In Which Aslan’s Name Reveals Much

“My goodness,” the author muttered when he realized that it was October when he had last written about Narnia.  

He sighed and pulled thoughtfully at his goatee.  

Forlornly he looked around for another cookie to dip in his tea as he thought of what possibly could have happened during the intervening time.  His wife had only brought him a single cashew cookie from the Indian grocery down the street.  The holidays had taken their toll on his midsection.  

“The holidays!” he thought. “That’s what got in the way.  I’m not to blame after all.”

The author settled into his favorite chair, pulled his Victorian Trading Company lapdesk onto his lap and then stopped suddenly.

No.  It wasn’t the holidays.  So many other projects go in the way despite his great desire to show others the little flecks of gold he could see in the tales of Narnia, his secondary homeland.  

Well, tertiary if you count Heaven.  

There on his own site lay addendums, and homespun tales, and diaries telling of the golden nuggets he had discovered between the lines, deep in the lay of languages, that make up the book of Genesis.

“Ah.  Well now,” he muttered and, again, pulled thoughtfully at his goatee.  An apology must be made, but he didn’t want to come off as many who neglect their blog.  He wanted to present an apology with more care and attention than that.

He began with a few words, sipped his tea, looked for a second cookie and, finding none, looked deeply into the white screen and spoke the words uttered by many.

“I’m sorry.  Mea culpa.”

So, here we are months after we left Edmund weirdly making sense.

In reviewing this Chronicle for today I can still hear his haunting words, “But how do we know?”  They are words that I, as a natural born skeptic, have been asking for most of my life.  It’s weird that I find myself most often caught in a tug of war between Lucy and Edmund; the Mystic and the Skeptic.

I would love to be able to tell you that I’ve resolved this dichotomy nicely, but I haven’t. There are things that I know for certain only because I’ve experienced them.  Even so I routinely dredged them up for analysis.  I believe that kind of regular analysis is vital to a Chistian’s life.  Although it shocks my Brothers and Sisters in Christ, I regularly even question the very existence of God.  Well, over time that has been quicker to analyze and move on to sticker wickets of faith.  

That being said, I want to be more like Lucy.  Because while the boys are deciding on the practicality of things, and Edmund manipulates his way through Peter’s psyche, it is the girls who SEE in chapter seven.  

I don’t think that’s unintentional.  The nurturer and the mystic often see before anyone else.  Why?  Because the end goal isn’t their greater focus.  What is happening right now?  What is in the environment?  What can I see right in front of me?  What am I missing in the here and now?  While leadership is committed to taking the piece of landscape, the mystic and the nurturer are viewing the detail.  The detail, to them, is more important than the hill we are to plant our flag on top of.  Those in leadership blow past the detail for the greater sake of the hill often believing that the details will take care of themselves.

It’s the girls that see the robin had flown away.  It is Susan who sees the beaver in the wood and alerts Peter.

As they look hard for it Susan suddenly declares that they should all go home because Edmund is seen to be absolutely correct.  They were lost.

But Lucy asks the most interesting question.

“‘What’s it like?’ said Lucy”

Here they are, nervous and worried, and Lucy, also nervous and worried, sees beyond the immediate situation.

“What’s it like?”  

This childlike rejection of ignorant fear is so admirable to me.  Yes, we are scared.  Yes, our only guide has abandoned us.  We don’t know what to do.  We see an animal in the distance that is trying hard not to be seen.  But not all animals are alike.  Not all figures are equal, no matter how they make us feel.  It could be bad, as the other children are assuming, but Lucy also knows that many animals are also good.  Not all creatures are like the Witch’s secret police.  It’s worth determining if there is a new guide who can be trusted before we abandon all.

It is determined that it is a beaver and it makes remarkably human signs at them to be quiet and follow.

Peter admirably throws the question to Lu about whether to follow or not.

“‘I think it’s a nice beaver,’ said Lucy”

Edmund immediately responds with, “‘Yes, but how do we know?’”

Lucy doesn’t need to know.  She feels and intuits.  She has yet to be wrong and Peter notices this.  His comment that they should be a match enough for one beaver isn’t for himself or, I think Susan.  He trusts Lucy.  She has more than proven herself.  It is more to satisfy Edmund’s constant complaint, his desire for logic.

A side detail I love here is how the place Mr. Beaver takes them to first talk to them is “…a dark spot where four trees grew so close together that their boughs met and the brown earth and pine needles could be seen underfoot because no snow had been able to fall there…”

It is such a beautiful image given that it is a spot completely untouched by the White Witch’s winter.  There Mr. Beaver feels safe enough to speak.  There Mr. Beaver feels that he can begin to conduct the business that would be the beginning of the prophecy.

My writer’s brain automatically goes to parallels and I see the four trees as potentially the four gospels which are “grown so close together that their bows met” and most often are the beginning of many a Christian’s journey toward Truth.

The handkerchief is exchanged, and explanations are made, and then we hear one of the most wondrous phrases in fiction; a phrase that every fan knows and marvels at.

“‘They say Aslan is on the move…’”

“None of the children knew who Aslan was…but the moment the Beaver had spoken these words everyone felt quite different.”

Oh, dear reader, this is the mystic’s touchstone.  This is the mystical experience that all of them feel.  This is the great assurance for the mystic.  This is not simply an emotional response, but contact with the glory of communion with the divine.  It illuminates all around it and cannot be explained away.  When we experience what this speaks of it nurtures our soul, brings wholeness and healing, as the mention of the King always should.  

There are so many that I have met who want nothing to do with the Christian mystic experience and I have to say, “Too bad”.  If you have been “saved” then you had a brush with the Divine, at least a moment that we can clearly see as mystical.  It changes everything and to live our lives denying it or minimizing it is insane to me.  The God of the universe reached down, conspired to bring you to Himself, saved your soul, made you clean, sealed you as His own, and you think it ends there?  That there is nothing else of Him to have until you get to heaven?  Oh, Dear Heart, there is so much more.

The name of Aslan each of the children feels something very specific to them. 

“Edmund felt a sensation of mysterious horror.  Peter felt suddenly brave and adventurous.  Susan felt as if some delicious smell or some delightful strain of music had just floated by her.  And Lucy got the feeling you have when you wake up in the morning and realize that it is the beginning of the holidays or the beginning of summer.”

The name of Aslan reveals something about each child.  Something crucial.  Something integral.  It reveals their very heart to themselves, much how encounters with the Spirit reveal to us.  

It is Lucy whose very rapturous experience seems to motivate her to compassion.  Tumnus is out there somewhere very likely feeling the opposite of what she felt at the name.