NUCL and Mrs. Dalloway

One conference down, and two to go.

This Saturday I'll be reading "Feminine Consciousness, Community, and Isolation in Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway" (which should actually be "Mrs Richard Dalloway: the Tension of Feminine Consciousness," or something more like a title and less like a list) at the Northwest Undergraduate Conference for Literature in Portland (assuming we find a ride).

And since I know you're all so interested, here it is! =)

This was the first tutorial paper I wrote in Oxford. The style is pretty different than a thesis-driven American essay, so keep that in mind. Also, it's basically a rough draft since I had to do all the research, and all the writing, in less than a week (not something I'd ever attempted before). I'd love to have the time to completely rewrite it, because some of the ideas fascinate me, but I don't feel like they're expressed very well (or fully articulated) in this essay.

Anyway, this version has been tampered with (I had to rearrange a few of my sections), but hopefully it still flows alright.

Feminine Consciousness, Community, and Isolation in Virginia
Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway
© 2008 Karith Amel Magnuson

The world of Mrs. Dalloway is spilt between the forces of isolation and community. It is a book about the individual within society—a book about fragmentation and unity. At the story’s center is Clarissa Dalloway, and Clarissa Dalloway’s party. Clarissa, the society hostess, defines ‘life,’ that essence that she loves and lives for, in terms of bringing people together, solving the supreme mystery that is “simply this: here was one room; there another.” Asking herself what she truly means by this thing called ‘life,’ she expresses a desire “to go deeper…to combine, to create”: “Here was So-and-So in South Kensington; someone up in Bayswater; and somebody else, say, in Mayfair. And she felt what a pity; and she felt if only they could be brought together; so she did it.” It is her “offering,” her “gift,” and even Peter Walsh cannot help but come under her influence, despite his contempt for her social obsessions: “She seemed, having that gift still; to be; to exist; to sum it all up in the moment as she passed.” Her party, with which the book ends, is the culmination of this desire to assemble (bringing together characters from throughout the book and Clarissa’s past) but it is by no means its only manifestation.

Indeed, Clarissa seems to associate this same idea of ‘life’ with the city itself. For while the book ends with Clarissa’s party, it begins with her pushing open her front door and plunging into the swinging, jingling, trudging uproar that is the city. She is swept along, surrounded by automobiles and rushing, laughing, mourning humans—individuals who are brought together in chance meetings (such as that between Clarissa and Hugh in the park), mutual awe (like the rumor allowed to “accumulate in their veins” ), and puzzlement over flying advertisements. Throughout the book this theme is maintained—the city as a backdrop for union, the meeting of disparate souls. In Laura Marcus’ book, Virginia Woolf, Marcus argues that this use of city as “consciousness in motion” is typical of modernist authors. However, Marcus suggests that Woolf is unique in her exploration of “communication and circulation in the city”—presenting London, not as a wasteland of isolation, so much as a unifying of individual aspects of society and humanity. Indeed, it is within this larger context of the city that the true significance of Clarissa’s party can be seen. It is not simply to bring together her specific guests that Clarissa plays the enchanting hostess, but to become part of the larger unifying force that London symbolizes: “She, too, loving it as she did [life; London; this moment in June] with an absurd and faithful passion, being part of it...she, too, was going that very night to kindle and illuminate; to give her party.”

But against this physical backdrop of London, there is also the internal struggle for unification within Clarissa herself. It is the struggle for identity; the desire to bring together the different aspects of experience and emotion, and create a coherent whole. Upon looking at her face in the mirror, Clarissa purses her lips “to give her face point. That was her self – pointed; dartlike; definite. That was her self when some effort, some call on her to be her self, drew the parts together...different...incompatible...into one centre, one diamond, one woman who sat in her drawing-room and made a meeting-point, a radiancy.” She must assemble “that diamond shape, that single person” before she can return to the duties of the house. As Marcus explains, “Her identity fragmented, it has to be recollected, assembled, gathered together like the torn dress she intends to wear to her party that evening.”

