“Narnia, Narnia, Narnia, awake. Love. Think. Speak.”
With these words, Aslan the Lion creates the beloved land of Narnia. The Magician’s Nephew by C. S. Lewis tells the origin story of a magical country, home to Talking Beasts and walking trees.
Don’t be fooled by these fantastical elements; Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia follows theological themes at which even a mature reader will wonder. In this creation story, the reader follows two children, a cockney caddy, a wannabe magician, and a wicked witch as the Lion makes a world ex nihilo — out of nothing.
Song comes first. A voice, beautiful and enormous, makes the stars sing and the sun rise. A river flows eastward as greenery sprouts in all directions. All of creation follows the music.
This account clearly mirrors the Genesis story, with God proclaiming the Word and creating light. Despite the clear references to the Old Testament book, the story also reflects an idea dating back to Ancient Greece: the music of the spheres.
The ancient natural philosophers taught that the universe was finely tuned so that each planet moved in harmony, producing heavenly music. As humanity got used to the constant music, we grew deaf to the beauty.
The characters of The Magician’s Nephew, however, hear the music of the spheres for the first time. The children and caddy marvel at the beauty, the magician is merely baffled, while the witch grows stews in anger.
As the world is filled with life, one of Aslan’s first proclamations to the newly born animals is to “laugh and fear not.” The joy among the beasts flows freely, unencumbered by any knowledge of evil.
Diggory, the little boy, is not so lucky. His mother lies on her deathbed, overshadowing the spectacle. To him, Narnia represents his mother’s last hope.
The boy tentatively approaches the Lion, averting his gaze and hoping he won’t make a fool out of himself by blubbering. While Aslan speaks, Diggory’s desperation grows until he finally looks into the Lion’s eyes. The boy is shocked to find great tears that express a greater sorrow than Diggory’s own.
“‘My son, my son,’ said Aslan. ‘I know. Grief is great. Only you and I in this land know that yet. Let us be good to one another.’”
This softening toward the sufferer answers a part of our soul that we as adults often want to ignore, whether that be a hesitance to comfort or (perhaps even worse) to be comforted. We find true consolation through childlike wonder, sacrificing our pride to acknowledge our weakness.
The sensitivity that allows us to hear the music of the spheres is the same tenderness that makes us weep in grief. We can’t have one without the other.
“Sensitive” has become a dirty word, an accusation. We throw it around to brand “kids these days” as snowflakes.
In reality, our generation is not sensitive enough; our hearts have hardened into stones.
You hear it in our pop music. Most modern hits feature unmelodic rap or breathy talk-singing. There’s no singing from the chest, proclaiming the highs and lows of human experience.
We see romance, traditionally the most emotional aspect of our lives, as purely pragmatic. Two people assess the other’s value, ask consent to hold hands, and stick around only until they no longer feel like it. Far gone are the days of “in sickness or in health, till death do we part.”
Even our leisure time often means drugs and screens, dulling our senses until we can’t hear the music anymore.
It’s no wonder our cities are largely ugly, featuring brutalist buildings and harsh concrete. We wouldn’t look up from our phones for long enough to notice.
This dullness even taints our grief. The last time I lost a loved one, I went to class the next day and didn’t tell anyone—not even my friends. I didn’t want to cry in front of them.
Other cultures include weeks of mourning where the community rallies to offer condolences and grieve together. Now, it seems like most Americans barely take a day off work. The mourning family often finds itself isolated while friends don’t know what to say.
Alternatively, the tears that Aslan sheds for Diggory’s mother reveal a deeper truth: love requires pain. Any relationship without risk is not real love.
Diggory is first drawn toward the Lion through beauty. He listens to the music and marvels at creation, allowing it to enter his soul. This receptivity draws him closer to the Singer himself, the great lion. Joy and wonder lead him toward love.
But that is not enough; Diggory must also share his sufferings with another.
Aslan, the strongest being in Narnia, takes on the grief because of his strength. A strong heart takes on the greatest suffering while a proud heart shoves the feelings away.
Cultivating the proper response toward grief often means managing what we take in. Whether it be books, videos, music, or conversations, we constantly expose ourselves to outside influences. When we surround ourselves with beauty (as much as we can in a fallen world), we train our disposition to value what is good. Alternatively, a degrading and empty environment blunts our desire for the transcendent.
Luckily, our world is filled with marvels. We may be tempted to cynicism by our dismal view of society, yet leaves still turn golden in the fall and children grow taller every day. God leaves His fingerprints throughout creation for us to find, all so we can pour out our hearts to Him.
