Recap: Lessons from a Wartime Writer
Things C.S. Lewis might say about the age of AI, anxiety, and overload.
This summer, while others are heading to the lake, I’m preparing to teach Sunday school. I’ll be co-leading a class with my pastor, working through The Great Divorce and The Weight of Glory—two of C.S. Lewis’ most enduring works. I’ve taught Lewis before, but not these. And preparing to teach them has already stirred something in me. Lewis doesn’t just challenge the mind—he probes the heart.
These aren’t abstract theological essays. They’re grounded reflections, forged in the chaos of wartime London, where Lewis lectured through air raids and blackouts. That context shaped his clarity. His faith wasn’t escapist—it was forged in fragility. In an age that’s still marked by fear and noise, Lewis helps us think more clearly about hope, eternity, and the shape of a meaningful life.
Here are four works I keep coming back to—both for what they reveal about him, and what they ask of us:
The Great Divorce reminds us that Hell is not imposed but chosen—its inhabitants cling to pride, resentment, and illusion, even when offered the joy of Heaven, because surrender feels like loss. In leadership, education, and family life, I’ve seen this play out: the most stuck people aren’t the most needy, but the most defended. Lewis doesn’t shame them; he simply sees them—and invites them toward a better way.
In The Screwtape Letters, a senior demon mentors his nephew on how to derail a soul—not with grand sins, but through subtle nudges toward apathy, pride, and distraction. It’s sharp satire, filled with uncomfortable truths for those of us who confuse productivity with purpose. In a world built to fracture attention, Screwtape reminds us that spiritual decay often begins with busyness dressed up as devotion.
In A Grief Observed, we meet not the confident apologist but a man undone by loss, wrestling with doubt after the death of his wife, Joy. Lewis doesn’t offer tidy answers—he offers honesty. What makes the book unforgettable isn’t theological clarity, but the way it shows that faith may not silence grief, yet it can sit with us through it.
In On Living in an Atomic Age, written during the Cold War but strikingly relevant now, Lewis argues that fear has always been part of the human condition—whether from plagues, wars, or now pandemics and AI. His plea is simple: don’t let the fear of death keep you from living fully. The world is always shaking; the task is to live with purpose anyway.
Teaching Lewis this summer isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about formation. His work isn’t just timeless—it’s timely. Each book invites us to think more clearly, feel more deeply, and choose more courageously.
And maybe that’s the lesson. Whether in wartime London or today’s anxious world, faith isn’t about escaping uncertainty. It’s about walking through it—with eyes open, heart engaged, and hope intact.