Unlikely Treasure

As a child, I had little stashes of treasure. Translucent plastic beads, water-snail and mussel shells found in the Harpeth River, glass marbles, a ring with a little blue-glass jewel my brother gave me, a goat skull found on my godmother’s farm, a teardrop-shaped prism that filled rooms with tiny shards of rainbow, dried reindeer lichen, cheap pot-metal ornaments painted gold and set with faceted rainbow-glass, a lop-eared rabbit-puppet named Hazel (cookie points to anyone who gets the reference), an army (I’m not kidding, if they were alive and feeling militant, they could overwhelm you) of plastic horses.

Green Glass Marbles by George Hodan http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=25338&picture=green-glass-marbles

Green Glass Marbles by George Hodan
www.publicdomainpictures.net

All things that are nearly, or completely, worthless in a monetary sense. But I think most people will easily understand that they are anything but worthless to me, even today.

Along with these objects, I kept, and still keep, deeper and even more precious hoards. Memories, words, emotions, pictures of places, sounds, smells, anything and everything that has struck a certain note in me. It is a very specific note. I can feel it vibrate, and it is always the same, though the things that cause it are so utterly disparate that even I cannot see the connection. I only feel that there is a connection.

I hunt for something, constantly. The very fact that, having these treasure-troves already, I am still hunting, tells me that these things, while they touch what I am looking for, are not the thing itself. Smoke on the wind, pine sap, limestone boulders… almost, almost! But the moment passes as soon as I know it has come. I’ve tracked my quarry and won a glimpse, but it has disappeared, again, amidst the trees and all I have left are tracks.

I worry, sometimes, that these hoards are of the world, and perhaps, in a sense, they are. They, themselves, that is. But the chord they strike, that is of such power and purity that I cannot imagine it having its source anywhere but in God. Perhaps I, and all my fellow creatures, are in danger of mistaking the source of the want, for misunderstanding what we are hunting. I could spend my whole life believing that I am seeking the things that reflect the light, and find once I have them, the light is gone. But at the same time, if it were not for the reflections these things give me, what would I know of the light?

Maybe I am wrong. But it seems that if so, at least I am not alone in my error.

I’ve been listening to an audiobook copy of The Problem of Pain, by C. S. Lewis. Something he says near the end, in Chapter 10, made me think of my strange dragon-hoard.

I’m not sure, yet, how this is going to work, but I feel the need to explore the passage and my reaction to it. I think it will take at least one more post. It may take several. We shall see.  In the mean time, here is the passage itself. I’ve whittled it down a little for brevity’s sake, but I recommend picking up a copy of the book and reading the whole chapter (or, for that matter, the whole book, it is very interesting).

Warning, Lewis speaks about Pantheism, below. From what I know of him from his writing, I think his words are not intended to insult, but simply reflect his view. After all, he introduces this chapter as nothing more than his personal speculation. Still, it is possible to take it as an attack on pantheistic religions. I am not a pantheist, I believe that Lewis’s words are probably correct, but I mean no insult to anyone in posting this. If your beliefs differ from mine, feel free to express them (politely, please) in the comments below.

You may think that there is another reason for our silence about heaven, namely that we do not, really, desire it. But that may be an illusion. What I am now going to say is an opinion of my own…

There have been times when I think we do not desire heaven, but more often I find myself wondering whether, in our heart of hearts, we have ever desired anything else.

You may have noticed that the books you really love are bound together by a secret thread. You know very well what is the common quality that makes you love them, though you cannot put it into words. But most of your friends do not see it at all, and often wonder why, liking this, you should also like that. Again, you’ve stood before some landscape which seems to embody what you have been looking for all your life, and then turned to the friend at your side who appears to be seeing what you saw, but at the first words a gulf yawns between you and you realize that this landscape means something totally different to him…

Are not all life-long friendships born at the moment when, at last, you meet another human being who has some inkling, but faint and uncertain even in the best, of that something which you were born desiring and which… year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for…?

You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it… echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest, if there ever came an echo that did not die away, but swelled into the sound itself, you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt, you would say “here, at last, is the thing I was made for.” We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want… While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.

