Aslan
and the Lost Boy
A young
boy named Shasta has had a hard life. He was abandoned when he was very young
and raised by a harsh fisherman. When he realizes he might be bought as a slave
by a wealthy visitor, he decides to try and escape. The wealthy man’s horse
happens to be a talking horse from Narnia, who convinces him that his homeland
of Narnia will suit them both better than servitude. As they set out together,
they encounter many dangers and trials as well as a few friends along the way.
As this little band nears Narnia, they get separated, on the run from lions and
enemy troops. By the time we catch up to Shasta, he is exhausted and nearing
despair. It does not appear as if his life is turning out very well. He is
being torn apart by his story, and he cannot keep it in much longer. If we
listen closely, we might see lament at work and find ourselves in his story.
Perhaps his story can give us renewed vision, intention and means[1]
to engage in this ancient practice of lament as disciples of Jesus.
"I do think,"
said Shasta, "that I must be the most unfortunate boy that ever lived in
the whole world. Everything goes right for everyone except me. Those Narnian
lords and ladies got safe away from Tashbaan; I was left behind. Aravis and
Bree and Hwin are all as snug as anything with that old Hermit: of course I was
the one who was sent on. King Lune and his people must have got safely into the
castle and shut the gates long before Rabadash arrived, but I get left
out."
And being very tired and
having nothing inside him, he felt so sorry for himself that the tears rolled
down his cheeks.[2]
Shasta
is recounting his sorrows. Engaging in self-pity is often the first step toward
lament. We allow ourselves to think about our suffering as something important.
We give voice to what we’ve lived, if only in our own heads. It is very easy to
get stuck at this point, wallowing in our sorrows and rehearsing the wounds of
the past. We must often be frightened awake by something or someone outside of
us, something that helps us consider a new interpretation.
What put a stop to all
this was a sudden fright. Shasta discovered that someone or somebody was
walking beside him. It was pitch dark and he could see nothing. And the Thing
(or Person) was going so quietly that he could hardly hear any footfalls. What
he could hear was breathing. His invisible companion seemed to breathe on a
very large scale, and Shasta got the impression that it was a very large
creature. And he had come to notice this breathing so gradually that he had
really no idea how long it had been there. It was a horrible shock.
It darted into his mind
that he had heard long ago that there were giants in these Northern countries.
He bit his lip in terror. But now that he really had something to cry about, he
stopped crying.[3]
Shasta
has encountered something (or someone) more disturbing than all his pain. He is
frightened awake to a larger world, which silences his tears in a way that
reason could never do. At this point, Shasta knows little to nothing about
Aslan, the Wild Lion of Narnia. His ignorance has opened him up to receive from
Aslan the gift of his presence in a way that is unguarded and raw. This scene
reminds us of Jesus coming alongside the two disciples on the road to Emmaus
(Luke 24:14-35). Jesus shows up in disguise to allow the two disciples full vent
to their grief. They are free to lament freely and to pour out their hearts
precisely because they don’t recognize Jesus as Jesus. Had Shasta seen
Aslan, he would have been too frightened to speak. Yet, he is frightened enough
out of his wallowing and intrigued by the silent mass of a Being beside him.
Finally the intrigue gives way to inquisitiveness and then to conversation.
The Thing (unless it was
a Person) went on beside him so very quietly that Shasta began to hope he had
only imagined it. But just as he was becoming quite sure of it, there suddenly
came a deep, rich sigh out of the darkness beside him. That couldn't be
imagination! Anyway, he had felt the hot breath of that sigh on his chilly left
hand.
. . . So he went on at a
walking pace and the unseen companion walked and breathed beside him. At last
he could bear it no longer.
"Who are you?"
he said, scarcely above a whisper.
"One who has waited
long for you to speak," said the Thing. Its voice was not loud, but very
large and deep.[4]
Shasta is able to finally put a voice to the presence. It
is a presence of One who has been waiting not to speak, but to listen. It is
the presence of One who has been waiting to receive Shasta’s words of pain and
sorrow. The One who sang Narnia into being with his voice chooses not to speak
in order to provide space for Shasta’s words. Aslan’s silence is Shasta’s
invitation. If you’ve ever sat with anyone in intense suffering, you know this
experience. Words fail at a certain point, and the only thing to do is wait and
listen.[5]
Each person’s suffering is unique and sacred. It is in those places where life
has pressed us to a point where we break and all that we thought we knew and
trusted in is tested by fire.
. . . "I can't see
you at all," said Shasta, after staring very hard. Then (for an even more
terrible idea had come into his head) he said, almost in a scream, "You're
not - not something dead, are you? Oh please - please do go away. What harm
have I ever done you? Oh, I am the unluckiest person in the whole world!"
Once more he felt the
warm breath of the Thing on his hand and face. "There," it said,
"that is not the breath of a ghost. Tell me your sorrows."
