Rediscovering a Gripping Gospel Through The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
by Dr. Marc T. Newman
December 9, 2005
(AgapePress) - - The Church of the Cinema does at least one thing better than most evangelicals: it remembers how to bring to life a passionate drama. While disputes over doctrine are important, some churches have become so preoccupied with in-house debates that they have forgotten that Christianity begins with a story. Before we can care about the Deity of Christ, we must first come to believe the narrative of His incarnation, life, death, and resurrection. His story is true, and it should grip the soul. But sometimes, in our desire to get to the graduate-level theological detail, we rush over the story -- and our tale of the Gospel has all the allure of a badly-written history text. C.S. Lewis recognized this tendency within his own denomination, so he crafted a story designed to slip past the "watchful dragons" of church-enforced "sanctimony" and restore the Gospel's innate passion, potency, and sense of adventure. Lewis wanted children (and adults with the eyes to see) to meet Jesus in fiction so that when they encountered Him in fact they would not merely acknowledge Him, but love Him.
The film version of The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe sticks to the essentials of the book. It contains plenty of theology, but director Andrew Adamson has knocked the stuffiness out and presents Lewis' ideas so clearly that they can be latched onto with a ferocity lacking in the average Sunday School lesson. The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe is not some watered-down gospel-lite. It is a fantasy retelling of the Gospel and all of the elements are there -- too many to deal with in a short essay. But some parts are particularly well developed: the slippery slope of sin, the roadblock of unbelief, the Suffering Servant, the power of the Resurrection, and the need for faithfulness. The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe reminds us why the Bible calls Christians to be "witnesses."
The Slippery Slope of Sin
The Chronicles of Narnia are fantasy, but as in all good fantasy, it needs to obey consistent rules that make sense in order to maintain the illusion of reality. The basis of Narnia's moral logic resonates with readers because it reinforces something we already know to be true: the world is riddled with sin. Give credit to Andrew Adamson for allowing his film version to reveal one of sin's most potent structures -- its ability to lure us by beginning the wrongdoing in the service of something that feels right.
As the bombs begin falling all about them, Mrs. Pevensie orders all of her children into the backyard bomb shelter. At the last moment, Edmund disobeys. One of his prized possessions, a photograph of his father (who is away in the war) has been left behind, and Edmund turns to run into the house to retrieve it. In his zeal to possess a good thing -- this emblem of his father -- he unwittingly places himself and his brother Peter, who is forced to chase after him, in mortal danger. This small slip previews a much larger authority struggle that plagues Edmund throughout the story, and continues to imperil him and many others.
The Roadblock of Unbelief
Where Edmund's problem is exterior acts of disobedience, Susan has trials of her own.
The "smart one" of the Pevensie children, it is Susan that initially disbelieves Lucy's tale of adventures with a faun in Narnia. Susan and Peter are taken to task by Professor Kirke, who reminds them that the credibility of the witness is more important than the incredibility of the story. Lucy is a truth-teller, so Kirke is willing to believe, or at least suspend his disbelief. Even upon arriving in Narnia herself, Susan exclaims, "Impossible!" Only one other character utters that word in this film, and how each deals with the actuality of the impossible reveals their end.
The Scriptures say that the preaching of the cross of Jesus is foolishness to those who perish. Polly Toynbee, writing on Narnia for the British paper, The Guardian, on December 5, 2005, claims that the sacrificial death of Jesus is "the most repugnant" part of Christianity. Toynbee does not believe in a transcendent world beyond this one, or that sin has an eternal component, or that there will be a future judgment. If what she writes is true, it is easy to understand why she might revile any intimation that she is in need of salvation. What Toynbee, and others who share her view of the world, currently needs is our prayers, lest she and they someday also utter the word, "Impossible!" only to find that God is not only possible, but holy and just as well.
Faithfulness Despite Fear
God is also a help in time of need. Ultimately things work out for the children not because of their prowess as warriors (they have none), but because they are children of prophecy. Their key role is faithfulness in executing the battle plan they have been given. It does not require them to be free from all doubts -- when Peter surveys the numerically-superior forces the White Witch has arrayed against him, his general tells him that "Numbers do not win battles." Peter, like many soldiers fearful just before the action begins, replies, "I bet it helps."
Initially I was put off by the relative weakness shown by the child actors in their shiny armor. But after some reflection, I thought, "Why not?" They appear uncomfortable in the armor because it is foreign to them. They are fearful because they find themselves in the midst of a very real war. Aslan, the Great Lion, is nowhere to be seen. What is heroic about the children is that they stand and fight anyway, because they have been commissioned by Aslan to do so. Faithfulness is what is required. Assuring victory is God's job.
