As Lewis comments:

what you see and hear depends a good deal on where you are standing: it also depends on what sort of person you are.²⁹
All of us create our own interpretations of the world. God has given us the freedom and responsibility to do that. Yet, at the same time, we want as far as possible to be true to the world “out there” as we perceive it, and to be upfront about our limitations and our biases. This is what Lewis means when he says our view of the world depends on “where you are standing” and “what sort of person you are.” Andrew is a self-centred, power-hungry person, and therefore his perception of the world of Narnia is twisted by that internal bias. Sin always warps our perception of truth.

As a result, Andrew cannot afford to believe what is happening around him. He finds himself terrified of the newly-created Talking Animals, and becomes a figure of fun as they try to work out whether he is animal, vegetable or mineral. Polly asks Aslan to do something to rescue him from the humiliation, but Aslan explains:

“I cannot comfort him . . . he has made himself unable to hear my voice. If I spoke to him, he would hear only growlings and roarings. Oh Adam's sons, how cleverly you defend yourself against all that might do you good!”³⁰

Aslan gives him “the only gift he is still able to receive him”--the gift of sleep—and Andrew returns to our world, chastened:

Uncle Andrew never tried any Magic again as long as he lived. He had learned his lesson, and in his old age he became a nicer and less selfish old man than he had ever been before.³¹

Aslan’s comment, “[H]ow cleverly you defend yourselves against all that might do you good” is one that is explored more fully in the other Narnia books.³² For the moment, let us note that Aslan’s purpose for Andrew (as for everyone else) is to give joy. The children and other visitors to Narnia find joy, but Andrew defends himself against such a disturbing gift.

In The Voyage of the Dawntreader, we see more of what sin can do to people, and more of what it takes to be redeemed and to find that joy.
THE VOYAGE OF THE DAWNTREADER: becoming what we choose

If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new. (2 Corinthians 5:17)

The central character, though not exactly the hero, of The Voyage of the Dawntreader is Eustace Clarence Scrubb. Edmund and Lucy, from the first book in the series, are his cousins, and have come to stay for the summer. We learn quickly what kind of person Eustace is:

Eustace Clarence liked animals, especially beetles, if they were dead and pinned on a card. . . . [D]eep down inside him he liked bossing and bullying . . . [H]e knew that here are dozens of ways to give people a bad time if you are in your own home and they are only visitors. He liked books if they were books of information and had pictures of grain elevators. ³³

Like Uncle Andrew, Eustace is clearly of a practical turn of mind. Books are there as sources of information. Beetles are best when dead and as objects of study. School is about getting marks: “though he didn't care much about any subject for its own sake, he cared a great deal about marks.”³⁴

The three children are magically whisked onto the deck of the Dawntreader, a Narnian ship sailing in search of seven lost lords. Naturally, Eustace hates it. For one thing, he:

kept on boasting about liners and motor-boats and aeroplanes and submarines.³⁶

After a severe storm, they arrive at an island where they can find fresh drinking water and repair the ship. Eustace, wanting to avoid anything resembling hard work, slips off into the hills by himself for a rest. He comes by chance on the cave of a dragon at the point of death. He takes shelter from a storm in the dragon’s cave, now vacant, and finds it filled with treasure. This should not have surprised him, but, of course:

Eustace had read only the wrong books. They had a lot to say about exports and imports and governments and drains, but they were weak on dragons. ³⁷

When he awakes, he discovers to his horror that he has been transformed into a dragon:

Sleeping on a dragon's hoard with greedy, dragonish thoughts in his heart, he had become a dragon himself.³⁸
For Lewis, our choices make us who we are. If we make selfish choices, we will become selfish people. If we make generous choices, we become generous people. ³⁹ In the case of Eustace, the self that he has become has taken on a vivid outward expression, almost a metaphor for the state of his heart—he is a dragon outwardly as well as inwardly.

