In The Last Battle, the final volume of The Chronicles of Narnia, there is a delightful scene toward the end of the story. A group of dwarfs sit huddled together in a tight little knot thinking they are in a pitch black, smelly hole of a stable when in reality they are out in the midst of an endless grassy green countryside with sun shining and blue sky overhead. Lucy, the most tenderhearted of the Narnian children, feels compassion for them. She tries to reason with them. Then frustrated, she cries, “It isn’t dark, you poor stupid Dwarfs. Can’t you see? Look up! Look round! Can’t you see the sky and the trees and the flowers!” But all they can see is pitch black darkness.
Aslan, the Christ figure, is there with them, but they can’t see him. When Aslan offers them the finest food, they think they are eating spoiled meat scraps and sour turnips. When he offers them the choicest wine, they mistake it for ditch water.
How did the Dwarfs become so blind? The dwarfs had refused to join the Narnians in their battle against evil. But they didn’t actually join the other side either. Their one constant refrain was: the Dwarfs are for the Dwarfs. They lived by that mantra.
That, I think, could pass for the philosophy of our age. We tend to live for “me” and “mine”—our group, our tribe, our party, our nation. This pervades our politics, our economics, our society at all levels, even our Christianity. Many politicians don’t even try to conceal their true motives these days. They just state openly that their number one goal is to defeat the other side. There is little interest in the common good and empowering the disadvantaged. This is true for many of our religious leaders as well. The highly popular Christian leaders in our nation talk mainly about self-fulfillment, keys to success (American style), living a happy life, or the afterlife. This is why it is so remarkable today when someone actually breaks away from party lines to say or do what he or she thinks is right for the common good and what is morally just and compassionate. It’s remarkable because it’s so rare. And it usually means vocational suicide.
In John 1, Philip tells Nathaniel he has discovered
’s Messiah—Jesus of Nazareth, son of Joseph. Nathaniel remarks, “Can anything good come out of a despised little town like Israel ?” I’m sure this prejudice against Nazareth was part of Nathaniel’s upbringing and heritage. Philip does not argue, but says, “Come and see.” Take an honest look. Remarkably, Nathaniel is open, honest, and receptive enough to set aside his bias and discover the truth (see John 1:43–51). Nazareth
I wonder how many of us are blind to truth and do not actually know God (though we may think we do), because we are unwilling to question our biases and assumptions. I wonder how often we miss what God is doing, because we keep chanting the mantra of our particular group or tribe, unwilling to consider how God may be at work in other communities and faith traditions.
Can we become humble, open, honest, and receptive enough to see God’s dream for the world and hear God’s voice in the present circumstances of our lives? Can we admit that God is much larger than our little creeds and confessions (as important as these may be to our own faith)? Can we acknowledge that God’s love is much greater than what we are capable of? Our capacity today to respond to God’s Spirit and participate in God’s work is vitally connected to our humility and openness to a larger vision of what God is doing in the world.