There are a thousand individual events in the course of every man’s life, by which God takes a hold of him—a thousand breaches by which he would and does enter, little as the man may know it; but there is one universal and unchanging grasp he keeps upon the race, yet not as the race, for the grasp is upon every solitary single individual that has a part in it: that grasp is—death in its mystery. To whom can the man who is about to die in absolute loneliness and go he cannot tell whither, flee for refuge from the doubts and fears that assail him, but to the Father of his being?”
“But,” said Drew, “I cannot see what harm would come of letting us know a little—as much at least as might serve to assure us that there was more of SOMETHING on the other side.”
“Just this,” returned Polwarth, “that, their fears allayed, their hopes encouraged from any lower quarter, men would, as usual, turn away from the fountain to the cistern of life, from the ever fresh original creative Love to that drawn off and shut in. That there are thousands who would forget God if they could but be assured of such a tolerable state of things beyond the grave as even this wherein we now live, is plainly to be anticipated from the fact that the doubts of so many in respect of religion concentrate themselves now-a-days upon the question whether there is any life beyond the grave; a question which, although no doubt nearly associated with religion,—as what question worth asking is not?—does not immediately belong to religion at all. Satisfy such people, if you can, that they shall live, and what have they gained? A little comfort perhaps—but a comfort not from the highest source, and possibly gained too soon for their well-being. Does it bring them any nearer to God than they were before? Is he filling one cranny more of their hearts in consequence? Their assurance of immortality has not come from a knowledge of him, and without him it is worse than worthless. Little indeed has been gained, and that with the loss of much. The word applies here which our Lord in his parable puts into the mouth of Abraham: If they hear not Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded though one rose from the dead. He does not say they would not believe in a future state though one rose from the dead—although most likely they would soon persuade themselves that the apparition after all was only an illusion—[Footnote: See Lynch’s admirable sermon on this subject.] but that they would not be persuaded to repent, though one rose from the dead; and without that, what great matter whether they believed in a future state or not? It would only be the worse for them if they did. No, Mr. Drew! I repeat, it is not a belief in immortality that will deliver a man from the woes of humanity, but faith in the God of life, the father of lights, the God of all consolation and comfort. Believing in him, a man can leave his friends, and their and his own immortality, with everything else—even his and their love and perfection, with utter confidence in his hands. Until we have the life in us, we shall never be at peace. The living God dwelling in the heart he has made, and glorifying it by inmost speech with himself—that is life, assurance, and safety. Nothing less is or can be such.”
Do you think he is making out the difference in motivation for righteousness between self preservation and for the sake of simply goodness, seeking for God?
That is certainly the way I’m seeing it. There seems to be a theme here among the last several GM selections that there is something of more foundational importance than mere immortality, such as people conceive of such a thing now. And that is - that there be something actually worth being immortal for. An immortality in hell is nothing to be desired obviously. And even setting aside our modern conceptions of ‘eternal conscious torment’ - even with all that brushed aside … any immortality short of shared bliss in a Sabbath-rest home in good relation with the central longing of our souls - anything short of that would be mere prolonged existence that is still nothing better than hell. So if one is not convinced of an infinitely good, merciful, and loving God - then all one could really hope for is that they will not have any immortal existence. All this to say then that one of those convictions certainly has priority over the other!
The last entry concluded the last of those pulled from the Curate, and now entries 314-332 will all be coming from “Sir Gibbie”
(314) The Eternal Now
The sun was hot for an hour or two in the middle of the day, but even then in the shadow dwelt a cold breath—of the winter, or of death—of something that humanity felt unfriendly. To Gibbie, however, bare-legged, bare-footed, almost bare-bodied as he was, sun or shadow made small difference, except as one of the musical intervals of life that make the melody of existence. His bare feet knew the difference on the flags, and his heart recognized unconsciously the secret as it were of a meaning and a symbol, in the change from the one to the other, but he was almost as happy in the dull as in the bright day. Hardy through hardship, he knew nothing better than a constant good-humoured sparring with nature and circumstance for the privilege of being, enjoyed what came to him thoroughly, never mourned over what he had not, and, like the animals, was at peace. For the bliss of the animals lies in this, that, on their lower level, they shadow the bliss of those—few at any moment on the earth—who do not “look before and after, and pine for what is not,” but live in the holy carelessness of the eternal now. Gibbie by no means belonged to the higher order, was as yet, indeed, not much better than a very blessed little animal.