The shock of this transformation begins a change in Eustace.⁴⁰ He discovers that:

[h]e wanted to be among friends. He wanted to get back among humans and talk and laugh and share things. He realized he was a monster cut off from the whole human race. An appalling loneliness came over him. He began to see that the others had not really been fiends. He began to wonder if he himself had been such a nice person as he had always supposed. He longed for their voices.⁴¹

The others cannot decide what they will do with Eustace the dragon when they are ready to set sail. For Eustace, this comes to symbolize what a misfit he had chosen to be before:

Poor Eustace realized more and more that since the first day he came on board he had been an unmitigated nuisance and that he was now a greater nuisance still.⁴²

This is not the end of Eustace’s lesson, however. It is one thing to realise how we have sinned, but it is quite another to be able to change. And this Eustace cannot bring about for himself. Late one night, he meets Aslan, who leads him, still in dragon form, to a well in a garden on top of a mountain. There Eustace wants to bathe but “the lion told me I must undress first.” He scratches himself and finds that his dragon skin comes off. Underneath, however, he finds another dragon skin, and then another and yet another. When he finally despairs, Aslan tells him: “You will have to let me undress you.” Aslan tears away the dragon skin completely, tearing so deeply “that I thought it had gone right into my heart.” As a result, “it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt.” Aslan then throws Eustace into the water, and he finds to his delight, “I'd turned into a boy again.” ⁴³

It is a recurring theme of Narnia, that sin reduces our humanity. Frequently, the wrong-doers in Narnia are called “beasts” or “beastly.” Certainly this was a common term of reproach in the England of Lewis’ time, yet it takes on a darker significance in this context. There is something about sin—being out of touch with our Creator--which has a tendency to make us less human.⁴⁴ In the case of Eustace, that lack of humanity takes a particularly dramatic visual form. But the converse is equally striking, that to be brought out of sin--to be restored to relationship with God--is not to be made peculiar or superhuman or (worst of all) “religious,” but merely to recover one's full humanity. If one asks, “why is sin wrong?” in Narnia at least, it is because sin keeps us from being fully human.

In this life, however, sin is never fully dealt with. The disease—our separation from God—may be dealt with, but the symptoms continue. This is certainly true of Eustace. Lewis comments shrewdly:

It would be nice, and fairly true, to say that “from that time forth Eustace was a different boy.” To be strictly accurate, he began to be a different boy. He had relapses. There were still many days when he could be very tiresome. But most of these I shall not notice. The cure had begun.⁴⁵
PRINCE CASPIAN and THE SILVER CHAIR: sin as disobedience

“Whoever knows what is right for him to do and does not do it, for him

If the books considered above deal primarily with those who are not servants of Aslan, and how they come to be changed, these two—Prince Caspian and The Silver Chair—focus more on the struggles of those who are already of the Lion’s company. As Lewis said of Eustace, “the cure had begun” but it had certainly not ended. In particular, these two books tell stories about following Aslan, both how it is difficult and how it is rewarding. They also speak about the role of sin in the life of the Christian.

In Prince Caspian, the four Pevensie children have been magicked from our world into Narnia once again, this time to come to the aid of Prince Caspian, the rightful king of Narnia, who is being besieged by the superior army of his uncle, the usurper King Miraz. First, however, they have to find Caspian.

At one point as they are travel towards Caspian’s camp, they come to the edge of a deep gorge, at the bottom of which is a river. It is not clear whether they should turn to right or left, but various factors incline them to think that right, down the hill, is the more direct. The oldest, Peter, concludes: “Come on, then. Down this side of the gorge.” But before they can begin:

"Look! Look! Look!" cried Lucy.

"Where? What?" asked everyone.

"The Lion," said Lucy. "Aslan himself. Didn't you see?" Her face had changed completely and her eyes shone.⁴⁶

Aslan indicates to Lucy that they should go “up, not down. Just the opposite of the way you want to go.” Of course, nobody else has seen Aslan at this point (Lucy always seemed to have the closest bond with him⁴⁷), and the majority vote to go with “common sense,” against Lucy's advice, and to move down the gorge. God’s commands—to love our neighbour as ourselves, to forgive our enemies, to confess our sins—seldom seem like common sense.

The one exception to the vote against Lucy is Edmund, who says, “speaking quickly and turning a little red”:

“When we first discovered Narnia . . . it was Lucy who discovered it first and none of us would believe her. I was the worst of the lot, I know. Yet she was right after all. Wouldn't it be fair to believe her this time? I vote for going up.”⁴⁸

But Edmund is in the minority, so they set off, with Lucy the “last of the party, crying bitterly.”⁴⁹ Going down the gorge, however, as we might have guessed, only leads them into an ambush set by Miraz’ troops, and they have to retrace their steps uphill, hot, tired and thirsty, wasting energy and valuable time. That night, once again, Aslan appears to Lucy, and once again she has to try to persuade the others to follow her as she follows Aslan.