This tension—this desire to unite disparate elements into a unified whole—is present in Clarissa’s constant memories of the past. Throughout the book, Clarissa is shadowed by her eighteen-year-old self: throwing open the French windows at Bourton, kissing Sally Seton, taking walks with Peter Walsh. The present is constantly filtered through previous experience—through events, relationships, and places. Peter remembers the younger Clarissa remarking, “She felt herself everywhere...she was all that. So that to know her, or anyone, one must seek out the people who completed them; even the places.” And as she walks through London, Clarissa ponders the connection she still has with Peter, “she being part, she was positive, of the trees at home; of the house there...being laid out like a mist between the people she knew best...it spread ever so far, her life, herself.” And this constant spreading, these connections that define and redefine Clarissa’s identity, this ability to simultaneously be eighteen and in her fifties (“she felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged” ), leads Clarissa to the conclusion that a person’s essence cannot be defined or captured: “She would not say of Peter, she would not say of herself, I am this, I am that.”

In The Experimental Self, Judy Little argues that the significance of this fractured identity is found in its role in the formation of a uniquely feminine consciousness. She proposes that women’s place on the outskirts of society has left them unsuccessfully socialized, and therefore capable of a subjective identity. They are forced to learn the language of a male-dominated social sphere, while also possessing their own language—the language of their mothers. This, Little states, allows women to be uniquely adaptable, able to migrate between different visions of reality and points of view. She suggests that this grants women an extreme relational tendency (unlike men who define themselves in opposition to the other), and quotes Patricia Waugh to state that women’s fiction “can be seen...as an attempt...to discover a collective concept of subjectivity which foregrounds the construction of identity in relationships.” Such an identity must, by nature, be extremely volatile, changing (or fragmenting) with the relationships that shape it, and Little goes on to state that, in Woolf’s novels, “self is a discourse...a means that facilitates the celebration of friendship and shared lives.”

However, there is another side to this feminine consciousness, and that, ironically, is self-chosen isolation—isolation used to withstand domination and preserve self, even at the cost of community. The suicide of Septimus Warren Smith, and Clarissa’s interpretation of his death, is perhaps the ultimate example of this practice. For Septimus, though not a woman, is certainly an outsider in society, so made by his traumatic experiences in the Great War and his inability to maintain “a sense of proportion.” Clarissa describes Septimus’ death, not as passive acquiescence (though she later cries out against the darkness), but as a self-chosen defiance—defiance, presumably, against men like Sir William Bradshaw, who “make life intolerable” by “forcing your soul.” This is consistent with Clarissa’s hatred of Miss Kilman, who desires, in Clarissa’s mind at least, to convert her, to destroy “the privacy of the soul.” And even when she speaks of the men she loves, of Peter and Richard, Clarissa seems wary to let them too close, or share too much intimacy: “There was a dignity in people; a solitude; even between husband and wife a gulf; and that one must respect, thought Clarissa, watching [Richard Dalloway] open the door; for one would not part with it oneself, or take it, against his will, from one’s husband, without losing one’s independence, one’s self-respect – something, after all, priceless.” She was right, she states, to not marry Peter, because he demanded that everything be shared, “everything gone into,” and “it was intolerable.”

This unease seems to represent, not a backlash against Clarissa’s original desires to combine and create, but a fear of domination. This is obviously true in the case of Miss Kilman and Sir William Bradshaw, but subtler when applied to Peter and Richard. Despite both men’s love for Clarissa (though Peter may deny being “in love” with her), there is a level at which, being female in a male-dominated society, she is very much in their power. This is especially true of Richard, because he is her husband, and even Peter comments that one of the tragedies of married life is that “with twice [Richard’s] wits, [Clarissa] had to see things through his eyes.” Furthermore, Clarissa, while walking in London, “had the oddest sense of being herself invisible; unseen; unknown; there being no more marrying, no more having of children now, but only this astonishing and rather solemn progress with the rest of them, up Bond Street, this being Mrs Dalloway; not even Clarissa any more; this being Mrs Richard Dalloway.” All the different fragments of Clarissa’s identity are swallowed up by that name.