As found in MacDonald’s “Sir Gibbie” (but as always with the added emphasis to indicate the specific totality of C.S. Lewis’ selection from the passage.)
I think the background here is what Gibbie makes of his life…and how he matures. I would like to hear what you think, though. He is the son of a baronet who unfortunateLy lost everything to drink. The father, Sir Gilbert, works as a cobbler, but squanders everything he makes, so that his son runs about on rags, malnourished. Still, the father remains outwardly kind, and does not even realize he is neglecting his son. Despite his horrendous circumstances, Gibbie (short for Gilbert as well, like his father’s name), as a child of about ten, tried to help everyone he meets. He does not become bitter, distrustful, or angry. It may be because he worked so hard to survive, and some people did try to help him a bit (like the pub owner where his father drank, and a baker’s daughter, for whom he found a trinket in the gutter). It’s not clear to me. Several times he personifies Christ… When he befriends the socially despised, to animals…and when he receives, unjustly, whip marks in the form of a cross on his back. He can not speak…which reminds me a bit of Isaiah’s description of the lamb who did not open his mouth. As he matures, his giving nature only blossoms, as he learns of Christ from a poor, elderly couple who rescue and adopt him after the whipping/crucifixion. I love MacDonald’s virtuous protagonists. They are almost like poems or sermons on how to live godly, and redeem our lives to become like His
Thanks for that recap, Randy. It’s been a few years since I read this one, but I do recall everything as you’ve described it. And I agree with you about Gibbie’s Christ-like presence.
One personally fascinating thing for me about this character of MacDonald’s that was impressed on me when I first read the book, and is firmly fixed in my mind still - is that I had a young man as a student (in real life not that many years ago) who, while being older than Gibbie in the story, and certainly not neglected like Gibbie was (this young man’s parents are kind and generous people - good friends of mine to this day); despite all that - this young man’s face, countenance, demeaner, and attitude have an essential quality about them that my mind equates with Gibbie in this story. In some ways he was a troubled young man and certainly acquainted with strife and hardship (especially in school with us teachers - was not any kind of ‘model’ student). And he had a real mischievous side too that got him into trouble more than once. So on the surface perhaps one may wonder just where I’m seeing any parallels. And yet the way Gibbie’s character was developed, was to me a picture-perfect description of an essential gentleness of this real-world young man’s heart! And what I know of this young man (now out of school) has done nothing but reinforce this impression of mine in how he carries himself (now with a wife and two children of his own.) I won’t give any more details because of confidentiality since this is a public forum.
But he is a real-world Gibbie in my eyes, and I cannot read that story without his face being Gibbie’s in my imagination.
How Gibbie had got thus far alive was a puzzle not a creature could have solved. It must have been by charity and ministration of more than one humble woman, but no one now claimed any particular interest in him—except Mrs. Croale, and hers was not very tender. It was a sad sight to some eyes to see him roving the streets, but an infinitely sadder sight was his father, even when bent over his work, with his hands and arms and knees going as if for very salvation. What thoughts might then be visiting his poor worn-out brain I cannot tell; but he looked the pale picture of misery. Doing his best to restore to service the nearly shapeless boots of carter or beggar, he was himself fast losing the very idea of his making, consumed heart and soul with a hellish thirst. For the thirst of the drunkard is even more of the soul than of the body. When the poor fellow sat with his drinking companions in Mistress Croale’s parlour, seldom a flash broke from the reverie in which he seemed sunk, to show in what region of fancy his spirit wandered, or to lighten the dulness that would not unfrequently invade that forecourt of hell. For even the damned must at times become aware of what they are, and then surely a terrible though momentary hush must fall upon the forsaken region. Yet those drinking companions would have missed George Galbraith, silent as he was, and but poorly responsive to the wit and humour of the rest; for he was always courteous, always ready to share what he had, never looking beyond the present tumbler—altogether a genial, kindly, honest nature. Sometimes, when two or three of them happened to meet elsewhere, they would fall to wondering why the silent man sought their company, seeing he both contributed so little to the hilarity of the evening, and seemed to derive so little enjoyment from it. But I believe their company was necessary as well as the drink to enable him to elude his conscience and feast with his imagination. Was it that he knew they also fought misery by investments in her bonds—that they also were of those who by Beelzebub would cast out Beelzebub—therefore felt at home, and with his own?