This signature on each soul may be a product of heredity and environment, but that only means that heredity and environment are among the instruments whereby God creates a soul. I am considering not how, but why He makes each soul unique. If He had no use for all these differences, I do not see why He should have created more souls than one. Be sure that the ins and outs of your individuality are no mystery to Him, and one day they will no longer be a mystery to you.

The mold in which a key is made would be a strange thing if you had never seen a key, and the key, itself, a strange thing if you had never seen a lock. Your soul has a curious shape because it is… a key to unlock one of the doors in the House with many mansions. For it is not “Humanity” in the abstract that is to be saved, but you… God will look to every soul like its first love because He is its first love. Your place in heaven will seem to be made for you, and you alone, because you were made for it…

It is from this point of view that we can understand Hell in its aspect of privation. All your life an unattainable ecstasy has hovered just beyond the grasp of your consciousness. The day is coming when you will wake to find, beyond all hope, that you have attained it, or else that it was within your reach, and you have lost it forever. This may seem a perilously private and subjective notion of the “Pearl of Great Price,” but it is not. The thing I am speaking of is not an experience. You have experienced only the want of it. The thing, itself, has never actually been embodied in any thought, or image, or emotion. Always it has summoned you out of yourself, and if you will not go out of yourself to follow it, if you sit down to brood on the desire and attempt to cherish it, the desire itself will evade you.

The door into life generally opens behind us, and the only wisdom for one haunted with the scent of unseen roses, is work. The Secret Fire goes out when you use the bellows. Bank it down with what seems unlikely fuel of dogma and ethics, turn your back on it and attend to your duties, and then it will blaze…

Such is my opinion, and it may be erroneous. Perhaps this secret desire, also, is part of the old man, and must be crucified before the end, but this opinion has a curious trick of evading denial. The desire, much more the satisfaction, has always refused to be fully present in any experience. Whatever you try to identify with it turns out to be, not it, but something else, so that hardly any degree of crucifixion or transformation could go beyond what the desire, itself, leads us to anticipate. Again, if this opinion is not true, something better is. But “something better,” not “this” or “that” experience, but something beyond it, is almost the definition of the thing I am trying to describe.

The thing you long for summons you away from the self. Even the desire for the thing lives only if you abandon it. This is the ultimate law. The seed dies to live, the bread must be cast upon the waters, he that loses his soul will save it. But the life of the seed, the finding of the bread, the recovery of the soul are as real as the preliminary sacrifice. Hence it is truly said of heaven: “in heaven there is no ownership.” If any, there, took it upon him to call anything his own, he would, straight-way, be thrust out into Hell and become an evil spirit. But it is also said: “to him that overcometh, I will give a white stone, and in the stone, a new name written, which no man knoweth save he that recieveth it.”

What can be more a man’s own than this new name which, even in eternity, remains a secret between God and him? And what shall we take this secrecy to mean? Surely that each of the redeemed shall forever know and praise some one aspect of the Divine beauty better than any other creature can.

Why else were individuals created, but that God, loving all infinitely, should love each differently? And this difference, so far from impairing, floods with meaning the love of all blessed creatures for one another: the communion of the saints.

If all experienced God in the same way, and returned Him an identical worship, the song of the Church Triumphant would have no symphony. It would be like an orchestra in which all the instruments played the same note… Heaven is a “city” and a “body” because the blessed remain eternally different, a “society” because each has something to tell all the others: fresh and ever-fresh news of the “My God” whom each finds in Him whom all praise as “Our God.” For, doubtless, the continually successful, yet never complete, attempt by each soul to communicate its unique vision to all others, and that by means whereof earthly art and philosophy are but clumsy imitations, is also among the ends for which the individual was created.

For union exists only between distincts, and perhaps from this point of view, we catch a momentary glimpse of the meaning of all things. Pantheism is is a creed not so so much false, as hopelessly behind the times. Once, before creation, it would have been true to say that everything was God. But God created, He caused things to be other than Himself that, being distinct, they might learn to love Him and achieve union instead of sameness. Thus He, also, cast his bread upon the waters. Even within the creation, we might say that inanimate matter, which has no will, is one with God in a sense in which men are not. But it is not God’s purpose that we should go back into that old identity… but that we should go on to the maximum distinctness, there to be reunited with Him in a higher fashion.

