Body and Soul

I’ve recently been teaching a class on the relationship between the body and the soul at our church. The writings of C.S. Lewis have been invaluable for me because he anticipated much of our contemporary philosophical and scientific discourse on the mind-body problem. His wonderfully clear analogies have been faithful friends.

I knew that I generally found myself in agreement with Lewis’ ideas regarding the embodiment of our souls and the important distinction between mind and matter. I was therefore prepared to wrestle with a statement that he had written which I thought had an awkward lack of balance. The quote frequently shows up with this subject:

“You do not have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.”

The statement seemed to place an almost Platonic emphasis upon the soul over against the body with regard to our personhood. Rather than seeing humans as body-soul composites, it implied that we are more soul than body. This is striking because it seemed to run against the grain of Lewis’ other writings about the body. For instance:

“Man has held three views of his body. First there is that of those acetic Pagans who called it the prison or the ‘tomb’ of the soul, and of Christians like Fisher to whom it was a ‘sack of dung’, food for worms, filthy, shameful, a source of nothing but temptation to bad men and humiliation to good ones. Then there are the Neo-Pagans (they seldom know Greek), the nudists and the sufferers from Dark Gods, to whom the body is glorious. But thirdly we have the view which St. Francis expressed by calling his body ‘Brother Ass’. All three may be – I am not sure – defensible; but give me St. Francis for my money. Ass is exquisitely right because no one in his senses can either revere or hate a donkey. It is a useful, sturdy, lazy, obstinate, patient, lovable and infuriating beast; deserving now a stick and now a carrot; both pathetically and absurdly beautiful. So the body.” ~ from The Four Loves

I’m aware that the two quotes are not mutually exclusive. The longer quote above could be consistent with the kind of hierarchy implied in the shorter. However, when the longer passage is compared with Lewis’ other writings, a kind of balance appears which places the ‘you are a soul’ quote to the status of unrepresentative outlier.

Lewis’ other writings portray a keen awareness and attention to materiality, as well as a strenuous effort to help his readers see how the higher world is seen and experienced by means of the lower. Another great example is his allegory, The Great Divorce. In this story, heaven was not more ethereal and cloudy than our world below, but harder, crisp, more deeply felt. In this case heaven was a more real version of the world as we know it, giving a sense of dignity to the here and now.

Naturally, I wanted to find additional context for the ‘you are a soul’ quote. I searched the highways and hedges of the internet to discover that Lewis never wrote it. Here is a link to the source that helpfully explained this for me. The statement is most credibly attributed to a letter written by George MacDonald. I’m glad that I don’t have to discuss Lewis’ views on the mind-body with an awkward caveat about that single off-balance quote. Instead, I’ll provide a statement from Matthew Lee Anderson, one that would more likely cohere with Lewis’ thinking:

You are a body. But you’re a soul too. And your human flourishing is contingent upon being a soul-bodied thing.

Every Leaf

Sorbus_alnifolia_'Submollis'_JPG1La
Jean-Pol Grandmont/WC
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.
Fall, leaves, fall– Emily Brontë

Drifting from the Psalter

Our church has recently been discussing life in the Spirit, focusing upon the fruit of the Spirit in Galatians 5. We found that pursuing this subject led us to the way Paul portrays the corporate reality of life in the Spirit: “addressing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody to the Lord with your heart.”[1] While we were doing this study, I read an article on weaving the Psalter into our corporate worship by James Jordan. Jordan gave me the uncomfortable sensation that I was ignoring plain inferences that I should be making from the quite descriptive Pauline passage quoted above.

Singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs. When asked to describe what ‘walking in the Spirit’ objectively looks like, I never heard anyone from my small group answer with this description.  I was curious about the distinction between psalms and hymns and spiritual songs. Jordan replied:

We don’t need even to discuss what “hymns and spiritual songs” are, because we have not yet mastered the psalms. Once we know all 150 psalms, we can then decide what are appropriate hymns and spiritual songs.

The argument is that the evangelical church has slowly left off the historic practice of singing the Psalter in corporate and private worship. And Jordan isn’t referring to dynamic paraphrases of the Psalms put into song, but the actual texts of Scripture themselves:

Text psalms preserve the poetic parallelism of the Scripture, and thus accentuate the dialogical and antiphonal theology of the psalter. Moreover, metrical psalms must of necessity be “dynamically equivalent,” rephrasing ideas, omitting certain words, emphasizing others, substituting other names for God in order to make the rhyme come out, etc. Metrical psalms are like Biblical paraphrases – useful, but no substitute. Metrical psalms are one application of the psalter, but they are not a substitute for the psalter.

