By Sarah Arthur

At the height of political tension in this country, in the midst of war, it seems strange to set aside an entire month to focus on a long-dead British author who never stepped foot on American soil, much less visited northern Michigan. When there are so many other things to discuss, why Lewis? What could C.S. Lewis possibly have to do with issues related to our visit to the polls on Tuesday, for example? What could a rather cloistered professor of medieval and renaissance literature have to say to a wartime nation in an age of global terrorism and the worldwide web?

Well, perhaps we can start with what Lewis had to say to his own wartime nation over 60 years ago. In the midst of WWII, Lewis gave a series of radio talks on the BBC that eventually became one of his most famous works: Mere Christianity. He was able to touch on some of the universal questions we still wrestle with today, such as What is the right course of action? And how is "right" decided? Who decides it? Where do we get our notions of right and wrong in the first place? What ramifications does this have for our personal lives?

And somehow, in a way that seems foreign to us in America today, he was able to discuss issues of faith without making those issues political. Not only that, but he was able to do so without the theological rhetoric of liberal vs. conservative of which we are all guilty, including me. He could have written as an Anglican, but he didn’t. He wrote with incredible ecumenism that makes him accessible to a broad spectrum of people, whether they agree with him or not. This is in part why people in this community are drawn to Lewis.

"That’s all very well and good," you might say to me, "because you like Lewis and agree with his ideas." Yes, in a way that’s true. This festival is my attempt to wave a magic wand and create a sort of intellectual and literary Turkish Delight in which I get to binge on my favorite author of all time. It’s like being stuck in one of Jasper Fford’s Thursday Next episodes (e.g. The Eyre Affair), where classic literature is pop culture and characters like Hamlet show up in your local restaurant. Except in this case we’re greeted at Crooked Tree Arts Center by Prince Caspian himself and we’re ordering food inspired by Hwin & Bree at the Perry Hotel. This is my ideal festival because this particular author has made an indelible mark on my life.

"But why," you ask, "should you inflict your favorite author on me?" Well, I believe that for this community, during such a polarizing time politically and religiously in our nation, Lewis’s ecumenical and apolitical approach to crucial questions comes as a breath of fresh air. We have a rather distressing history around here in terms of the way we interact with those with whom we disagree, and this is to our shame. What I think Lewis provides is the opportunity to discuss difficult issues without the usual baggage. Whether or not we agree with his answers, we at least find ourselves given permission to ponder that which is timeless and eternal in the midst of the timely and urgent.

But more importantly, he offers us a break from the fray altogether through his amazing gift as a storyteller.

As we know, C.S. Lewis wrote what is considered the most popular children’s series of the twentieth century, The Chronicles of Narnia. And, as many have observed, his stories strongly reflect his Christian worldview. The question that really intrigues me about Narnia is, Which came first: the theology or the story? And I’m not sure there’s a really good answer. I’m curious to see what Chris Mitchell and Michael Ward might have to say about that at the daylong seminar on Nov. 6.

But at least for me, Lewis’s stories came first. His influence on my imagination predates his influence on my faith—though I suspect that somehow, imagination and belief are inextricably entwined in all of us.

Let’s start with the imagination. Lewis’s influence goes back to my childhood. My dad started reading the Chronicles of Narnia to me and my sister when we were little; I continued reading them all the way through junior high and high school. The alarming thing is that I sometimes couldn't tell where Lewis's imagination left off and mine began: that’s how much I lived in his creative landscape of Narnia. I believe Lewis influenced my imagination at the very time when the imagination is most open to being shaped and formed, when I was a child.

What I didn’t know at the time is that Lewis’s imaginative landscape was full of props, costumes, and sets from the old, dusty theater of myth and mythology, particularly from the Middle Ages and the renaissance. I eventually came to recognize unicorns in medieval paintings because I saw them first in Narnia—a rather backwards approach, but something I suspect Lewis would find astonishing. I also somehow missed the fact that much in the Chronicles echoes the Christian drama both in symbolism and in overt allegory. This is one of the greatest gifts my parents gave me: they didn’t hand me the secret decoder ring and say, "Now, you know Aslan represents Jesus, right?" Even though I was raised with a Christian worldview I didn’t get the concept that some things are meant to be "Christian" and some things are not. Good Night Moon, James and the Giant Peach, Prince Caspian—there were no distinctions in my mind. They were just great stories. But to me, Lewis’s were the best.