Shasta was a little
reassured by the breath: so he told how he had never known his real father or
mother and had been brought up sternly by the fisherman. And then he told the
story of his escape and how they were chased by lions and forced to swim for
their lives; and of all their dangers in Tashbaan and about his night among the
tombs and how the beasts howled at him out of the desert. And he told about the
heat and thirst of their desert journey and how they were almost at their goal
when another lion chased them and wounded Aravis. And also, how very long it
was since he had had anything to eat.[6]
Shasta cannot see the person or thing that he can hear,
and this makes him afraid. His fears rise until they get the better of him.
Fear that takes him back into the land of his sorrows. There, in the land of
his sorrows, Aslan’s simple invitation to “tell me your sorrows” acts like a
release on a pressure valve and all the toxic interpretations come bursting
forth. He holds nothing back, because he believes he has nothing left to lose.
Lament is God’s invitation, his breath on our hand gently
saying, “beloved child, tell me your sorrows.” Lament is given to us as a gift
from a loving Father who knows that if he showed up in all his glory we would
run for our lives. So, he comes to us often disguised in our own stories, as
things unnoticed and mundane. He comes in friends and strangers and birds and
rainfall.
Now the real action is taking place. No new
interpretations of Shasta’s story could be considered until he shares, of his
own volition, his predominant interpretation. This is Shasta’s confession, the
self-disclosure that is at the heart of all lament. We are not just crying out
about something wrong out there, but something radically wrong in
here. Something is wrong in me, something broken, and unless something
happens I won’t make it. This is lament.
"I do not call you
unfortunate," said the Large Voice.
. . . "I was the
lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among
the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you
slept. I was the lion who gave the Horses the new strength of fear for the last
mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not
remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it
came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you."[7]
Aslan begins his new creation of Shasta’s story by
challenging the existing interpretation. Shasta has been going on and on about
how “unlucky” he has been and “unfortunate.” He has identified with his sorrow
to such a degree that he is enmeshed with it. Aslan gently retells Shasta’s
story to show him how fortunate he has been in receiving Aslan’s providences.
Everything that Shasta believed is in upheaval and in disarray. There are no
more foundation stones left, and he is losing his sense of self. In a
surprising turn, everything that Shasta believed that was evidence for his
rejection and mistreatment is reworked between the paws of Aslan into something
else, something new. Shasta is shocked, taken aback.
"Then it was you
who wounded Aravis?"
"It was I."
"But what
for?"
"Child," said
the Voice, "I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story
but his own."
"Who are you?"
asked Shasta.
"Myself," said
the Voice, very deep and low so that the earth shook: and again
"Myself", loud and clear and gay: and then the third time
"Myself", whispered so softly you could hardly hear it, and yet it
seemed to come from all around you as if the leaves rustled with it.[8]
We now come to the crux of the story. Shasta comes back
to his opening question, “Who are you?” This is the fundamental question that
underlies all lament. The identity of God is at stake. What we need is to know
God better, and this is far more important than getting relief, gaining clarity
or regaining control.
This
One, whoever he is, is Lord of all stories.[9] In Narnia, Aslan is the only
one who can tell us our stories because he is the initiator and finisher of all
stories. Aslan is telling Shasta’s story, not Aravis’.[10] This is important because
our pain seems to be at times the strongest story we know. We need help seeing
that as powerful as it is, it is only a part of a much better story being told,
one which we do not yet understand. God is the only one who can help us
understand this.
This is
what lament does; it pours out all our pain at the feet of our Creator. If he
does not speak, we will not live. This is the crisis. If he does not re-tell us
our story, then we will be lost in a panoply of lesser stories of our own
making which are nothing more than ragged, discordant interpretations. In
telling our story to God, we open ourselves up to hearing our story retold. It
cannot happen otherwise. Listening is the backside of lament; once we’ve poured
ourselves out we feel empty. If we learn to listen for long periods of time, we
learn not to fear the silence or the emptiness. We might even catch a glimpse
of something glorious going on - resurrection.
Shasta was no longer
afraid that the Voice belonged to something that would eat him, nor that it was
the voice of a ghost. But a new and different sort of trembling came over him.
Yet he felt glad too.
The mist was turning
from black to grey and from grey to white. This must have begun to happen some
time ago, but while he had been talking to the Thing he had not been noticing
anything else. Now, the whiteness around him became a shining whiteness; his
eyes began to blink. Somewhere ahead he could hear birds singing. He knew the
night was over at last. He could see the mane and ears and head of his horse quite
easily now. A golden light fell on them from the left. He thought it was the
sun.
He turned and saw,
pacing beside him, taller than the horse, a Lion. The horse did not seem to be
afraid of it or else could not see it. It was from the Lion that the light
came. No one ever saw anything more terrible or beautiful.[11]
Finally, it is safe to see and be seen. Shasta sees Aslan
but is unafraid because he has won his trust. The beautiful story being told
has something to do with this beautiful Lion. He still feels fear, but it is
fear enveloped by trust. The stories that our hearts know and uniquely hold are
arguably the most sacred part about us. When we bring this out before God in
practices such as lament, God can’t help himself - he rushes to make himself
known to us in tender kindness. We find that this is what we’ve wanted all
along.
