Knock the little bastards' brains out.

I stumbled onto this quote by C.S. Lewis in his Reflections on the Psalms concerning the cursing psalms in the Scriptures:

I know things in the inner world which are like babies; the infantile beginnings of small indulgences, small resentments, which may one day become dipsomania or settled hatred, but which woo us and wheedle us with special pleadings and seem so tiny, so helpless that in resisting them we feel we are being cruel to animals. They begin whispering to us, "I don't ask much, but", or "I had at least hoped", or "you owe yourself some consideration". Against all such pretty infants (the dears have such winning ways) the advice of the Psalm is the best: knock the little bastards' brains out. And "blessed" he who can, for it's easier said than done.

The same interpretation is given in the early Fathers of the Church as can be seen here in St John Cassian's Institutes: "It behooves us as well to destroy the sinners in our bed - namely, our fleshly feelings - on the morning of their birth, as they emerge, and, while they are still young, to dash the children of Babylon against the rock. Unless they are killed at a very tender age they will, with our acquiescence, rise up to our harm as stronger adults, and they will certainly not be overcome without great pain and effort" (6.13.2).

The Best for Us

"We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be."

- C.S. Lewis

I've only come across this quote recently, and I don't know where it comes from. Is it from one of his books, essays, or letters? If anybody knows the source, I'd be grateful.

Knowing Jack

I am enjoying immensely reading through C.S. Lewis again. First, The Abolition of Man, and now, Mere Christianity. It's one of the things I love about good books - that each reading, each tasting, is different and each subsequent view richer.

I appreciate what Lewis does in this book, and while I admire what he attempts with his "mere," I also see negative ramifications of that same "mere." There is nothing mere or boiled down about Christianity. Because there is no essence to which Christianity can be boiled down. It is wholeness and fullness because it is Christ, and anything less than that fullness is less, not mere. All things considered, it is a very Protestant perspective of Christianity and therefore a very measured and fair view of the thing: He tries to say what is universally Christian among all who can claim the title. It is certainly more how I'd like to talk with family about faith, while not obscuring what I believe to be true. But it is still less. Then again, how much can you do in such a slim volume? I have disagreements here - that being said, Lewis is brilliant. His chapter on faith and works (Chapter 12) is a masterpiece and ought to be read by Catholics and Protestants alike who still imagine there a divide. He has terrific insights into the idea of "Sonship" that all of us, male and female, participate in. And he's readable, familiar, and goes to nearly embarrassing lengths to be so. The depth of his faith is context for the book, though it is seldom front and center. It is like a rich landscape painted with the promise of exploration, but remains, in this picture, only the backdrop. And I'm left wanting more of it - but he's cordoned off fabulous bits of the picture. Then again, how much can you do in such a slim volume?

There is this snippet at the end of his chapter on charity: "But the great thing to remember is that, though our feelings come and go, His love for us does not. It is not wearied by our sins, or our indifference; and, therefore, it is quite relentless in its determination that we shall be cured of those sins, at whatever cost to us, at whatever cost to Him." That's classic Lewis and authentic Christianity. And it's these moments of sweetness that make Jack one of my favorite Christian thinkers.

A Terrible Question, on the John or Anywhere Else

My current On-the-John read is C.S. Lewis's Mere Christianity. These kinds of books are excellent for reading on the commode: They're broken up into fairly equal chapters because they were originally on the air - 10-minute radio broadcasts. Here's something I ran across today.

How is it that people who are quite obviously eaten up with Pride can say they believe in God and appear to themselves very religious? I am afraid it means they are worshipping an imaginary God. They theoretically admit themselves to be nothing in the presence of this phantom God, but are really all the time imagining how He approves of them and thinks them far better than ordinary people: that is, they pay a pennyworth of imaginary humility to Him and get out of it a pound's worth of Pride towards their fellow-men. I suppose it was of those people Christ was thinking when He said that some would preach about Him and cast out devils in His name, only to be told at the end of the world that he had never known them. And any of us may at any moment be in this death-trap. Luckily, we have a test. Whenever we find that our religious life is making us feel that we are good - above all, that we are better than someone else - I think we may be sure that we are being acted on, not by God, but by the devil. The real test of being in the presence of God is that you either forget about yourself altogether or see yourself as a small, dirty object. It is better to forget about yourself altogether.