It wasn’t until a random encounter in high school that it finally clicked in my mind that of course C.S. Lewis was a Christian. A classmate, noticing I had a beat-up copy of The Magician’s Nephew on hand, said something like "Well, it makes sense that you, of all people, are reading Lewis, because he was a Christian and all those stories are full of Christian symbols." And I probably said, "Well, yeah, I knew that." But that day I left class thinking, "Of course! Duh! That changes everything!"

Somehow it hadn’t occurred to me before that Lewis had intentionally put Christian symbolism into the Chronicles of Narnia. Again, nobody had handed me the secret decoder ring, and I wouldn’t have wanted them to. Now all of sudden I went from encountering the world of Lewis’s imagination to encountering the world of his theology. For some readers, that’s a difficult and possibly frustrating leap. But because I was—and am—a Christian, it was more like, "Oh yeah! That’s why I love this story." It didn’t mar my experience with Lewis’s imaginative world. It rather added layers of meaning and depths of perception that made me go back and read all the stories again more attuned to their spiritual implications.

Well, all of the stories except for the last one, that is, because I couldn’t bring myself to read it. For some reason, all throughout my childhood and teen years, I couldn't get past the first few pages of The Last Battle, even though I tried several times. You don’t get very far into those first few pages before you realize that something is terribly wrong in Narnia, and it will only get worse, and nothing will ever be the same again. That’s not the kind of story I wanted to read. My reason was that I didn't want Narnia to end. It was so much a part of my imagination -- even my identity -- that I couldn't fathom a world without it. Part of that was my general resistance to growing up. But part of that was recognizing that in the world of Narnia, at least, I was among friends and comrades. In my mind, I was a true Narnian. But I assumed you can’t be a Narnian if your home country no longer exists even in the author’s imagination.

Eventually I read The Last Battle sometime later in high school, an act that I now realize was an important step in growing up for me. Narnia came to an end, and I survived, and I hadn’t lost my faith.

In fact, growing up didn’t mean growing out of Lewis or even growing out of Narnia. I discovered some of Lewis’s other works when I was preparing to write a paper for my Advanced Placement Literature course during my senior year in high school. We were to explore an author with whom we felt a particular connection, and so I picked up Mere Christianity, The Screwtape Letters, and Lewis’s autobiography Surprised by Joy. And in the reading of those "Christian" works, the same thing happened to the development of my theology that happened to the development of my imagination: Lewis influenced my theology at the very time when I was most open for it to be shaped and formed. Again, the alarming thing is that even to this day I'm not sure where Lewis's theological ideas leave off and mine begin.

But this isn’t true for all of us, not even for all of us on the Lewis Festival Committee, as Suzanne will likely discuss in the next lecture. Certainly for those who struggle with his theology, Lewis’s fiction is more accessible than his other works. And when I myself am feeling especially cranky about things related to religious issues in this country, I too prefer Narnia any day.

My hope is that through this festival, Lewis can provide us with an arena where people of widely disparate views and experiences can meet as friends and fellow Narnians. We can take refuge in his imaginative landscape because he provides what I call a "Wood Between the Worlds." His fictional world offers us time apart to simply be, not just do, giving us reprieve from "the tyranny of the urgent" and helping us escape for awhile into the timeless and eternal. Lewis’s stories offer opportunities for self-forgetfulness, where we can ignore all the conflicts and labels and bumper-stickers and reclaim our sense of childlike wonder. For children, political and religious labels mean nothing. Kindergartners don’t sit around arguing over the liberal or conservative stickers on their lunchboxes. Sometimes we just need to be kids again.

Lewis can be a "wood between the worlds" for us between sacred and the secular, the child and the adult, the urgent and the timeless, the real and the imaginary, the inward and the outward tensions in our lives.

In summary, let me say I’m pleased we’ve decided to take a bit of a risk on an author like Lewis. While we may not all agree on his views, the C.S. Lewis Festival in northern Michigan is an invitation and an opportunity to leave the fray behind for awhile and enter the wardrobe, enter the magic land, enter the "Wood Between the Worlds" of the imagination; that roomy house in the country we visit with childlike wonder during wartime, in order to find a safe haven, a little mystery, and perhaps even adventure.