C. S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

Note: this is a transcription from audio. I cannot vouch for the punctuation, spelling, or even the exact wording, but I have done the best I can under the circumstances.

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About jubilare

Just another tree in the proverbial forest. Look! I have leaves! View all posts by jubilare

28 responses to “Unlikely Treasure

  • bobraxton

    interesting that English “pain” is precisely the French for Bread, something we feed upon.

    • jubilare

      Hmm… interesting, but it sends up warning bells in my mind. Pain doesn’t nourish me. It can teach me, it can reveal to me that I have been feeding on the wrong things, but I do not see it as food.

      As a depressive, I have to be very careful how I view pain. There’s a black pit that has nearly consumed me more than once, and in it, the only thing I feel is pain. Everything else is gray nothingness, but the pain is ever-present, rising and falling. If the internal self can be tortured, it is torture. I have learned things by walking through it, but I know it would have been better if I had willingly learned the lessons without going into that place. The place is simply evil. What God does with my experience may be good, but that does not redeem the place itself.

      Also, I think we must be extremely careful what we say to people in pain. So often I see people try to console, and all they really do is make the suffering worse.

  • Brenton Dickieson

    Jubilare, did you know there is a facebook reading group right now on the Problem of Pain? I can hook you up.
    People read this book as apologetics. It doesn’t take a philosophy expert to see the gaps in the first 3 chapters (which are my favourites). What tipped this book for me was the realization that it wasn’t (merely) apologetics. It is Spiritual Theology a book about teaching us how to live in the Way. How do we live Heavenward? How do we live in real life and be honest with it? How do we reconcile all our questions? Lewis answer in all this is, “Die.” We die to ourselves and await resurrection.
    For me, that opened up a world of frightening clarity.

    • jubilare

      Nope! I didn’t know. I might be interested in stalking it, but I am on FB so little that I probably wouldn’t be much use.

      I think you are right, though I think Lewis says, in the introduction, that that is exactly what he felt he was unqualified to talk about. He underestimated himself a lot, though I think he was wise to do so. ^_^ If we could explain, without flaws, the problem of pain, I think it might lose some of its purpose or potency. Just a thought, though.

      “Frightening” is a good word, here. The necessity of the death of the self is something Lewis, MacDonald and Tolkien all deal with a lot, and I do believe they are right. Reading the New Testament, I find the same message again and again, but it is no less terrifying. I don’t want to die, and yet I do want to die. It’s quite a personal paradox, and I know of nothing that makes it easy. Perhaps nothing should? I don’t know.

      What fascinates me so much about this passage, though, is that I find, as Lewis did, that the traditional images associated with heaven do not appeal to me much. A dear friend of mine, also a Christian, feels the same way, and I am sure I know other people who do, too, whether they admit it or not. But if the heavenly imagery is symbolic (which I think most likely) then what is it talking about? Lewis’s speculations, here, make sense. And what is more, they help me to see God, and to look for His reflection, in the things that I love, and to consider that my pursuit of this feeling is really a pursuit of God. This turns my attention constantly back from the echoes, to God, and on the other hand, seems to baptize my more mundane interests, making them things that I want to hold up to Him in sacrifice. If nothing else, that is a good thing. It also gives me hope that heaven, being in the presence of God, will be the healing of this ever-present, aching longing. That is a heaven I am motivated to pursue. ^_^

      • Brenton Dickieson

        That’s all very wonderfully put. I don’t resonate at all with the heaven conversation. The Great Divorce exploded for me when I realized it was about life here, today, in the scullery and the street and the cubicle.
        Here’s the facebook link: https://www.facebook.com/groups/ProblemofPain/
        Boy I’m having trouble with the new wordpress design. It’s all so goofy and difficult to navigate.

        • jubilare

          The Great Divorce doesn’t resonate with me as an idea of Heaven, either, but this? I am surprised this doesn’t resonate with you just a little.
          Are there not places, or books, or smells, or moments that strike a secret chord in you somewhere? Heaven is difficult to talk about, and to understand, I think, because we have practically no frame of reference. We’re not capable of desiring something so completely outside human experience, so we are stuck using things we know to try and form an analogy, and those things either resonate with someone, or they don’t. But I think (or, at least, I hope) that Lewis is on to something, here… that even if this or that image fails to speak to a person, yet there is an unnameable experience in every life that can give an inkling when all else fails.