“Will the others see you too?” asked Lucy.

“Certainly not at first,” said Aslan. “Later on, it depends.”

“But they won't believe me!” said Lucy.

“It doesn't matter,” said Aslan.⁵⁰

Not surprisingly, it is Edmund who takes the lead this time in determining to follow Lucy, and thus it is Edmund who is the first to see that Aslan is indeed ahead of them on the path.

Halfway down the path Edmund caught up with [Lucy]. “Look!” he said in great excitement. “Look! What's that great shadow crawling down in front of us?” “It's his shadow,” said Lucy. “I do believe you're right, Lu,” said Edmund. “I can't think how I didn't see it before.”

We, however, can easily think why Edmund couldn't see. In the world of faith, it is not that seeing causes believing, but rather that believing--and following what we believe--leads to seeing. It is a common mistake to think that “normal” people believe only what they see, whereas religious people somehow believe without the benefit of sight. The fact is that nobody believes only what they see. Even the conviction that “seeing is believing” is itself a statement of faith which could never be proved. Everybody’s “seeing” is governed by what they believe. Thus if a person decides to be an atheist (a position of faith), they will see the world in a particular way. A person who decides to be a Zen Buddhist will see the world in quite a different way. And so on. For Edmund, his commitment to follow Aslan means that slowly he comes to see the reality of Aslan. Sight follows believing, not the other way round. For Uncle Andrew in The Magician’s Nephew, lack of belief meant he could not hear Aslan.⁵¹ For Edmund, belief means he can see Aslan. Our senses do not give us absolute truth: they are often controlled by what we choose to believe or not to believe.

[R]emember, remember, remember the signs. Say them to yourself when you wake in the morning and when you lie down at night, and when you wake in the middle of the night. And whatever strange things happen to you, let nothing turn your mind from following the signs.⁵³

They could think about nothing but beds and baths and hot meals and how lovely it would be to get indoors. They never talked about Aslan or even about the lost prince now. And Jill gave up her habit of repeating the over signs to herself every night and morning.⁵⁴

Jesus warned of the danger to those “who hear the word, but the cares of the world, and the lure of wealth, and the desire for other things come in and choke the word, and it yields nothing.”⁵⁵ In Jill and Eustace’s case, it seems to be the lure of soft beds and hot baths which choke the memory of the word.

It is Puddleglum, the real hero of this story, who remembers the importance of the clues:

“Are you still sure of those signs, Pole? What's the one we ought to be after now?”

“Oh, come on! Bother the signs,” said Pole. . . .

Puddleglum's question annoyed her because, deep down inside her, she was already annoyed with herself for not knowing the Lion's lesson quite so well as she felt she ought to have known it.⁵⁶
As a result, they walk straight past the next clue in their hurry to arrive at Harfang before the gates close and they are shut out for the night. Having been welcomed by the giants, they go to bed. During the night, however, Aslan appears to Jill and shows her from her bedroom window the clue they missed. Eustace learned during the voyage of the Dawntreader the lesson of dealing with past sins, and is quick to confess where he went wrong:

“The truth is . . . we were so jolly keen on getting to this place that we weren't bothering about anything else. . . . We must just own up. We've only four signs and we've muffed the first three.” ⁵⁷

The castle, of course, far from being the haven they had expected, turns out to be a death trap: the giants regard human beings as a delicacy for the forthcoming Autumn Feast. The luxury the Queen of the Underworld promised meant death; the hardship that came with obeying Aslan meant life. They manage to escape from the giants. They cannot put the clock back and undo their disobedience, however: no-one can know what might have happened, but “anyone can find out what will happen”, as Aslan tells Lucy on another occasion.⁵⁸ And what does happen is that they are able to redeem their mistake and to find Prince Rilian.