Thanks. I agree–I think many of us have found people that remind us of those in the MacDonald books–Christlike figures who seem to be really humble. I think my dad was pretty close to Malcolm, in his other series. That was a hero of his and my mom’s. At any rate, I do appreciate the sermon type stories, too.
Wow, there’s so much to unpack here. Some of it I think I miss because my consciousness was not so thick with Bible verses as his, even though my parents were missionaries.
–He was considerate and kind
–Being with others can dull our conscience
–So, I have thought of Jesus’ rebuke to the Pharisees that Beelzebub would not cast himself out–but here’s an illustration of how we block our own consciences–and thus do worse.
–It’s interesting, how even in my own sins of habit, I can willfully try to harden my heart–but sometimes I see the fruits of my selfishness, which helps me try to repent.
–I remember the quote when Sir Gilbert died, whent the drink eventually killed him:
He was gone to see what God could do for him there, for whom nothing more could be done here.
Seems that Macdonald was always looking for opportunities for repentance and recovery of lost relationships.
PS here’s a list of Biblical allusions that I remember reading–it’s a quiz to see how many we can still recognize, which people used to use frequently. I’m not very good at it!
I recognized most of those biblical allusions, but there were a fair number that I either don’t remember or maybe have never heard of … “the widow’s mite”, yes - but … “the widow’s muse”?
That’s an apt phrase. Or even perhaps higher praise yet - GM is “thick with biblical narrative”. I.e. He is saturated with the Spirit behind it and where (who) it points toward. He would despise the practice of mere proof-texting, and yet - without him even being interested in ‘trying’ - the passages and verses just come bursting from his fiction at every turn!
Speaking of stuff saturated with biblical allusions … here is this morning’s serving …
(316) Dipsomania (means alcoholism)
Alas for the human soul inhabiting a drink-fouled brain! It is a human soul still, and wretched in the midst of all that whisky can do for it. From the pit of hell it cries out. So long as there is that which can sin, it is a man. And the prayer of misery carries its own justification, when the sober petitions of the self-righteous and the unkind are rejected. He who forgives not is not forgiven, and the prayer of the Pharisee is as the weary beating of the surf of hell, while the cry of a soul out of its fire sets the heart-strings of love trembling. There are sins which men must leave behind them, and sins which they must carry with them. Society scouts the drunkard because he is loathsome, and it matters nothing whether society be right or wrong, while it cherishes in its very bosom vices which are, to the God-born thing we call the soul, yet worse poisons. Drunkards and sinners, hard as it may be for them to enter into the kingdom of heaven, must yet be easier to save than the man whose position, reputation, money, engross his heart and his care, who seeks the praise of men and not the praise of God. When I am more of a Christian, I shall have learnt to be sorrier for the man whose end is money or social standing than for the drunkard. But now my heart, recoiling from the one, is sore for the other—for the agony, the helplessness, the degradation, the nightmare struggle, the wrongs and cruelties committed, the duties neglected, the sickening ruin of mind and heart. So often, too, the drunkard is originally a style of man immeasurably nobler than the money-maker! Compare a Coleridge, Samuel Taylor or Hartley, with—no; that man has not yet passed to his account. God has in his universe furnaces for the refining of gold, as well as for the burning of chaff and tares and fruitless branches; and, however they may have offended, it is the elder brother who is the judge of all the younger ones.