          I fail to understand, or desire, a city paved with gold, or standing before the Throne of God, or the communion of the Saints (I’m an introvert, and the last two sound very crowded to me)… but I understand that owls make my heart sing, and the smell of mountain soil that is half-sand, half former hemlock and pine needle, the sound of a creek bubbling over rocks, the smell of old paper and the rustle of pages, the glint of light through a prism, the comfort of sleep, a sip of tea on the tongue, peace and rest… if the common thread between these things is my recognition of an aspect of the Divine nature… and if I was formed to love that aspect… that is something I can understand. In those terms, heaven begins to make some sense.

          • Brenton Dickieson

            I appreciate you sharpening my axe here. Thinking more clearly, I know there are moments of the sublime for me–sunset, seasalt air, the first taste of the perfect brew, belly laughter, the ideal line, making love, the occasional rapturous moment of worship. But they do not hint to heaven of me. They echo God. So the most I can say is that heaven is that which is God. If that’s what we mean, I’m okay there.
            Lovely description. Old paper–yes, books, but ink too.

          • jubilare

            Heh, I would have thought it sharp already! But I suppose every little bit helps. Also, “sublime” when taken at it’s full meaning, is a wonderful word.

            I think the whole point is that heaven is that which is God. What Lewis is saying, or at least, how I interpret what he is saying, is that heaven is an experience (or perhaps a state of being). If that is so, if “heaven” is simply being in the presence of God, then all things that echo God to us are also echoes of heaven. The two are linked, like water and wetness. Not only is this ineffable, but at present, to us, unimaginable. But as the echo of God tells us about Him, by default, perhaps, it also tells us about Heaven.

            Add in the concept that each individual longing is different, and yet finds its satisfaction in the same Source, and all of the sudden an amazing world of possibility arises for me, and one that answers a burning belief in me that has always conflicted with what I see going on in the world. People are always telling other people how they should feel about this or that… how a sunset or a cute owl should make us feel, how we should feel about bones (a sore-spot for me, as I find them incredibly beautiful rather than morbid or unclean) or what our opinion should be about this or that book. It makes me want to scream. I find the acceptance that not all people are the same, and respect for those differences in us, to be far too rare. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but the variety existing in all of creation, not just humanity, and certain passages in scripture seem to support my belief that redemption and conformity are not only different, but perhaps even opposites.

            For further speculative fun, 2 other relevant speculations of Lewis’s come to mind. One, which I can’t currently cite (though maybe you know where it can be found :) ) is the possibility of what Lewis calls (I think) “natures stacked upon natures,” states of being that, without leaving one reality behind, are added to it. Hard (impossible?) to imagine in our present state. The other is that interaction between souls requires a common medium (place) in which to interact (this is also in The Problem of Pain). To combine his speculations into a speculation of my own, I wonder if the communion of God and the saints is a reality stacked upon a reality. In other words, it isn’t a “place” we go to, but an unveiling of another level of reality in the one we already know. …there may be all kinds of problems with this, I haven’t examined it from all angles because it’s only just occurred to me. I’m sure it’s occurred to others long before now, and someone’s probably written about it. But the point of the speculation is to question how we think about the concept of “heaven.”

            Aaaand, yeah. Lots of rambling thoughts. Sorry! I find this kind of speculation interesting because I’ve always struggled with the imagery usually applied to heaven.

          • Brenton Dickieson

            Sublime = “Below the lime.’
            I just put some lime in my diet Pepsi.
            But “sublime” does have some great doorway imagery, doesn’t it?
            I read “cute owl” as “cube of cheese.” Funny. I do think, though, “a cube of cheese” can be an awe-full event.
            I should say that I think my limited imagination on Heaven is a weakness, not a strength. It is not only the poverty of my imagination, but an anemia of heart. I would like to “hope” as the saints have. I just don’t.
            I like the stacked reality idea. A dimensional approach to heaven! I think, though, reading Rev 21, we see that earth is restored as a new heaven. So I suspect we still have a fleshly medium. We are still in the universe.
            But what does that mean?!

