Scripture, C.S. Lewis, and Flannery O'Connor just for good measure

     There’s so much of scripture that I don’t understand; so much that confuses me, and I’m thankful for this. Scripture has become more living and breathing to me since I allowed myself to be confused by it. I used to see it as a self-help book, a good resource for life advice, and in so doing, I stripped it of its depth and richness. I ran into problems when I tried to read Leviticus, or a Psalm where David cries out his deep, heart-felt pain to God and receives no answer. And I had absolutely no idea what to do with Ecclesiastes. I had to ignore these parts and skip to the more motivational passages. 

     While divinely inspired, scripture is written by and about fallen people in a fallen world and it takes no pains to hide this. It deals with the very real struggles of very real people. And so if you’re looking for your typical self-help, improve-your-life-in-ten-simple-steps book, the Bible is not the place to go.

  C.S. Lewis, in his book An Experiment in Criticism, makes a distinction between “using” and “receiving”. Many literary critics (and readers in general), he says, try too hard to force a particular meaning or conclusion from a work. They too readily ask “what does it mean?” and ignore its merit as simply a good story well told. Reading Lewis’ work, at the beginning of my senior year of high school, deeply challenged the way I approached books. I realized I was guilty of “using” literature—especially those works we call “classics.” Knowing they had literary merit that had stood the test of time I looked for the rich symbolism and deep, hidden meanings. I didn’t find much. I came away from books such as The Great Gatsby and To Kill a Mockingbird confused and frustrated. I saw no clear-cut conclusions, no obvious deeper meanings. These were the classics, the good books. I mean, it’s not like I was reading Twilight or Nicholas Sparks novels here. And I liked to read—this was my thing. So where did I go wrong? Where’s the pay-off? Why couldn't I get it?

C.S. Lewis, as he has a knack for doing, enlightened me. Any good book is first and foremost going to be a good story well told. From the Odyssey to Cinderella, at the most basic level, it’s got to be a good story. (What makes a good story is another conversation for another day). It’s not that these great works don’t have symbolism or multiple layers of meaning, but there’s a basic principle of symbolism that seems obvious but that we nevertheless often overlook. In order to symbolize something, there must be a symbol; you have to first have a sign before you can use it to point to the thing you want to signify. Likewise, In order to have multiple layers, you must, of course, start with the initial layer. When we approach literature with the intention finding deeper meanings, we must first recognize, understand, and appreciate the most basic meaning—the story itself. It sounds simple, and it is, but eager to get to the “good stuff” we often overlook this altogether. 

Sense reading Lewis’ work, I have re-read both The Great Gatsby and To Kill a Mockingbird. But this time, I took the pressure of being a classic off of them and simply enjoyed the stories they had to tell. I found that I got more out of them this way. I found a lot more meaning when I wasn’t looking for it. It profoundly changed the way I read literature. And I was eventually convicted that I needed to similarly alter the way I approached scripture as well. 

I would sit with my Bible and fancy 8-colored pencil in hand, searching for that perfect, quotable verse to underline. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that these verses aren’t great—I’ve got one as my laptop background right now—but the problem was that I was not taking the Bible in its totality. I skimmed the verses that didn’t make sense to me, or didn’t sound uplifting. I was, to borrow Lewis’ term, “using” the Bible. I wasn’t letting it speak to me, but rather used it to say the things I wanted to hear. 

Sense opening up my perspective and trying to come to the Word with a more open mind and heart and “receive” it, I have definitely had more questions raised than answered. I'm not going to lie, my faith doesn't grow leaps and bounds when I read long genealogies. But being willing to ask questions of scripture and voice my confusion has grown my love, appreciation, and respect for the Word of God, and I've found immense comfort reading the heartfelt cries of the Psalmist--realizing that he too struggles with life, but holds fast to his faith in an Almighty God even when things don't seem to make sense. 

I hesitate to take these words out of context, because Christ was obviously not talking about reading literature when he said this, but I do think they nevertheless somewhat apply in this particular context. “Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 18:3-4). I love watching children who love to read. I remember my own delight in reading The Boxcar Children, Nancy Drew mysteries, and even The Chronicles of Narnia before I learned to search them for Christian echoes. I didn’t read these for anything other than the sheer joy of a riveting story. I am also a big proponent of adults reading picture books because they force us step down from our ivory tower and set aside all the silly notions we’ve developed about “great literature” and simply--and purely--watch as Mr. and Mrs. Mallard search for the perfect home for their little duckling family. We find amusement in the irony of a bull who merely likes to sit and smell the flowers. Sometimes, even to our own disdain, we get caught up in the rhythm of a Dr. Seuss book about such ridiculous things as green eggs and ham. It’s as C.S. Lewis said: “Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.” In order to receive literature rather than use it, as Lewis says we should, then we must regain a child-like fascination with the magic of stories. We must turn and become like children.

As a concluding thought, I’d like to tie Flannery O’Connor into this. (Life advice: tie in Flannery O’Connor whenever possible. It got me a job once). Flannery O’Connor stories are weird. They can leave you confused and wondering “what the heck was that?” And because of this, I’ve had people tell me they don’t care for them—they just don’t “get” them. I must confess, I don’t think I really “get” them either. But I think that might be the problem itself. I’m not convinced we’re supposed to get them. Their very purpose is to leave you with a furrowed brow with nothing more to say than, “huh?” But at the same time, they’re incredibly real; they penetrate to the heart of reality, to the heart of humanity, and ask questions of life. So much of life is not getting it. That’s kind of what Ecclesiastes is all about. I have found that O’Connor’s stories make a lot more sense when I approach them not as narratives seeking to answer life’s big questions (I think I’d agree with my friends that think they woefully fail at this), but as depictions of life—as narratives that capture the struggles of life and present us with more questions than answers. At this, I believe, they are an incredible success. But this kind of conclusion requires one to “receive” them, just as Lewis says we must. 

     While the scriptures hold deep truths, enlighten our understanding, and answer many questions, I also find many places that raise questions for me. I finished reading a passage today, looked up from my bible and muttered, "I don't really get that." But I think that's okay. Sometimes, we will be reading and the Holy Spirit will enlighten our understanding and reveal something we've never noticed before, and praise Him for these moments. But sometimes, we are left to wonder, and to question, sometimes to even get frustrated because we just don't get it. We must allow for this and resist the temptation to skip to the bumper sticker verses. We have to "receive" the Bible, not "use" it.