The theme of difficult obedience takes a further turn when the three finally find the prince. While he is under an evil enchantment, the prince tells them that a fit comes over him at night, so that every night he is bound to a silver chair. He warns that they might be tempted to untie him, but that whatever he says, however he pleads, they should not do so. Of course, he says this while enchanted. The truth is that the queen wants him to be restrained at night because that is when he is himself, and it is she who has taught him the opposite. As a result, that night, while he is bound to the chair and free of the enchantment, he pleads with them to release him . . . in the name of Aslan. What are they to do? The fourth clue was:

you will know the lost prince . . . by this, that he will be the first person you have met in your travels who will ask you to do something in my name, in the name of Aslan.”⁵⁹

Yet they cannot be sure which persona of the prince is the true one. If the warning the prince gave them during the day is true, then releasing him from the silver chair will mean certain death.

“Oh, if only we knew,” said Jill.

“I think we do know,” said Puddleglum.

What he knows is that the choice is not between safety and danger. The real choice is between obedience and disobedience, and as far as Puddleglum is concerned, that is no choice at all:

“Do you mean everything will come right if we untie him?” said Scrubb.

“I don't know about that,” said Puddleglum. “You see, Aslan didn't tell Pole what would happen. He only told her what to do. That fellow will be the death of us once he’s up, I shouldn't wonder. But that doesn't let us off following the sign.” ⁶⁰
Puddleglum understands rightly that obedience to Aslan never guarantees safety or happiness. But it is the right thing to do, because he is the king.⁶¹ In fact, their gamble pays off: they free Prince Rilian and together the four of them return to Narnia. Puddleglum’s insight remains valid, however: obedience is right because of who gives the command, not because the outcome is certain. Anything less is sin.
THE HORSE AND HIS BOY: sin as pride

Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought to think . . . (Romans 12:3)

Pride has the reputation of being the worst of sins.⁶² Lewis says this:

According to Christian teachers, the essential vice, the utmost evil, is Pride. Unchastity, anger, greed, drunkenness, and all that, are mere fleabites in comparison: it was through Pride that the devil became the devil: Pride leads to every other vice: it is the complete anti-God state of mind.⁶³

Ultimately, pride is the desire of human beings to put themselves in the place of God. When it is translated into the context of human relationships, pride becomes the desire to make ourselves more important than we really are, usually at the expense of others.

Shasta is the adopted son of a poor fisherman. One day a proud and powerful knight or Tarkaan stays at his house, and that night Shasta overhears the Tarkaan and the fisherman haggling over the price for which he might be sold into slavery. He discovers that the Tarkaan’s horse, Bree, is a talking horse—a thing unknown in the country of Calormen though common enough in Narnia, the land to the north. They decide to escape together to Narnia and freedom. On the way, hunting lions force them to link up with another talking horse, Hwin, and her rider, a young and proud Tarkheena named Aravis. The book tells of their adventures on the way to Narnia.

Through living in Calormen, “hiding my true nature and pretending to be dumb and witless like their horses,”⁶⁴ Bree has become proud. Like most proud people, however, one result of his pride is that he is worried about how he appears to others,⁶⁵ and the thought of returning to Narnia, where he will not be familiar with the protocol, worries him. What about rolling on his back, for example, which he loves?

“You don’t think, do you,” said Bree, “that it might be a thing talking horses never do—a silly, clownish trick I’ve learned from the dumb ones? It would be dreadful to find, when I get back to Narnia, that I’ve picked up a lot of low, bad habits.”⁶⁶

When the group have to pass through the city of Tashbaan, the horses have to be made to look like work horses, not the war horses they really are. Hwin is merely practical about the matter, but:

“My dear madam,” said Bree. “Have you pictured to yourself how very disagreeable it would be to arrive in Narnia in that condition?”

“Well,” said Hwin humbly (she was a very sensible mare), “the main thing is to get there.” ⁶⁷

This a very revealing exchange. For Bree, to arrive looking bedraggled would be “disagreeable.” What he really means is that he would give a bad first

impression, whereas he wants to be seen for the fine stallion he believes he is.⁶⁸ Hwin, on the other hand, speaks “humbly” because she is “sensible”: this is a hint of what Lewis will later explain as his understanding of humility.