However, there is another level at which isolation is beyond Clarissa’s control—not an attempt to maintain identity and withstand domination, but simply a frustration of her desire to cohere. For although an outsider’s status grants freedom to move between social spheres and perspectives, it ultimately prohibits full acceptance to any single portion of society. Thus, beneath the surface of Mrs. Dalloway flows a consistent current of discontent—of failed realization—as communion is sought, reached for, and lost. The moments of deepest separation seem to follow those of strongest union (or attempted union), for, if we are to believe Little’s account of feminine consciousness, that which drives Clarissa to pursue unity is ultimately what keeps her separate and apart.

Even in the midst of the ‘life’ that is London, Clarissa experiences moments of intense isolation: “She sliced like a knife through everything; at the same time was outside looking on. She had a perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone.” Directly following the contemplation of her own domestic bliss, Clarissa comes to the conclusion, “There was an emptiness about the heart of life; an attic room. Women must put off their rich apparel. At midday they must disrobe.” This last statement, though seemingly peculiar, is particularly significant. In the second to last chapter it is faintly echoed, when, in the midst of her party, Clarissa moves into a side room and finds herself suddenly alone. “There was nobody. The party’s splendour fell to the floor, so strange it was to come in alone in her finery.” Clarissa’s dress, representing her role as hostess and socialite, comes into stark contrast with the sudden emptiness and silence. For though it is her gift to assemble, to bring together, it seems that fragmentation can only be held off, delayed, not prevented. For, eventually, “women must put off their rich apparel,” or even if they do not, the darkness may prevail regardless. For even as Clarissa’s party takes hold, turning “into something now, not nothing,” Clarissa feels dissatisfied, “for though she loved it and felt it tingle and sting, still these semblances, these triumphs...had a hollowness.” And when she hears of Septimus’ death, she interprets it as “her disaster – her disgrace. It was her punishment to see sink and disappear here a man, there a woman, in this profound darkness, and she forced to stand here in her evening dress.”

And so, the struggle against alienation is lost. Septimus is dead, and the splendor of Clarissa’s party has fallen to the floor. “Closeness drew apart; rapture faded; one was alone.” But no. “She must go back. She must assemble.” “They went on living...they would grow old.” Woolf leaves us with no clear answers, only a continuing dance of isolation and community—of drawing together and falling apart. But perhaps that is as it should be. For Woolf sees identity as a dialogue and self as an experiment—they are not to be established, but explored. Through her novels, Woolf is presenting “the courageous view that human beings are ideologically mobile”—are capable of change. Identity, as Woolf presents it, is contradiction warring for coherence, and, Little suggests, being unwilling to explore the fragments, to know more than “the (one) truth or...just one self,” limits a person’s humanity, and the artist’s creative response. Perhaps reaching coherence—creating unity—is not as significant as the process, “making it up, building it round one, tumbling it, creating it every moment afresh.” The process that, according to Mrs. Dalloway, is life.

Bibliography

B. R. Daugherty and E. Barrett, ed., Virginia Woolf: texts and contexts (1996)
J. Little, The experimental self: dialogic subjectivity in Woolf, Pym, and Brooke-Rose (1996)
L. Marcus, Virginia Woolf, 2nd edn (2004)
V. Neverow-Turk and M. Hussey, ed., Virginia Woolf: themes and variations (1993)
V. Woolf, Mrs Dalloway (1996)

My slightly heretical view of Lewis and salvation, at my father's request . . .

Well Baba, here it is. I haven't looked at it in a while, and didn't have a chance to edit before submitting it, so I'm sure there are lots of things that need to be tweaked. For instance, glancing over the first paragraph just now, I'm realizing that I need to rewrite the entire way I refer to God . . . (especially given my last post =).

I wouldn't say this is my best work; I remember being very unhappy with it when I wrote it (over spring break at Megan's house), but it seemed to fit the conference theme better than anything else I had.