Positively or negatively, then, everybody was good to him, and Gibbie felt it; but what could make up for the loss of his Paradise, the bosom of a father? Drunken father as he was, I know of nothing that can or ought to make up for such a loss, except that which can restore it—the bosom of the Father of fathers.
He roamed the streets, as all his life before, the whole of the day, and part of the night; he took what was given him, and picked up what he found. There were some who would gladly have brought him within the bounds of an ordered life; he soon drove them to despair, however, for the streets had been his nursery, and nothing could keep him out of them. But the sparrow and the rook are just as respectable in reality, though not in the eyes of the hen-wife, as the egg-laying fowl, or the dirt-gobbling duck; and, however Gibbie’s habits might shock the ladies of Mr. Sclater’s congregation who sought to civilize him, the boy was no more about mischief in the streets at midnight, than they were in their beds. They collected enough for his behoof to board him for a year with an old woman who kept a school, and they did get him to sleep one night in her house. But in the morning, when she would not let him run out, brought him into the school-room, her kitchen, and began to teach him to write, Gibbie failed to see the good of it. He must have space, change, adventure, air, or life was not worth the name to him. Above all he must see friendly faces, and that of the old dame was not such. But he desired to be friendly with her, and once, as she leaned over him, put up his hand—not a very clean one, I am bound to give her the advantage of my confessing—to stroke her cheek: she pushed him roughly away, rose in indignation upon her crutch, and lifted her cane to chastise him for the insult. A class of urchins, to Gibbie’s eyes at least looking unhappy, were at the moment blundering through the twenty-third psalm. Ever after, even when now Sir Gilbert more than understood the great song, the words, “thy rod and thy staff,” like the spell of a necromancer would still call up the figure of the dame irate, in her horn spectacles and her black-ribboned cap, leaning with one arm on her crutch, and with the other uplifting what was with her no mere symbol of authority. Like a shell from a mortar, he departed from the house. She hobbled to the door after him, but his diminutive figure many yards away, his little bare legs misty with swiftness as he ran, was the last she ever saw of him, and her pupils had a bad time of it the rest of the day. He never even entered the street again in which she lived. Thus, after one night’s brief interval of respectability, he was again a rover of the city, a flitting insect that lighted here and there, and spread wings of departure the moment a fresh desire awoke.
That’s a really pithy observation. It’s hard for us, sometimes, to realize how much the Bible, and Christianity, can associate with abuse in the minds of many–
Just the iteration of the gospel, in words, can be offensive, if it comes with such clothes.
I think this may be a meditation on how we interpret life–and yet, a father who loved Gibbie was, I guess, a type of father that helped him long for the real one.
Do you think Lewis’ choice was to remind us that being “good” doesn’t mean “useful” necessarily?
It made me think of two things: First, the Catholic school in the town where I grew up. For many years one of the nuns was known as a tyrant and her methods of discipline turned more than a few people off Catholicism. Second, as a university student almost every time the Campus Crusade for Christ people did an “outreach” in the campus quad there were students who quite bluntly told them that their actions spoke louder than words and their actions spoke of arrogance and self-righteousness. CCC was regarded as wanting to make everyone follow rules and being somewhat racist (out of a regular attendance of over a hundred at their weekly meetings over the course of three years there was one black student, no Asians, and maybe one Hispanic). The rules accusation wasn’t without foundation, and the group seemed more a white upper middle class social gathering than anything to outsiders.
I have to wonder how my view of fathers when growing up affected me: every father I knew, including my own, was strict and somewhat distant; that was what fathers were expected to be in our rural and small town setting. I’m not sure I ever grasped the idea of a loving father until I’d been exposed to some and some other father-figures years down the college and later path.