It’s an arresting article, but it doesn’t provide suggestions on where to learn more. I’m grateful that our church has a weekly practice of responsively reading portions of Scripture together in between singing and the sermon. Many of these readings come from the Psalms. However, it does seem that we could experience them more fully if we sang them together as well.

In order to give you an idea of what Jordan says we’re missing, and to demonstrate how seriously he takes this subject, allow me to quote one more segment:

[I]f we drift from the psalms – the war chants of the Prince of peace – we shall drift into an easy and lax piety. The inner warfare will be de-emphasized, and the warfare for the world will disappear. The focus of hymns tends to be on matters easier for us to talk about, such as suffering and happiness. How many hymns, etc., do you know of that ask God to judge the enemy? I can think of one, by Luther, and it is psalm-based. In the face of abortion, pornography, rape, drug addiction, Islam… nothing less than psalms will do. The fact of the matter is that the present generation of American Christians will either learn to sing psalms, or it will die.

I hope you have a chance to read the article. I’ll be discussing this with my brothers and sisters at church. If you have any experience or information about how churches would begin this sort of practice, please let me know.

[1] Ephesians 5:19

Authority

It was only last year that I first encountered The Lord of The Flies by William Golding. I found a narration on Audible that was excellently performed by Golding himself. Just after finishing the book, Golding gave some concluding remarks, with an intriguing pronouncement at the end. I’m still thinking about it a year later. When asked about how to interpret the meaning of the story, Golding replied:

There have been so many interpretations of the story that I’m not going to choose between them. Make your own choice. They contradict each other, the various choices. The only choice that really matters, the only interpretation of the story, if you want one, is your own. Not your teacher’s, not your professor’s, not mine, not a critic’s, not some authority’s. The only thing that matters is, first, the experience of being in the story, moving through it. Then any interpretation you like. If it’s yours, then that’s the right one, because what’s in a book is not what an author thought he put into it, it’s what the reader gets out of it.

51kYCMouFYL._AA300_

While I’m aware that such matters of interpretation can be quite involved, I’ve never been able to fully understand declarations like these coming from an author. I wonder what Golding intended me to make of his admonition.

Of course, out of politeness I should assume that he means exactly what he says. He says there is no ‘correct interpretation’ of the story. The narrative envisions a little colony of shipwrecked boys as a struggling microcosm of society. Things go badly fairly quickly. Chaos and anarchy ensue. If I said the story was a Rousseau-like celebration of the innate goodness of humanity, rather than a stark portrayal of the Beelzebub within us all, would Golding simply have nodded and given me a pat on the back for my bold and independent reading?

What I suspect is going on is a blurring of hermeneutical edges that may have been trendy in Golding’s time. Perhaps it was cliché to be overly concerned with authorial intent, as prior generations might have been. It’s probably not a coincidence that there was a culminating backlash against all things authoritative in those days. The times, they were a changin’.

On one level, of course what the reader gets out of it is most important. If I manage to get anything out of the story, it will be through my own mind. However, since so I enjoyed Golding’s story, I wish that he was less flippant about his intentions towards me as his reader. I suppose that I wanted him to care that I understood him aright. In some way, my efforts to understand him would be my small part of honoring his efforts.

Anyway, if I decide to ‘have my own way’ with the story, regardless of Golding’s intentions, I will likely miss out on a more delightful reading experience. This is a point that Lewis makes in his Experiment on Criticism. When faced with the question of why we should pay any attention to authorial intent at all when we can simply have a grand time with our private understanding of the text (‘what it means to us’), Lewis answers:

There seem to be two answers. One, is that the poem in my head which I make from my mistranslations of Chaucer or misunderstandings of Donne, may not be so good as the work Chaucer or Donne actually made.

Secondly, why not have both? After enjoying what I made of it, why not go back to the text this time looking up the hard words, puzzling out the allusions and discovering that some metrical delights in my first experience where due to my fortunate mispronunciations, and see whether I can enjoy the poet’s poem, not necessarily instead of, but in addition to my own.

“Not necessarily instead of, but in addition to my own.” This is a fitting rejoinder to Golding’s suggestion. Where Golding says, “go ahead boys, have a good time,” Lewis suggests that we go back to Golding for advice on the best way to do that.

All of this reminds me, however, of Twain’s dire warning to the reader of Huckleberry Finn:

Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.

Duly noted, gentlemen.