While Dad is my family's resident sci-fi connoisseur, this year Dad and I trekked into interstellar space together, reading C.S. Lewis' Space Trilogy and Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game. I had reservations about reading sci-fi novels, as I thought I might end up becoming fluent in Klingon as a result. Surprisingly, the genre ended up teaching me a thing or two about theology, and even more about the mechanics of the writing craft.
Written in the 40s, Lewis' Space Trilogy has little to do with the physical world of outer space as we presently know it. His writing is clearly informed by the scientific knowledge of his day, but for the most part, the physical world(s) he writes about serve his stories, which are obviously allegorical. Suspend your disbelief, Dear Readers. Suspend it in zero gravity.
Out of the Silent Planet (***1/2), the first book in the trilogy, features Lewis finding his voice in the genre, and while his first steps are elementary enough, they are also thought-provoking and worthwhile. While the first two-thirds of the book are standard sci-fi fare, sometime during the last third, Lewis' universe assumes a theological bent that casts life on planet Earth in an entirely different light. At the time of this reading, I also listened to N.T. Wright's lectures on the Veritas Forum. Lewis and Wright pushed outward in my skull, and my inner world expanded as a result. My perception of creativity was permanently altered. People talk about the narrow-mindedness of Christians, which saddens me. The imagination of God is clearly broad enough to include, as film director Kevin Smith put it in the disclaimer at the beginning of the movie Dogma, the platypus, among other things. If Christ is truly the Son of God, Christians should be the most imaginative lot on the planet.
Lewis certainly affirms this in the 2nd book in the series, Perelandra (*****). People most often associate Lewis with the Chronicles of Narnia, or with his more overt theologically-minded works like Mere Christianity or The Screwtape Letters. Little did I know, upon embarking into the world of Perelandra, that I was about to read my new favorite C.S. Lewis book, a work so colorful and imaginative and theologically charged that it would win me over completely. Lewis dramatizes theology in such a beautiful way in this book, making the abstract concrete, providing us with a new perspective on the human condition through comparison with the inhabitants of another world. Among other things, he aims to imagine what it would be like if man had never fallen from grace. Lewis works out this theological puzzle with panache in this book, and with remarkably powerful results.
The third and final installment in the trilogy, That Hideous Strength (****1/2), was a more than worthy conclusion to the series. It seamlessly integrates Lewis' love of myth with his experiences in the academy, resulting in a work that is highly cerebral, complex, and surreal. Structurally, it features Lewis at his most ambitious. He adeptly juggles parallel narratives, populates his world with a whole world of memorable characters, and finally interweaves elements of the first two books even as this book feels distinctly unlike them. Honestly, it is difficult for me to decide whether I like this or Perelandra better, but I think I like Perelandra better from a conceptual standpoint. They both stand tall in Lewis' oeuvre.
After reading these three books from January to March, I found myself appreciating sci-fi as a genre in a way I never had before. I cut my teeth on the Star Wars trilogy and grew up watching Star Trek: The Next Generation with my Dad, but I only saw them as stories set in space rather than intergalactic parables that had the ability to speak about life here on Earth. Not all works of science-fiction function this way, but Lewis' Space Trilogy certain does. Lewis travels into the black abyss of outer space only to turn his telescope back on us so we can see ourselves from a God's-eye view.