...

If anyone would like to acquire humility, I can, I think, tell him the first step. The first step is to realise [sic] that one is proud. And a biggish step, too. At least, nothing whatever can be done before it. If you think you are not conceited, it means you are very conceited indeed.

Earlier, in the same chapter (Chapter 8, "The Great Sin"), he says, "As long as you are proud you cannot know God." And as I read the excerpt above, thinking of others who fit the bill before thinking of myself, I see that I am in terrible need of mercy.

Less Than Human

I just finished reading The Abolition of Man by C.S. Lewis. It's not the first time I've read it, and, this time, I read it twice in as many weeks. Sometimes a second or third reading is warranted in order for the murkiness to be plumbed, in a manner of speaking.

I picked up the little book again after many years at the recommendation of Fr Thomas Hopko, an Orthodox priest, in one of his many lectures I'm working through on my iPod. This book is phenomenal. If you haven't read it recently, read it. Please. Because I want to talk about it. And while it speaks of the necessity of the objectivity of Values and Reason it also addresses issues more ecclesial. I suppose that is no surprise.

If you've read the 80-page book recently, I'd love to hear your thoughts. This book needs reading. I'm not even sure what kind of questions to ask for discussion, but I'm sure it will find itself relevant as the days pass. Perhaps I'll post as it does.

Waiting for the Boy to Fall Asleep

I notice I've been including the writings of a particular Anglican in all of my most recent reasons for becoming Catholic. A little ironic, I suppose, but it's just the way it is. A more contemporary Anglican who has done and is doing the same for me, at a different level, is N.T. Wright.

I believe their thinking can be so transitionally profound because the Anglican Church is, of sorts, a transitional body.

. . . . .

I replaced my water heater today. I'm still praying the pipes hold up. At one point, when the water heater was almost entirely hooked up, one of the old pipes and all its soldered joints simply fell apart. (Nothing I had soldered.)

Then Sophie said she'd pray for the angels to help me (she was watching Angels in the Outfield - such was the source of her superb catholicity). And, it was at that point, I realized I could circumvent the sweat soldering that I thought was inevitable with my flexible pipe and compression valve. I still don't know if the pipe's going to hold. But it's not leaking.

For now, we have hot water again. The dishwasher and the bathtub have been popular since.

My prayer for this project has simply been, "I am not strong enough, Lord Jesus. Strengthen me." Perhaps I will now pray, "Lord Jesus, establish the work of my hands." And, "Praise be to you, Lord Jesus Christ."

Why I Am Catholic, XII

"I believe in ... the communion of saints." This statement, pulled from the Apostles' Creed, means two things to me currently: (1) Believers are to be one, and (2) When believers die, they are not wholly lost to us.

Love necessitates prayers for or to or about the dead. And if we close off such an important part of our life from Him, how are we to be honest with God? Or do we simply die piecemeal with those we love, as they die?

"Of course I pray for the dead ... At our age, the majority of those we love best are dead. What sort of intercourse with God could I have if what I love best were unmentionable to him?" (C.S. Lewis, Letters to Malcolm, 107).

Why I Am Catholic, XI

There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilization - these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit - immortal horrors or everlasting splendours. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of that kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously - no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption. And our charity must be a real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinner - no mere tolerance or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment. Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbour is the holiest object presented to your senses. If he is your Christian neighbour he is holy in almost the same way, for in him also Christ vere latitat - the glorifier and the glorified, Glory Himself, is truly hidden.

- C.S. Lewis, the final sentences of "The Weight of Glory"