If you have any suggestions, or notice other issues, let me know.

C.S. Lewis, The Chronicles of Narnia, and the Issue of Religious Inclusivism
© 2007 Karith Magnuson

God the Father, who is deep and sacrificial love, sent His one and only Son, not to condemn the world, but to bring it life. As I Timothy 2:3-4 states, “God our savior [. . .] wants all men to be saved and to come to a knowledge of the truth.” This truth is the saving work of Jesus, who came that we might have life, and have it to the full. The life He gives is bread and light; it is salvation, redemption, and the forgiveness of sins. Grounded in the cross and resurrection, this life is eternal, and brings rightness with God and reconciliation with our neighbors. Ultimately, it is embodied in the very person of Jesus Christ.

But there seems to be a problem: God has provided salvation, but it is a limited salvation, available only to those who know His Son. Acts 4:12 reads, referring to Jesus, “salvation is found in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given to men by which we must be saved,” and Jesus himself says, “no one comes to the Father except through me” (John 14:6). But what of those who suffer from ignorance, never having been exposed to the Gospel—those in other religions who are desperately seeking to serve God, but without having heard of Christ, or His atonement? Are they to be condemned for never believing in a name they have never heard? “Given that becoming a Christian is necessary for salvation,” argues James F. Sennett in his essay, “Worthy of a Better God,” “it follows that if God condemns one who has never heard the Gospel, then he is punishing that person for failing to do something she didn’t have the ability to do” (243). Where is the justice in that? Where is the mercy?

Romans 1:20 addresses this challenge, but with surprising implications. It states that, since creation, God’s invisible qualities have been clearly seen through nature, leaving humanity without excuse. This verse seems to suggest that humanity has always had the ability to turn to God, but is choosing not to. Those in this passage are not condemned for ignorance, but for willfully rejecting God. As verse twenty-one continues, “For although they knew God, they neither glorified him as God nor gave thanks to him.” There is no evidence that those spoken of in this passage know God through the divine revelation of scripture or Christ’s incarnation. Instead, they are held accountable for the general knowledge they possess—leading to the conclusion that it must be possible to know and please God, even without hearing the name of Christ.

This appears to be in direct contradiction to the Acts 4:12 and John 14:6 passages. How are they to be reconciled? According to John Sanders, the answer is religious inclusivism, the belief that “the unevangilized are saved or lost on the basis of their commitment, or lack thereof, to the God who saves through the work of Jesus” (qtd. in Nash 104). According to inclusivists, Christ’s atoning death is necessary for salvation, but knowledge of His death is not (Nash 104). This, in many ways, is a continuation of the belief that faith, not knowledge, saves. It is meeting Christ, not any idea about Christ, which is the important thing. Jesus’ own disciples rarely understood who He was, or what He was about to do. However, they knew Him, and that was enough to impel them to leave everything, and simply follow.

C.S. Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia is filled with examples of such encounters with Christ—such encounters with Aslan. In The Magician’s Nephew, Digory and Polly are entranced with the beauty of Narnia, the new world that is being sung into existence around them. However, once they see “the Singer himself . . . [they forget] everything else” (Lewis, MN 62). In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, a transformation occurs at the very first mention of Aslan’s name:

“They say Aslan is on the move—perhaps has already landed.”
And now a very curious thing happened. None of the children knew who Aslan was any more than you do; but the moment the Beaver had spoken these words everyone felt quite different [...] At the name of Aslan each one of the children felt something jump in its inside. (Lewis 141)

Then, in The Horse and his Boy, when Aslan reveals himself to Hwin and Bree, two talking horses from Narnia, they do not see the connection between the stories of Aslan and the fierce and dangerous lion before them. Nonetheless, Hwin, in an act she does not recognize as faith, trembling (in fear or delight), walks up to Aslan and tells him: “You’re so beautiful. You may eat me if you like. I’d sooner be eaten by you than fed by anyone else” (Lewis, HHB 299). And Aslan, before he has revealed his identity, in a moment that recalls Christ’s “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace” (Mark 5:34), kisses Hwin and declares her his child.