          • jubilare

            Cramped! See reply below.

  • Colleen

    Reading this once is not enough. I will return to read it again. That in itself is high praise.

  • Krysta

    This is really beautiful. Thank you for sharing.

    • jubilare

      Thank you! I’m glad you think so, too. When I first listened to it, especially when I reached the image of the key and the door (I’ve a bit of an obsession with both) it really clicked.

  • LarkLeaf

    I remember when I first stumbled across this passage by chance, early on in my discovery of Lewis’ non-fiction. The fact that someone could write of these indescribable longings, so shy and so fleeting, deep-rooted and oh, so fragile– speak and write of them as if they were something that everyone experienced! (a shocking thought to me, at the time)– it was stunning, quite literally. I remember reading the passage over and over, and copying it in notebooks and journals; both this one and the section in the Weight of Glory. It was, probably, the biggest transformative moment in both my spiritual walk and writing life. Thank you for posting this :)

    I’m always thrilled to find others who know what in the world I’m talking about (when I have the guts to actually talk about things like that), and it’s an added bonus when they know and love Watership Down to boot! (I get cookie points, right? Funny…I’ve always called them brownie points…)

    • jubilare

      Cookie points for you! ^_^ Watership Down was read to me several times when I was a child, and was the first full-length novel I read for myself. I can think of at least two posts I’ve written, here, that refer to it.

      I can’t recall where he said it (there may be more than one place), but I think of Lewis’s “you too?” moment when one person discovers that they are not alone in a feeling or experience. It’s a powerful moment. “indescribable longings, so shy and so fleeting, deep-rooted and oh, so fragile” well put!

  • Stephanie Orges

    Funny, in the first few paragraphs of this post, before you ever mentioned Lewis, another quote of his sprang into my mind. “If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.”

    Your talk of your treasures also reminded me of the little mini-garden he and his brother made when they were young, which he talks about in Surprised by Joy. He talks about joy as a kind of longing, which even hurts a little bit, the same way we feel kind of sad when we hear a really beautiful song.

    I think homesickness is the best way to describe it. We surround ourselves with things that remind us of home, and they make us feel closer to home, and yet simultaneously make us miss home more – and that’s why it’s a mixed feeling.

    • jubilare

      Exactly! It’s part and parcel of the same theme in his work, I think, and is echoed by Chesterton, too, and by Tolkien.

      I’ve not read Surprised by Joy, but I need to! …aye, it does hurt, but it’s a good pain? Like the pain of a gentle muscle-stretch or that tired soreness after a good hike, only internal. Maybe it is a good stretch for the soul?

      Aye… the home we know but have never seen.

  • jubilare

    Snerk! ^_^

    There have been cubes of cheese that I have eaten that qualify. I had one around Christmas, in fact… ah. good memories.

    “So I suspect we still have a fleshly medium. We are still in the universe.
    But what does that mean?!” Exactly! That’s what I imagine, when I think of stacked-reality, and no, I don’t know what it means, either, or if it even makes sense! But I do find it interesting to speculate.

  • palecorbie

    “you’ve stood before some landscape which seems to embody what you have been looking for all your life, and then turned to the friend at your side who appears to be seeing what you saw, but at the first words a gulf yawns between you and you realize that this landscape means something totally different to him…”

    Here I think Lewis said to me ‘on the other side of that mountain, there is a beautiful place I’ve heard of: we can stay forever if we earn our keep,’ and I said ‘I’ll walk with you until you stop there, but I will go on.’

    • jubilare

      *tilts head to one side and wrinkles brow* What you think and feel are what you think and feel. All I can say is… I think that is a defensive reading… an expectation you bring to the writing rather than something the author was trying to communicate. I think that you mean no offense (though, for the sake of clarity, “if we earn our keep” could be construed as a jab), but I think this has caused you to miss the point.

