Collected Letters Volume Two: Books, Broadcasts and War, 1931–1949. Walter Hooper
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СКАЧАТЬ a good congregation. At the 11.30 service we had a very large one. I had quite forgotten the most unpleasant feature of an Irish service—the large number of people present who have obviously no interest in the thing, who are merely ‘good prodestants’. You know what one is supposed to find—‘the spirit of worship which burns all the brighter in the stark simplicity of the service etc.’3 In fact, one finds something that to my present eyes looks like studied indifference. I am sure the English practice of not going unless you believe is a much better one. The Rector, ‘the Reverend Belton’ is a poor creature.4

      Minto is frightfully sorry about Vera. It is not a practical joke nor was it intended.

      Yours

      Jack

      P.S. Leeboro’ garden is a paradise of daffodils: it has never looked so well before, I must confess

       TO DOM BEDE GRIFFITHS (W):

      Rostrevor,

      Co. Down

      [4 April 1934]

      My dear Griffiths,

      A wet day—and a cold—and this delightful sea and mountain village where I have been spending my holiday, seems a good occasion for answering your most welcome letter.

      I think our positions about Pantheism are exactly the same: for we both, in places, travelled the same road to Christianity, and the result of the arrival is certainly not any ingratitude or contempt to the various signposts or hostelries that helped on the journey. On the contrary, it is only since I have become a Christian that I have learned really to value the elements of truth in Paganism and Idealism. I wished to value them in the old days; now I really do. Don’t suppose that I ever thought myself that certain elements of pantheism were incompatible with Christianity or with Catholicism.

      I should rather like to attend your Greek class, for it is a perpetual puzzle to me how New Testament Greek got the reputation of being easy. St Luke I find particularly difficult. As regards matter—leaving the question of language—you will be glad to hear that I am at last beginning to get some small understanding of St Paul: hitherto an author quite opaque to me. I am speaking now, of course, of the general drift of whole epistles: short passages, treated devotionally, are of course another matter. And yet the distinction is not, for me, quite a happy one. Devotion is best raised when we intend something else. At least that is my experience. Sit down to meditate devotionally on a single verse, and nothing happens. Hammer your way through a continued argument, just as you would in a profane writer, and the heart will sometimes sing unbidden.

      I think I agree with you that ‘historical research’ as now understood, is no work for a monk, nor for a man either. To all that side of my own work I attach less and less importance: yet I become each year more contented in the actual teaching and lecturing. I have very little doubt now that the work is worth doing. It is true that neither the terms of my appointment nor my own stature allow me to teach the most important things: but on the lower level there is honest work to be done in eradicating false habits of mind and teaching the elements of reason herself, and English Literature is as good a subject as any other. I should be in a bad way by now if I had been allowed to follow my own desire and be a research fellow with no pupils. As it is, nearly every generation leaves me one permanent friend.

      Please accept my thanks, and convey them to the Prior, for your offered hospitality. Some week end in the long Vacation would suit me best, and I should like to come.

      Yours

      C. S. Lewis

      P.S. This has some relevance both to the questions of Prayer and Idealism. I wrote it over a year ago.

      They tell me, Lord, that when I seem To be in speech with You, Since You make no replies, it’s all a dream —One talker aping two.

      And so it is, but not as they Falsely believe. For I Seek in myself the things I meant to say, And lo!, the wells are dry.

       Then, seeing me empty, You forsake The listener’s part, and through My dumb lips breathe and into utterance wake The thoughts I never knew.