Boots

"Question 16. Is attendance at a place of worship or membership with a Christian community necessary to a Christian way of life?

Lewis: That's a question which I cannot answer. My own experience is that when I first became a Christian, about fourteen years ago, I thought that I could do it on my own, by retiring to my rooms and reading theology, and I wouldn't go to the churches and Gospel Halls; and then later I found that it was the only way of flying your flag; and, of course, I found that this meant being a target. It is extraordinary how inconvenient to your family it becomes for you to get up early to go to Church. It doesn't matter so much if you get up early for anything else, but if you get up early to go to Church it's very selfish of you and you upset the house.... I disliked very much their hymns, which I considered to be fifth-rate poems set to sixth-rate music. But as I went on I saw the great merit of it. I came up against different people of quite different outlooks and different education, and then gradually my conceit just began peeling off. I realized that the hymns (which were just sixth-rate music) were, nevertheless, being sung with devotion and benefit by an old saint in elastic-side boots in the opposite pew, and then you realize that you aren't fit to clean those boots. It gets you out of your solitary conceit. It is not for me to lay down laws, as I am only a layman, and I don't know much.

Question 17. If it is true that one has only to want God enough in order to find Him, how can I make myself want Him enough to enable myself to find Him?

Lewis: If you don't want God, why are you so anxious to want to find Him? I think that in reality the want is a real one, and I should say that this person has in fact found God, although it may not be fully recognized yet. We are not always aware of things at the time they happen. At any rate, what is more important is that God has found this person, and that is the main thing.

-- from "Answers to Questions on Christianity," God in the Dock: Essays on Theology and Ethics, by C. S. Lewis, ed. by Walter Hooper

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Yes, I'm reading C. S. Lewis again.

I went to a college where it seemed everyone read Lewis--and not only read him, but read him too much. I'll be the first to say that you should never read one author at the exclusion of others, especially if the topic is intellectual and so is the author, but when I read Lewis, I don't know, I feel as if there is little need to read anyone else. I find myself wanting to read too much of him. Even people who disagree with him, like the people who disagree with Orwell, have to admit their awe at the writing. The sheer majesty of it. The language is so crisp, so clear, and the writer is so unashamed of his beliefs. It's the ultimate marriage of what one means to say and what one actually says, when things come out so simply and strongly. I just love it.

That's the main reason there are four Lewis books on the desk beside my computer. Libraries; gotta love 'em.

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I've found myself stuck in a cycle of self-righteousness lately, though. Especially on this blog. If I've offended anyone with callous words, I'm sorry. I'll try not to do it again.

I've resumed going to church, and I think that makes me a saint. I'm running three times a week, and I think that makes me healthy. I'm considering a major career change, and I think that makes me too good for the job I have.

All those things I think are simply not true. I'm not involved in the church yet, I simply attend on Sundays; I still have a spare tire wrapped around my midsection that won't go away no matter how many sit-ups and miles I achieve; I still struggle at work.

(The latest work-related debacle has been sending these notification letters to kids who have made it into our summer musical-theatre program. In Friday's snowstorm prelude, I took all 90 envelopes in a large paper shopping bag to the drop box a few blocks from my apartment. I grabbed them in bricks of letters and slid them into the slot. Halfway through, I realized that some of the envelopes didn't have the "non-profit organization postage PAID" stamp in the corner. In other words, The Children's Theatre is gonna get a lot of red-stamped envelopes on Monday or Tuesday. It's not a huge deal, it just delays the process a few days, but it's still such a simple task and my absentmindedness struck again.)

I don't think those things consciously. They're unconscious, subconscious, whatever. It's an attitude I've had for a long time, that the thing that I'm doing must be the correct thing to do, otherwise I wouldn't be doing it. That's a poor way to think. I'm trying to turn from that, too.

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"...and then you realize you aren't fit to clean those boots."

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That being said...

A dream is coming true in this show I'm in. My number, a rewritten version of "Rufus Rastus Johnson Brown," includes a dance break during which I can impersonate a performing hero of mine, Charlie Chaplin. The whole thing is under a minute, but hey--with the mustache, cane and waddle, I couldn't be happier.

That is something I can say about theatre, even as I consider--mind you, consider--giving it up. There are moments when I feel I am the happiest person in the world. Those moments are not to be forgotten, whichever way my life goes.

It's just that I've heard so many professional actors say something along the lines of, "If you can do anything else and love it, do that thing instead." Many of my friends have tried to do something else and found that they hated it.

I see that, I hear about it, I read about it. I acknowledge it.

But there are different strokes for everyone, you know? And a stroke (I'm thinking of boats and oars here) is a short, repetitive thing, and if you keep stroking (again, I'm thinking of boats and oars) the same way, you'll end up going in circles. Going in circles makes a person dizzy, and when a person is dizzy, he/she falls down. And even if the person doesn't fall down, they're not really going anywhere...just circles...in the middle of a lake or something...

(Is the metaphor mixed enough now? Jeez. I'm nowhere near Lewis when it comes to saying things directly.)

Okay. Here it is. I just want to see if there's something else I could do in this world and love it. It's a risk I'm finally willing to take.

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So. What does any of this have to do with Lewis? (Aside from his language prowess and my linguistic powerlessness.)

Everyone knows that Lewis was an atheist who set out to pick Christianity apart intellectually, who in the process of investigating it with a cold eye discovered its warmth, and who converted and became one of the greatest Western apologetic writers ever. Fine. Go, Lewis.

What I guess this means in terms of my life is that people change all the time. Myself included. Lewis was in his thirties when he adopted a whole new religion. It took him for an amazing journey. Fortunately for us, he took pictures and wrote postcards. I've got four of them right here.

I'm in my twenties. My early twenties, at that. The Flaming Lips have a song in which they ask, "If it's not now then tell me when would be the time that you would stand up and be a man?" Now. In this moment. Always and always, now.

I've got a friend who has a wife and kids. He says he contemplated this very life change, but it was impossible because, well, he's a husband and father. He tells me that I'm young, I'm single, and why not try something else? It really affects no one's life but mine. He says now's the time.

Another friend is unmarried like me, struggling to find his way. He tells me that I'm young, I'm single, and why not really give myself to theatre? Move to a bigger city with a serious theatre crowd (no offense, Cincinnati). Restart the acting career. Hit the auditions. Really go for it. He says now's the time.

So I guess that means now's the time.

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Gotta look ahead. Make things happen. What those things are, God only knows.

I think Lewis would tell me to get back in touch with the Source before picking a tributary. (Another metaphor...sigh.)

Ultimately, here's the bacon. I don't want to be like Prufrock:

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!	75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?	80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,	85
And in short, I was afraid.

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Oh, and the Super Bowl's today. Go Colts!