The denouement of the story comes as they approach Narnia, just ahead of an attacking Calormene army headed by Prince Rabadash. A lion pursues them and leaps at Aravis. Shasta jumps from Bree’s back to help in whatever way he can, but Bree continues to gallop for safety. The lion:

jabbed at Aravis with its right paw. Shasta could see all the terrible claws extended. Aravis screamed and reeled in the saddle. The lion was tearing her shoulders.⁶⁹

Shasta manages to drive the lion back and they all reach safety. But the experience has been a revelation (literally: it has revealed things they did not know before) for each of them, particularly for Aravis and Bree. Bree, in particular, realises that he is not the brave war horse he has believed himself to be up to this point:

“I who called myself a war-horse and boasted of a hundred fights, to be beaten by a little human boy—a child, a mere foal, who had never held a sword nor had any good nurture or example in his life!”⁷⁰

In fact, he is so embarrassed by his failure to defend Hwin and Aravis that he feels he is no longer worthy of Narnia and wants to return to Calormen to live as a slave. Aravis, showing spiritual insight, says:

“I think it would be better to stay and say we're sorry than to go back to Calormen.”⁷¹

In some ways, Aravis’ proposal is the more costly one. Bree could stay in Calormen as a slave and nobody would ever have to know of his humiliation except himself.

“I’ve lost everything,” wails Bree in self-pity. The Hermit of the Southern March, with whom they find refuge, knows the truth that Bree needs to hear:

My good horse, you’ve lost nothing but your self-conceit. . . . If you are really as humbled as you sounded a minute ago, you must learn to listen to sense. You're not quite the great Horse you had come to think, from living among poor dumb horses. . . . It doesn't follow that you'll be anyone very special in Narnia. But as long as you know you're nobody very special, you'll be a very decent sort of Horse.⁷²

Here again is the connection between humility and good sense. Humility for Lewis is seeing oneself as one really is—that is, as God sees one. Aslan knows that Bree is not the great horse he thinks he is, but Aslan knows also that Bree is a “very decent sort of Horse” and that is all Bree is called to be.

Unlike Bree, Hwin has a natural humility. It is not an artificial, exaggerated, self-effacing kind of humility (which itself can be a form of pride, or at least of a prideful self-consciousness) but an acknowledgement of the way things really are—including her own character and appearance and abilities. Thus, when Aslan finally appears, Hwin is the one who is spiritually prepared:

“Please . . . you're so beautiful. You may eat me if you like. I'd sooner be eaten by you than fed by anyone else.”

“Dearest daughter,” said Aslan . . . “I knew you would not be long in coming to me. Joy shall be yours.”⁷³

For Bree, the encounter with Aslan is not one of instant joy. For Bree, not surprisingly, it has a different flavour. At the moment of Aslan’s appearing, Bree happens to be explaining to the others why the term “Lion” for Aslan is merely metaphorical and should not be taken literally.⁷⁴ Aslan’s response is humorous rather than angry:

“Now, Bree . . . you poor, proud, frightened creature, draw near. Nearer still, my son. Do not dare not to dare. Touch me. . . . I am a true Beast.”

“Aslan,” said Bree in a shaken voice. “I'm afraid I must be rather a fool.”

“Happy the Horse who knows that while he is still young. Or the Human either.”⁷⁵

In the face of Aslan, Bree finally admits it: his pride has made him foolish. Aslan does not respond by telling him he has a poor self-image or that he is exaggerating. Aslan simply tells him it is good that he knows his foolishness. To acknowledge the truth about oneself—that is, to be humble--is crucial in one's relationship with Aslan.⁷⁶

Bree, like Eustace before him, is not entirely cured, however. Before they finally arrive in Narnia, he is still worried:

“Do Talking Horses roll? Supposing they don't? I can't bear to give it up. What do you think, Hwin?”

“I'm going to roll anyway,” said Hwin. “I don't suppose any of them will care two lumps of sugar whether you roll or not.” ⁷⁷

“There's something I've got to say at once. I'm sorry I've been such a pig.⁷⁸ But I did change before I knew you were a prince.” ⁷⁹

With her too, Lewis is concerned to make clear that this turning point in her life does not make her perfect. But she has learned some lessons about reconciliation which stand her in good stead:

Aravis . . . had many quarrels . . . with Cor, but they always made it up again: so that, years later, when they were grown up, they were so used to quarrelling and making it up again that they got married so as to go on doing it more conveniently.⁸⁰

Lewis has traveled a long way in his thinking since The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Here, in The Last Battle, his thinking on a number of subjects, including sin, comes together to give “the big picture.” Here, for example, we see that sin is not just something played out on the human stage, but something which involves cosmic forces beyond our comprehension. We learn as a corollary that sin has consequences which extend beyond this life. Yet the fundamental lesson of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, that the most important thing about a person is whether they are servants of Aslan, still undergirds everything else.