      There are sections in what I’ve quoted here that I would expect to bother you. That isn’t one of them. Here’s why. What I think Lewis is saying here is this: Addie’s heart belongs to the Southwestern deserts, and mine to the Eastern Mountains. This is not bad (unless we decide to be jerks and denigrate the other’s feelings) but it is a gulf that lies between us. I can never fully understand (though I can come close, perhaps, with effort) how red-gold plateaus make her feel, and she cannot quite grasp what I hear in the whispering of hemlocks. It’s not a difference in philosophy or belief (she and I share much of both). It’s just a deep, perhaps fundamental, difference between two people.

      There’s nothing he’s “heard of” in this passage, nothing specific that is being looked for or found. All he is talking about, at this point, is a kind of human experience that seems to cross all boundaries of belief, culture, and time. What that experience means and what is to be done with it (if anything), all of that is very much up for debate. It’s hard to deny, though, that such an experience exists, and it’s existence is all that this passage attempts to establish.

  • technicolorlilypond

    What a lovely and thoughtful post, Jubilare. Thank you so much for sharing. I love the detail of your youthful treasures, it reminded me of my own secret boxes of enchanting things. Thank you too for sharing that passage from The Problem of Pain. I confess that much as I love Lewis for both his fiction and non-fiction that I had never planned to read that book. But, now, I find myself reconsidering that plan. I will definitely be re-reading and pondering your post.

    • jubilare

      Hello! It’s been a while! Have you been writing? Crafting? I shall have to go see. ^_^

      May I ask why you’ve never planned to read it and why this may change your mind? There can be many reasons, and if I have an inkling of what yours are then I might be able to say whether or not they are well-founded.
      I’ve always had a bit of a roller-coaster relationship with Lewis’s writings. I definitely respect his intelligence and writing ability, and I often identify with his feelings, but there are some things that make me want to have a long debate with him… possibly over tea. There are passages like that in this book, but on the whole, I find it very interesting and sometimes encouraging/edifying.

      • technicolorlilypond

        Yes, it has been awhile, but, I have crawled out of my sick den, finally.

        You may ask! Basically, I didn’t want to read something depressing that would upset me. The question of pain in the Christian conception of the universe (heck, any religions conception) is one of the trickiest ones, maybe the trickiest. I doubt there is a good answer and maybe the debate, the journey we make as individuals and spiritual beings, is really the more important thing to think about than trying to find an “answer,” I don’t know but that’s usually true. I am prone to depression. I live my life in chronic pain. I have found a peace with this state and I’m doing well. But I know that I have limited time in which to read and that the odds are I will always prioritize reading something else over reading something explicitly about pain or death. Maybe that’s cowardly but there it is, I want to keep the mental peace I have.

        But, the passage you quoted wasn’t really depressing. It was interesting and, in some ways, kind of comforting. I think it’s possible I misjudged the work and that it might be worth some of that limited reading time. We’ll see. I have ~80 books I want to read by 2016, I’ll just have to see how far I get. :-)

        • jubilare

          I am also prone to depression… it’s a constant struggle. So this: “But I know that I have limited time in which to read and that the odds are I will always prioritize reading something else over reading something explicitly about pain or death” makes complete sense to me. I do it too, with books and films and everything else because I know the consequences if I don’t… sometimes I wonder, too, if that’s cowardice, but then there is a fine line, sometimes, between cowardice and wisdom.

          You are a master-consumer of books… I found this one shockingly un-depressing, considering the subject, but I have had friends react differently to it, so it may depend on where one is emotionally.

          There are things I’d argue with Lewis about, but there are some fantastic insights in the work, as well, and the final chapter is a thing of great beauty and hope.

          I’d agree (and I think Lewis would, as well) that there are no pat answers to what pain “means.” There’s only speculation as to why, perhaps, it exists and what it’s effects actually are. That, really, is the subject of the work, and Lewis admits that it is highly speculative. It’s dangerous to talk about pain, it’s so easy to accidentally cause more. But he did suffer, and he witnessed suffering, and he seems to have the wisdom not to talk lightly of it.

          When Lewis says something that frustrates or bothers me, I imagine throwing a tea-biscuit at his head. That usually helps. ;)

          I will say that that passages in the book have helped me deal with some of my depression and pain, lately, but I’m not naive enough to think it would have that effect on everyone.

  • Spring Interim | jubilare

    […] have the follow up posts for Unlikely Treasure in the […]

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