In all of these instances, Aslan is adored and worshiped before he is recognized, and in most cases, before he is named. Perhaps the greatest example of this doctrine-less conversion is Shasta’s meeting with the great Lion. After walking beside an invisible Aslan for some time, Shasta asks, “Who are you?” Aslan, refusing to name himself, replies, “Myself” (Lewis, HHB 281). When the fog clears, Shasta comes face-to-face with the King for the first time, and falls at the feet of the unnamed Beauty. He knows nothing of Aslan, not the lies of Calormen, nor the truth of Narnia, but he sees the Lion, and it is enough (Lewis, HHB 282).

However, all of this is one step removed from the issue of inclusivism. In the previous examples, encounters with Christ (or Aslan) save without being fully recognized for what they are, or who they are with—but they are with Aslan. In the same way, in Saul’s climactic conversion experience, he acknowledges the speaker as Lord before he knows who is speaking—but Christ is speaking (Acts 9:5). Arguing that encounters with Christ save, even when they are not recognized as encounters with Christ, is not the same as arguing that salvation can occur without encountering Christ. Lewis does seem to take this step, however, stating elsewhere that “there are people in other religions who are being led by God’s secret influence to concentrate on those parts of their religion which are in agreement with Christianity, and who thus belong to Christ without knowing it” (qtd. in Sennett 234). This seems to imply that not all who are saved will have come face-to-face with Christ, whether recognized or not.

But perhaps this is not what Lewis means by “belong[ing] to Christ without knowing it” (qtd. in Sennett 234). For, is he really saying that salvation can occur without encountering Christ, or is he arguing for the possibility of encountering Christ, not only without realizing that we have done so, but while actually thinking He is someone else? In other words, is it possible to have come to Christ through a different religion, not because Allah and Christ are the same, but because that which we called by the name of Allah, was actually Christ? Can we know Christ by a different name? Acts 4:12 appears to answer this question with a forceful negative, reminding us that Jesus has the only name with the power to save humanity. Lewis does not necessarily disagree, but he cautions us with the reminder that names, in our fallen state, tend to be misused.

Two examples from The Chronicles of Narnia bear testimony to this fact. In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Mr. Beaver is furious to hear the White Witch call herself Queen of Narnia, but Aslan is unperturbed. He affirms that titles have indeed been stolen, but promises that “all names will soon be restored to their proper owners” (Lewis, LWW 175). Then, in The Last Battle, there occurs an even more significant misuse of names. In it, a donkey is disguised to look like Aslan, and is given the blasphemous name “Tashlan,” a mix between Tash, the demon god, and Narnia’s true Lord. However, even this false name does nothing to alter reality, and the true natures of the donkey, Tash, and Aslan all remain unchanged. As the young Calormen warrior, Emeth, argues: the existence of a false Tash does not make the real Tash any less true (Lewis, LB 756)—and it is this loyalty that sets him apart as “worthy of a better God” (Lewis, LB 728). Aslan himself declares, “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” (Lewis, LB 757). This is because Aslan and Tash, regardless of name, retain their identities and are unchanging.

Therefore, although Christ saves, Lewis seems to argue that he does so through His deeper name, the name that manifests His very identity and cannot be misused—“Myself” (Lewis, HHB 281) the “I AM” (Exodus 3:14). For, ultimately, it is not any word, but Christ Himself, who brings life. It is the person behind the name, not the name itself, which is infinitely significant. Aslan can respond to the White Witch’s treachery with the words, “Peace, Beaver” (Lewis, LWW 175), because her misuse of sacred titles can have no ultimate effect. She can lie, but she can never change reality. In the same way, Tashlan can be invoked, but Aslan remains himself, regardless of name. As Aslan tells Emeth, “Not because [Tash] and I are one, but because we are opposites—I take to me the services which thou has done to him” (Lewis, LB 757). The implication is that Jesus, the one and only, who declared that “no servant can serve two masters” (Luke 16:13), is so abounding in goodness that service done to Him will never be mistaken for anything else.