Two new animal characters meet us in the opening pages of The Last Battle. Shift the ape is evil. From the very first page, he is portrayed as self-centred, manipulative, thinking only of his own ease and comfort. Although he pretends to friendship with Puzzle the donkey, Puzzle is in fact virtually his slave. Shift’s “friend,” Puzzle, also sheds a new light on sin. He is certainly innocent and naive, but by the middle of the book his seeming innocence is no longer so attractive or pitiable. There is something quite sinister in the picture of the gentle donkey dressed up in the bedraggled skin of a lion, silhouetted by a flickering campfire. In fact, it is seen to be culpable: he did not need to let himself be used to the extent that he was.

Yet there is more here than simply new kinds of sinful character. As the story unfolds, we become aware of the reality of huge cosmic powers lurking behind the appearance of human good and evil. The conflict between good and evil is no longer one that can be resolved by sincere apology and asking Aslan’s forgiveness. This book describes war. Nor does this story have a happy ending—in Narnia, at least. (In another sense, it has the ultimate happy ending.) King Tirian is consistently referred to as the last king of Narnia, and in the final battle, nearly all of those on the side of Narnia are killed. The stakes in the conflict of good and evil are very high indeed.

The story opens with Shift and Puzzle discovering the skin of a dead lion. Shift proposes that Puzzle should wear the skin and pretend to be Aslan, in order to put right all the wrongs with which Narnia is afflicted. When thunder from heaven warns them against such a strategy, Puzzle understands it correctly (“I knew we were doing something dreadfully wicked”), but Shift is quick to reinterpret it as a sign of Aslan’s affirmation (“No, no. It’s a sign the other way”⁸¹ ). The “blasphemy against the Holy Spirit,” against which Jesus warned, was to say that good is evil and evil good.⁸² This is precisely what Shift does.

With the supposed authority of Aslan now behind him, he makes an agreement with the neighbouring country of Calormen for them to fell and remove Narnian trees (“holy trees” ⁸³), to use Narnian talking animals for slave labour, and to transport the dwarves of Narnia to work in the mines of Calormen. Shift keeps the pliable Puzzle in a small, dark stable, and only brings him out at night, by the uncertain light of a bonfire, to add the supposed authority of Aslan to his commands.

In Narnia, it has always been important that every person and animal know who or what it is, and to fulfill the function to which Aslan has called it. It is thus a sign of the Ape’s sinfulness that he wants to be something other than himself. He says to the other animals:

“I hear some of you saying I’m an ape. Well, I’m not. I’m a man. If I look like an Ape, that’s because I’m so old: hundreds and hundreds of years old.”⁸⁴

“[T]ake my advice, when you meet anything that’s going to be human, and isn’t yet, or used to be human once and isn’t now, or ought to be human and isn’t, you keep your eyes on it and feel for your hatchet.”⁸⁶

There is a worse way in which the reality Aslan has put into Narnia is challenged and distorted. The line between good and evil becomes blurred. The religions of Narnia and Calormen are now said to be the same:

“Tash is only another name for Aslan. . . . The Calormenes use different words but we all mean the same thing.”⁸⁷

The loving creator god who is Aslan is incorporated into the cruel and destructive god Tash. Of course, once good and evil, truth and falsehood, are obliterated, even in the name of tolerance, all that is actually left is unprincipled power--and that the ape is determined to wield.

However, it is a principle of all Lewis’ theology that “All find what they truly seek.”⁸⁸ Those who claim to be servants of Tash will find him. Those who seek Aslan, though it may be by a different name, will also find their heart’s desire. Thus, at the end of the story, Tash comes to claim his own:

“[T]his fool of an Ape, who didn’t believe in Tash, will get more than he bargained for! He called for Tash: Tash has come.”⁸⁹

The evil Tash devours both Shift and Rishdah Tarkaan, leader of the Calormene forces. The fear of Tash also turns Ginger the scheming cat back into a dumb animal:

[E]very one of them had been taught . . . how Aslan at the beginning of the world had turned the Beasts of Narnia into Talking Beasts and warned them that if they weren’t good they might one day be turned back again and be like the poor witless animals one meets in other countries.⁹⁰

Ginger may have chosen the side of Tash, but even in his encounter with Tash, Tash has no real power: all that happens is that the words of Aslan, spoken thousands of years before, are fulfilled.