It is an interesting paradox that although God does not need any human aid, He commands our participation in the battle and never leaves us unarmed. As three of the Pevensie children (Edmund is not with his brother and sisters, having joined the other side) flee from the pursuit of the White Witch, they are happily surprised by a quick visit from Father Christmas. He gives presents to each of the children, but they are warned that these gifts are "tools, not toys." All are designed for use on the battlefield -- to defend, to attack, and to heal. Each child is expected to play a role in the inevitable conflict.
The Suffering Servant
First, however, Edmund must be restored. Rescuing the boy is relatively easy -- just a military raid away. Getting Edmund truly free of the claims of the White Witch, however, requires more than Edmund, or all of Aslan's army, can muster. It requires Aslan.
A story's re-telling in different guise can break through the rote-ness of an oft-told tale. For those whose emotional connection with the Christ story gets little beyond "Jesus died and rose again," seeing the Great Lion separate Himself from all but a couple of trusted companions and solemnly and sadly walk toward His doom injects fresh feeling. A young woman sitting next to me at a screening began to quietly weep in anticipation. The humiliation of Aslan is detailed enough to evoke anxiety, but not enough to be repulsive. The final sacrifice is one of the finest juxtapositions of seemingly-triumphant evil and sublimely submissive good ever filmed. The theater was filled with muted crying -- an appropriate response to an innocent God laying down His life for the guilty -- a response just as suitable to -- but often missing from -- many Good Friday and Easter services.
Why the appropriate response at a movie, but not in church? Lewis would say that because in church you are expected, in fact, obliged, to feel that way. Having feelings demanded is one of the surest ways to lose them (as Jim Carrey's character in Bruce Almighty discovers). But well-told stories do not demand a response, they evoke it. Sympathy comes when the tale rings true -- when we believe. And there, for some, is the rub.
The Power of the Resurrection
Some critics complain that the resurrection of Aslan (and some might add, of Jesus) feels like a cheat. People only say it because they have been taught for years that the deus ex machina -- the intervention of a god to get the protagonist out of a difficult situation -- is the easy way out for an author. But what if the only way out for a human protagonist is for God to intervene? That is the premise of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe -- and the Gospel of Christ -- there is no hope beyond the substitutionary death of the God. Some small measure of proof that this reluctance to accept the intervention is limited to jaded critics comes from the audience-wide applause that accompanies Aslan's glorious return.
Aslan must return, because the might of the Witch is transcendent and magical, while the power of Peter and his army -- though willing -- is mundane. Only Aslan has the power to ultimately defeat the Witch. Devices like this offend the pride of those who believe that people can "do it on their own." The whole of Lewis' Narnian worldview (reflecting, again, his earth-bound one) was that we cannot. We are to participate in the battle -- it is one of the chief means God uses to transform us -- but the victory belongs to God. He will be there to claim it.
Story and the Role of Witness
There are so many aspects of truth revealed in Adamson's film that it is impossible to cover them all -- the mocking stance of evil, the soul-eating act of treachery, the (sometimes dangerous) obligations of friendship, even the very nature of what constitutes truth. What does come across is the potency of story.
In the Gospels, Jesus declares that His disciples will be His witnesses. The job of witnesses is to tell what they have seen and heard -- to tell the truth about their experiences. The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe is the story of what Aslan did for Edmund -- and by extension, for everyone else. When we share the Gospel of Christ, we should be telling not only the story of Jesus, but our stories as well. In some denominations people still offer testimonies, a time for believers to stand up and tell how God saved them and is working in their lives. Introducing Jesus through debates over doctrine can sometimes lead to arguments in which nothing is on the line beyond the egos of the participants. The power of personal stories does not come from the teller's skill as a debater, or their academic prowess, but -- as in the case of Lucy -- from the speaker's credibility. You don't debate a testimony. You either believe it or you don't.
From Story to Story
There are lessons Christians can take from this film. First, audience response suggests that most people want to believe in a world like Narnia -- they just lack the eyes to see the similarities between that world and our own. For example, the thought that someone might love them enough to die for them is the basis of many appealing and timeless romances -- how much better to discover that Someone already actually has. Second, like Lucy, the believability of our story often rests on our credibility as tellers. We can only tell the story well only if we are passionately committed to it.
Not everyone who loves Narnia will want Jesus -- but the connection some people may feel with Narnia may make it easier to introduce Jesus, and the fictional account of Aslan might (paradoxically) make discussions of Christ's work to save us seem more present and real. Let the book, or the movie, do its work -- drawing people in and making them feel and think. Afterward the opportunity might arise to introduce your own story. Don't stint on the details -- your own story is a personal, gripping tale filled with temptations, evil deeds, a Suffering Savior and Triumphant Lord. It is a story in which you are a participant, fighting your own daily battles while being transformed into the image of Christ. It will someday end with the final victory of good over evil. And if that is your story, make certain that you tell it with the conviction and passion it deserves.
Marc T. Newman, PhD (marc@movieministry.com) is the president of MovieMinistry.com -- an organization that provides sermon and teaching illustrations from popular film, and helps the Church use movies to reach out to others and connect with people.