Of course, Lewis may be in danger of taking this concept too far. His emphasis on good motives has the danger of focusing salvation on human actions and attitudes, rather than on Christ’s all-redeeming grace. In The Screwtape Letters, Screwtape makes the statement, “[God] often makes prizes of humans who have given their lives for causes He thinks bad on the monstrously sophistical ground that the humans thought them good and were following the best they knew” (Lewis 136). And Lewis once wrote in a letter, “I think that every prayer which is sincerely made even to a false god or to a very imperfectly conceived true God, is accepted by the true God and that Christ saves many who do not think they know him” (qtd. in Sennett 235). One problem with these statements is that they assume a capacity for sincerity, and authentically good motives, in unredeemed humans. They also imply that those virtues are enough to gain God’s grace. But are we not taught that, although Christ transforms us, and through Him we can do all things, without Him we are dead? Has Lewis progressed from the possibility of encountering Jesus by a different name, to the non-necessity of encountering Him at all?

Before this question can be answered, however, we must establish the effect that encountering Christ actually has on the process of inheriting eternal life. In the previous examples of salvation in Narnia, transformation always comes when Aslan is seen. Does this mean that encounter and salvation are synonymous, and that experience of Christ is enough to bring life in itself? If so, and God’s goodness, beauty, and terror are too awesome to be resisted, then God could force Himself upon us by simply revealing His presence. However, this is not the case—a choice must still be made. In The Horse and his Boy, Prince Rabadash meets Aslan with the hate-filled words: “Demon! Demon! Demon! [. . .] I know you. You are the foul fiend of Narnia” (Lewis 307). This statement bears a strange resemblance to the demonic cry of recognition: “What do you want with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are—the Holy One of God!” (Mark 1:24). Rabadash stands as a reminder that Aslan’s grace must be accepted, not simply experienced. As James 2:19 states, even the demons believe—and shudder.

But if encountering Aslan is not enough to lead to salvation, the question still remains, is it necessary? The answer to this question is complex, but ultimately, I think it is affirmative. Coming to life in Christ is a perplexing and mysterious process, about which C.S. Lewis says, “A good many different theories have been held as to how it works; [but] what all Christians are agreed on is that it does work” (Mere Christianity 37). Although we may never fully understand how Christ saves, part of His work seems inextricably bound up in the individual’s response to “the central Christian belief [. . .] that Christ’s death has somehow put us right with God and given us a fresh start” (Lewis, Mere Christianity 37). In God’s infinite wisdom and mercy, Christ’s grace does not seem to be enough; we must respond to that grace. We must respond to Him. And how are we to respond, if we never encounter Him?

This is not a question of knowing Christ by the right name, or of knowing “the true stories of Aslan” (Lewis, HHB 282), but of simply knowing Him. It is about having the opportunity to look Him in the face—Him of who Emeth says, “It is better to see the Lion and die than to be the Tisroc of the world and live and not to have seen him” (Lewis, LB 756). And it is about responding to that look, with either hatred or love. For, ultimately, those seem to be the only choices. As Christ himself states, “He who is not with me is against me” (Mathew 12:30).
But if an encounter with Christ is necessary, then we are back to a slightly modified version of the question, what of those who have never heard? It now becomes, what of those who have never seen? Never seen Aslan, never looked into the eyes that are “gold that is liquid in the furnace” (Lewis, LB 756), or had him touch his tongue to their foreheads—what of them? Is this a twisted form of predestination, where Christ reveals Himself to some, and not to others, therefore selecting those who can choose to respond, and banishing the rest to the darkness? I believe C.S. Lewis answers this challenge with an emphatic no.