Then all of Narnia comes to an end at Aslan’s bidding, and, in the

Narnian version of the final judgement, all the creatures of Narnia have to

come before Aslan:

[A]s they came right up to Aslan one or other of two things happened to each of them. They all looked in his face; I don’t think they had any choice about that. And when some looked, the expression of their faces changed terribly—it was fear and hatred. . . . And all the creatures who looked at Aslan in that way swerved to their right, his left, and disappeared into his huge black shadow . . . But the others looked into the face of Aslan and loved him, though some of them were very frightened at the same time. And all these came in at the Door, on Aslan’s right.⁹¹

The judgement, in other words, is what the animals have chosen for themselves. When they are confronted with Aslan, the ultimate symbol of good and of God, the reality that has grown and been nurtured in their hearts over their lifetime becomes visible on their faces. Some know, as they look on Aslan, that this is what they have been searching for all of their lives. Others realise that this is what they have been seeking to avoid and hide from all of their lives. None who truly want to enter Aslan’s new world are turned away. None who hate Aslan and what he stands for are forced to enter.

As a result, there are some surprises. One is that the children discover a Calormen soldier in Aslan’s country. Surely he should not be there? After all, he fought on the side of evil against Aslan. But Aslan is interested in a person’s deepest allegiance, not in outward appearances:

[Tash] and I are of such different kinds that no service which is vile can be done to me, and none which is not vile can be done to him. Therefore, if any man swear by Tash and keep his oath for the oath’s sake, it is by me that he has truly sworn, though he know it not, and it is I who reward him. And if any man do a cruelty in my name, then, though he says the name Aslan, it is Tash whom he serves and by

Tash his deed is accepted.⁹²

This truth is underlined by the fate of the dwarves. They too find themselves in Aslan’s country, but they behave as though they are still in the dark, smelly stable. Lucy feels sorry for them, and begs Aslan to help them, but he replies: “Dearest,” said Aslan, “I will show you what I can, and what I cannot, do.” Even his best efforts cannot shake them out of their illusion, and he concludes:

“They will not let us help them. They have chosen cunning rather than belief. Their prison is only in their own minds, yet they are in that prison; and so afraid of being taken in that they cannot be taken out.”⁹³

The dwarves, like Emeth, have chosen, but they have chosen to be shut in on themselves, and Aslan will not force them to do otherwise. Like Uncle Andrew, who chose only to hear the animals making animal noises, so the dwarves can only experience the world in the way they have chosen to experience it. Choice and faith are closely related in Aslan’s world, so it is equally true to say that the dwarves have chosen a reality without Aslan and to say they have refused to believe in Aslan (they will not be taken in).

But what becomes of Puzzle, the false Aslan? He says he is sorry, but, unlike proper apologies in Narnia, he makes excuses for himself:

“I’m sure I’m very sorry if I’ve done wrong. The Ape said Aslan wanted me to dress up like that. And I thought he’d know. I’m not clever like him. I only did what I was told.”⁹⁴

His excuse (“I only did what I was told”) sounds innocent enough--until one realises that the same words were used by Nazis to excuse the atrocities they performed in Word War II concentration camps.⁹⁵ It is Eustace who tries to confront Puzzle:

“If you’d spent less time saying you weren’t clever and more time trying to be as clever as you could--”⁹⁶

Ultimately, however, Puzzle, like everyone else, has to meet Aslan face to face:

the Lion bowed down his head and whispered something to Puzzle at which his long ears went down; but then he said something else at which his ears perked up again. The humans couldn’t hear what he had said either time. ⁹⁷

It may be presumptuous for humans to guess what was said by Aslan in private conversation, but presumably the words which caused Puzzle’s ears to droop were words about his sin and guilt, and the words which caused him to perk up were words of forgiveness and reassurance: bad news preceding good news. For us too, there is bad news about sin and there is good news about forgiveness, and the more we understand sin, the more we shall appreciate forgiveness.