Conclusion: Learning
Lament Between the Paws
The High King above all kings stooped towards
him. Its mane, and some strange and solemn perfume that hung about the mane,
was all round him. It touched his forehead with its tongue. He lifted his face
and their eyes met. Then instantly the pale brightness of the mist and the
fiery brightness of the Lion rolled themselves together into a swirling glory
and gathered themselves up and disappeared. He was alone with the horse on a
grassy hillside under a blue sky. And there were birds singing.[12]
Shasta’s
encounter with Aslan was life transforming. Suddenly appearing next to him in
the dark, the Great Lion had invited Shasta to tell his story, particularly the
story that he had been rehearsing – a story of pain, disappointment and
despair. Had Shasta known who or what walked beside him, he surely would have
been too frightened to share anything so painfully sacred. Aslan’s anonymity
was necessary for Shasta to feel safe to share what was on his heart.
Several
themes can be gleaned from this encounter that can help us understand and enter
into the spiritual discipline of lament.
Aslan’s
Hiddenness
The
soft, gentle presence of Aslan next to Shasta invites him to open up the most
painful parts of his heart. As he laments in Aslan’s presence, he is invited
into an experience of shared intimacy with the Great King. Our God also shows
up in our stories as one who is weak and vulnerable, as needy as a baby in a
manger and as a crucified criminal. The hiddenness of Aslan draws out our most
sacred stories.
Aslan’s
Compassion
The
Great Lion is not distanced from the pain of those he rules. What he offers is
not quick fixes, but an invitation to relationship. He is not unfamiliar with
suffering, which helps us understand how Jesus can be a “man of suffering, and
familiar with pain” (Isa. 53:3a NIV). Lament is not directed toward an uncaring
deity of stoic resolve. We have a God who has entered our painful stories and
taken the worst of it upon himself.
Aslan’s
Beauty
In his
encounter with Aslan, Shasta (and Digory, before him) encounter a beauty so
rich, free and wild that it pierces them even more deeply than their pain.
Beauty is essential for lament because we need to know there is a better story
going on than the one contained in our pain. Sometimes, a walk outside among
trees, birds and flowers will do more for the sorrowing soul than a counseling
session. We remember that our God is a God of unending, soul piercing beauty -
a beauty that we were made to inhabit. Beauty reminds us that there is a vast
story being told by a good God, and somehow our pain (and lament) has a place.
As disorienting as our pain can be, we can never be dislodged from the love of
God in Christ.[13]
Some
Final Thoughts About Lament
Lament as seen through Narnian eyes
can help us bring our sorrows to God, with the growing experiential knowledge
that God meets us in our sorrows in every possible way that we need him
to. We find in the character Aslan a
symbolic lens through which to see Jesus Christ, and his desires for our lives.
Above all, he pursues relationship with us in order to teach us how to really
live.
Lament is, in one sense, “telling
God what we really think.” It is a form of confession that brings together the
dark plotlines in our lives and places them in the light of God’s healing
presence. For lament to be formative, we approach it as disciples with radical
honesty before God. This often involves allowing ourselves to feel and express
anger over our pain, as the Psalmists did.[14] This experience of anger,
submitted to God in the act of lament, can be one of the greatest acts of faith
we can engage in. As it connects our pain with the healing power of God, it
becomes spiritually formative.
“Did I get angry at God
during my struggles? You bet I did. I stood in the middle of my living room and
screamed at Him. I pounded my fists on the floor. Once I slammed a door so hard
that the molding shattered. I got far angrier with God than I have ever been
with any human being. I do not defend this behavior. But in the course of it I
did learn that such feelings are not at all incompatible with faith. On the
contrary, faith involves our deepest passions engaged by the reality of God.
Precisely because He is more real to us than anything else, He is able to sound
both the top and the bottom of our registers in a way that no one and nothing
else can. The person of faith is one who, like Job, knows what it is to be torn
apart by the enormity of God.”[15]
[1] A
concept developed by Dallas Willard, Renovation of the Heart: Putting on the
Character of Christ (Colorado Springs, CO: Navpress, 2002).
[2] C.S.
Lewis, The Chronicles of Narnia: The Horse and His Boy (New York, NY:
HarperCollins, 1982), 172-173.
[3] Ibid.,
173.
[4] Ibid.,
173-174.
[5] Even
Job’s friends, for all their faults, seemed to know this. Job’s suffering was
so great that they sat with him in silence for seven days and seven nights (Job
2:11-13).
[6] Ibid.,
174-175.
[7] Ibid.,
175-176.
[8] Ibid.,
176.
[9] He is
“Myself” which reminds us of the great “I AM” of Exodus 3:14.
[10] cf.
John 21:20-22.
[11] Ibid.,
176-177.
[12] Ibid.,
177-178.
[13] Romans
8:35-39.
[14] Cf.
Psalms 60 and 74 for example.
[15] Mike
Mason, The Gospel According to Job (Wheaton, IL: Crossway, 1994), xii.
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