I John 2:23 reads: “No one who denies the Son has the Father; whoever acknowledges the Son has the Father also.” The implication is that, to lose life, Jesus must be denied, not merely lived in ignorance of. If salvation results from a person’s belief in Christ, once encountered, then, conversely, damnation is a rejection of Christ, also once encountered. Salvation cannot occur without meeting God, but neither can damnation. Both result from a person’s response to the Messiah, and response requires encounter.

And encounter we shall have, every one of us—though not necessarily on this earth. The Bible makes it very clear that all of humanity shall stand before its Maker on the Day of Judgment. Christian or not, we shall all have our hearts laid bear and be without excuse. As Lewis says of that day, “This time it will be God without disguise; something so overwhelming that it will strike either irresistible love or irresistible horror into every creature [. . .] That will not be the time for choosing: it will be the time when we discover which side we really have chosen, whether we realized it before or not” (Mere Christianity 42). We shall see the glory of the Lord, and we shall respond with all that we are, and ever have been.

In the Bible, Jesus states, “Seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives” (Matthew 7:7-8). The promise is that those who search will find God—but when is never specified. In The Last Battle, Emeth meets Aslan on the other side of death, and like Shasta on the mountaintop, takes one look at the Glorious One and falls on his face in worship. And Aslan, who is “more terrible than the Flaming Mountain of Lagour, and in beauty [. . .] surpasse[s] all that is in the world even as the rose in bloom surpasses the dust of the desert” (Lewis, LB 756), responds by bending his glorious head to kiss the Calormen’s forehead. Sennett argues that the only significant difference between Shasta’s meeting with the Lion, and Emeth’s, is that the one takes place in life, and the other after death. And this is only important because it is not important at all: “Aslan’s ability to grant the grace that is the natural culmination of the journey is not limited by the confines of birth and death [. . .] In the context of the all important matter of searching after truth, the question of which side of the Stable Door Emeth stands on when he finds it strikes us as totally irrelevant—and it is. All that is relevant is what the Lion knows—that Emeth, like Shasta, was on the journey (Sennett 241).” Whether Christ is met in life or death is insignificant—the important factor is that, once seen, He is embraced.

In the end, Lewis is urging us to throw ourselves on the mercy of God. We must seek truth, respond to the beauty we see, and go forward in obedience. We can only walk on in the knowledge we have, but walk on we must. Ultimately, many of us may find ourselves in the position of Emeth, meeting the Lion with the brokenhearted confession, “I have been seeking Tash all my days.” But our God is a God of mercy, as well as justice, and Aslan’s response is not to condemn, but to declare, “Beloved [. . .] unless thy desire had been for me thou wouldst not have sought so long and so truly. For all find what they truly seek” (Lewis, LB 757). Regardless of language, the I AM is Lord, and He will reward all who have honestly pursued Him. Every journey will culminate in an audience with the High King, and there shall be no excuses. He shall either be the fulfillment of everything we have lived and longed for, or the horror we have always fled. All things shall be made clear, “justice shall be mixed with mercy” (HHB 307), and God shall save all who are truly His.

Works Cited

Lewis, C.S. The Horse and his Boy. The Chronicles of Narnia. New York: HarperCollins, 2001. 205-309.
---. The Last Battle. The Chronicles of Narnia. New York: HarperCollins, 2001. 669-767.
---. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. The Chronicles of Narnia. New York: HarperCollins, 2001.111-197.
---. The Magician’s Nephew. The Chronicles of Narnia. New York: HarperCollins, 2001. 11-106.
---. Mere Christianity. The Complete C.S. Lewis Signature Classics. New York: HarperCollins, 2002. 1-118.
---. The Screwtape Letters. The Complete C.S. Lewis Signature Classics. New York: HarperCollins, 2002. 125-188.
Nash, Ronald H. Is Jesus the Only Savior? Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1994.
Sennett, James F. “Worthy of a Better God: Religious Diversity and Salvation in The Chronicles of Narnia.” The Chronicles of Narnia and Philosophy: The Lion, the Witch, and the Worldview. Ed. Gregory Bassham and Jerry L. Walls. Chicago: Open Court, 2005.