Interesting. I’m reminded of how Martin Luther repeatedly drove home the point that all callings, from farmer to bishop, from housewife to nun, are equally holy if lived as Christians, but he emphasized doing one’s calling well – which strikes me now as meaning “useful”.
Which I think is an appropriate emphasis for one to apply to themselves (although even there - this criteria easily fails I think.) But it should never be applied as an evaluation of others. It’s one thing for me to want to make myself useful to friends / coworkers / neighbors / - especially family. But quite another to make that a criteria for assigning value to people generally. Which is tricky - if I’m valuing it for myself. I think the key may be in the motivation. Am I desperately working to become useful because I imagine my worth (even in God’s eyes) is tied to that? Or is it a consequence of my wish to respond to God’s love by doing what I can? There is a world of difference between those two I think.
Evil language and coarse behaviour alike passed over him, without leaving the smallest stain upon heart or conscience, desire or will. No one could doubt it who considered the clarity of his face and eyes, in which the occasional but not frequent expression of keenness and promptitude scarcely even ruffled the prevailing look of unclouded heavenly babyhood.
If any one thinks I am unfaithful to human fact, and overcharge the description of this child, I on my side doubt the extent of the experience of that man or woman. I admit the child a rarity, but a rarity in the right direction, and therefore a being with whom humanity has the greater need to be made acquainted. I admit that the best things are the commonest, but the highest types and the best combinations of them are the rarest. There is more love in the world than anything else, for instance; but the best love and the individual in whom love is supreme are the rarest of all things. That for which humanity has the strongest claim upon its workmen, is the representation of its own best; but the loudest demand of the present day is for the representation of that grade of humanity of which men see the most—that type of things which could never have been but that it might pass. The demand marks the commonness, narrowness, low-levelled satisfaction of the age. It loves its own—not that which might be, and ought to be its own—not its better self, infinitely higher than its present, for the sake of whose approach it exists. I do not think that the age is worse in this respect than those which have preceded it, but that vulgarity, and a certain vile contentment swelling to self-admiration, have become more vocal than hitherto; just as unbelief, which I think in reality less prevailing than in former ages, has become largely more articulate, and thereby more loud and peremptory. But whatever the demand of the age, I insist that that which ought to be presented to its beholding, is the common good uncommonly developed, and that not because of its rarity, but because it is truer to humanity. Shall I admit those conditions, those facts, to be true exponents of humanity, which, except they be changed, purified, or abandoned, must soon cause that humanity to cease from its very name, must destroy its very being? To make the admission would be to assert that a house may be divided against itself, and yet stand. It is the noble, not the failure from the noble, that is the true human; and if I must show the failure, let it ever be with an eye to the final possible, yea, imperative, success.
She turned therefore to the parable of the prodigal son, and read it. Even that had not a few words and phrases unknown to Gibbie, but he did not fail to catch the drift of the perfect story. For had not Gibbie himself had a father, to whose bosom he went home every night? Let but love be the interpreter, and what most wretched type will not serve the turn for the carriage of profoundest truth! The prodigal’s lowest degradation, Gibbie did not understand; but Janet saw the expression of the boy’s face alter with every tone of the tale, through all the gamut between the swine’s trough and the arms of the father. Then at last he burst—not into tears—Gibbie was not much acquainted with weeping—but into a laugh of loud triumph. He clapped his hands, and in a shiver of ecstasy, stood like a stork upon one leg, as if so much of him was all that could be spared for this lower world, and screwed himself together.
Janet was well satisfied with her experiment. Most Scotch women, and more than most Scotch men, would have rebuked him for laughing, but Janet knew in herself a certain tension of delight which nothing served to relieve but a wild laughter of holiest gladness; and never in tears of deepest emotion did her heart appeal more directly to its God. It is the heart that is not yet sure of its God, that is afraid to laugh in his presence.
Thus had Gibbie his first lesson in the only thing worth learning, in that which, to be learned at all, demands the united energy of heart and soul and strength and mind; and from that day he went on learning it.