Green plains running up to towering mountains, beckoning travelers to indescribable delights beyond. Thus Lewis describes the heavenly countries in his fantasy The Great Divorce. We encounter a land more vibrant, more true, more real than the land we know, grounded in the Ultimate Reality of God himself. It is a master description for evoking longing, stirring in my heart the ache for the world set to rights and assuring me that my longings are not meaningless or absurd, but they point to something real, to Someone Real. Soaking in Lewis’ imagery, I ache with desire for what lies beyond the mountains. I ache to move “further up and further in” to a redeemed creation, no longer groaning but singing for joy at the revelation of the sons of God.
But this movement requires death. “For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it.” It means giving up my rights, my accomplishments, ultimately myself. Only in dying to self can the ghosts become solid, able to bend the grass beneath their feet. Reading the stories of ghosts caught in tension between ultimate joy and their own wills, I am convicted of the deep selfishness entwining my heart. So many of my thoughts remain in a self-referential box, like the infinite but small circle of Chesterton’s lunatic. But as I was reminded again of the ultimate worth of true joy, of the pearl and treasure worth selling all to obtain, I felt the selfishness (or at least the top layer) broken off of me.
At my core, I am like a little child who loves to worship that which is greater, delighting to explore the unknown, looking bright-eyed at the world. But I grow up and grow old, forgetting this child as I begin to come to grips with the hugeness and harshness of the world. Growing up is necessary, and yet it feels like a peace of me dies to lose that childlike delight in worship. Jesus told his disciples to “be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves.” How do I grow in maturity and insight, but also in child-like faith? This is a question I haven’t yet resolved, but I feel like I had a glimpse of an answer recently in the form of an old yet young teacher named Donald Drew. I see the twinkle in Donald’s eye as he remembers to make jokes, even if he’s forgotten my name. And later I see tears welling up in those same eyes as he holds my hand, urging me to say aloud a line from Luther so that it fills my senses and my soul, this line that has remained his mantra: “In the great hand of God, I stand.”
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