Breaking the Spell of Skepticism: Puddleglum versus the Green Witch
As readers of the stories, we can all agree that Narnia isn’t real, that “there is no Narnia.” But we don’t expect those in the stories themselves to agree with us. And yet, at a crucial moment in The Silver Chair several of the main characters are found with these philosophically puzzling words on their lips. We begin by reminding ourselves of how this odd-sounding situation came about.
How the Enchantment Begins
Jill Pole and Eustace Scrubb have been summoned from our world into Narnia to find Prince Rilian, lost son of the now aged King Caspian. The children and their pessimistic guide, Puddleglum the Marsh-wiggle, eventually come to an underground world where the wicked Queen of Underland, the Green Witch, has Rilian under her spell. Following the signs that Aslan has given, the three release Rilian from the bewitching silver chair while the Queen is away. But she returns just as the four are about to make their escape, and immediately attempts to bring them all under an enchantment.
Since Jill, Eustace, Puddleglum and Rilian aim to escape to Narnia, the Witch’s strategy is to bring them to believe that no such world exists. The green powder the Witch throws on the fire fills the room with a sweet and soporific smell that makes it hard to think, and her monotonous thrumming on a mandolin has a similarly hypnotic effect. In this situation, the Queen begins to reason with our company of four. The arguments and counter-arguments that follow provide the focus of this chapter.
The Enchantment Deepens
The powder and the mandolin soon begin to take effect, and before long Puddleglum is the only one still resisting the spell.
“You can play that fiddle till your fingers drop off, and still you won’t make me forget Narnia. . . . I know I was there once. I’ve seen the sky full of stars. I’ve seen the sun coming up out of the sea of a morning and sinking behind the mountains at night. And I’ve seen him up in the midday sky when I couldn’t look at him for brightness.”
Puddleglum’s words had a very rousing effect. The other three all breathed again and looked at one another like people newly awaked. (SC, Chapter 12, pp. 630–31)
The victory is short-lived, however. When asked to explain what the sun is like, Rilian compares it to the lamp illuminating the room. The sun is like the lamp, only “far greater and brighter.” Both are round and yellow, and whereas the lamp gives light to the whole room and hangs from the roof, the sun gives light to the whole Overworld and “hangeth in the sky.”
“Hangeth from what, my lord?” asked the Witch; and then, while they were still thinking how to answer her, she added, with another of her soft, silver laughs: “You see? When you try to think out clearly what this sun must be, you cannot tell me. You can only tell me it is like the lamp. Your sun is a dream; and there is nothing in that dream that was not copied from the lamp. The lamp is the real thing; the sun is but a tale, a children’s story.”
“Yes, I see now,” said Jill in a heavy, hopeless tone. “It must be so.” And while she said this, it seemed to her to be very good sense. (SC, Chapter 12, p. 631)
The other three soon give in, at least until Jill remembers about Aslan. But the Witch is now in full flow, and Aslan suffers the same fate as the sun. When Eustace explains that a lion is like a huge cat, the Queen replies.
“I see,” she said, “that we should do no better with your lion, as you call it, than we did with your sun. You have seen lamps, and so you imagined a bigger and better lamp and called it the sun. You’ve seen cats, and now you want a bigger and better cat, and it’s to be called a lion. Well, ’tis a pretty make-believe, though, to say truth, it would suit you all better if you were younger.” (SC, Chapter 12, p. 632)
The Lady of the Freudian Slip
The Witch’s arguments have several parallels in philosophy. We shall be looking at just one: the Freudian critique of religious belief. According to that critique, religious beliefs are illusions. Sigmund Freud argues that belief in God results from the wish for a father figure to protect us, as in childhood, against forces beyond our control. Freud writes:
The derivation of religious needs from the infant’s helplessness and the longing for the father aroused by it seems to me incontrovertible. . . . I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection. . . . The origin of the religious attitude can be traced back in clear outlines as far as the feeling of infantile helplessness.1
In short, Freud argues that “at bottom God is nothing other than an exalted father.”2 So similar is this critique of religious belief to the Witch’s case against the Overworld that it’s tempting to think this is what the whole passage is “really about.” Indeed, if we replace “sun” or “lion” with “God,” the Witch’s arguments virtually become the Freudian critique: “When you try to think out clearly what this God must be, you cannot tell me. You can only tell me He is like a father. Your God is a dream; and there is nothing in that dream that was not copied from an earthly father. Earthly fathers are the real thing; God is but a tale, a children’s story.” “You’ve seen fathers, and now you want a bigger and better father, and it’s to be called God. Well, ’tis a pretty make-believe, though, to say truth, it would suit you all better if you were younger.”
A Puzzle about Aslan: How Do You Tell a Copy from the Original?
In The Last Battle, the poor gullible donkey, Puzzle, is duped into dressing up as Aslan by the scheming ape, Shift. Many Narnians are fooled into accepting this charade as the real thing and, as a result, are led to all kinds of evil deeds. Their problem was that they couldn’t tell the copy from the original.
An important part of the Queen’s case against Overworld is the claim that the Sun is nothing but a copy of the lamp. Similarly, Freud’s argument assumes that God is nothing but a copy of an earthly father. While Freud’s assertion may seem plausible, readers of The Silver Chair know that the Witch’s argument is unsound. If we are going to speak of copies and originals here, it would seem more appropriate to say that the lamp is a copy and the Sun is the original. But what about Freud’s claim? How do we tell a copy from the original?
At first sight it might seem that if we cannot answer this question then we cannot reply to Freud. But since it is Freud’s argument that depends on God being a copy, it is Freud, rather than his opponents, who needs a way of answering the question. Unfortunately for Freud, it’s not at all clear how the question should be answered. But one thing seems obvious: from the mere fact that two things are similar, it is impossible to tell which, if either, is the copy. But similarity is all that Freud has to go on.3
Indeed, if God does exist, it seems reasonable to believe that earthly fathers are in some way a copy of our heavenly one.4 The similarity between God and our earthly fathers is not an embarrassing fact that those who believe in God must explain away. Rather, it is just the sort of thing one might expect if God does exist.
Whose Illusion Is It, Anyway?
Part of Freud’s argument against God that isn’t so neatly paralleled in the Witch’s arguments is the claim that belief in God is the result of wish-fulfilment. The closest the Queen comes to saying anything like this is the constant patronising of the companions’ beliefs as childish, though this does include saying that the beliefs are a “pretty make-believe.”
Freud claims that we believe in God because that belief provides comfort in a cold and dangerous world. But is the God of Christianity really the sort of thing one would wish for? After all, as one leading Christian philosopher has pointed out:
[M]any people thoroughly dislike the idea of an omnipotent, omniscient being monitoring their every activity, privy to their every thought, and passing judgement on all they do or think. Others dislike the lack of autonomy consequent upon there being a Someone by comparison with whom we are as dust and ashes, and to whom we owe worship and obedience.5
Edmund’s early feelings about Aslan in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe are surely similar to the feelings many of us have about God: “the mention of Aslan gave him a mysterious and horrible feeling just as it gave the others a mysterious and lovely feeling” (LWW, Chapter 9, p. 151). As Edmund makes his way to the White Witch’s house he sees what he eventually realizes is a stone lion. To him it seemed a “lovely idea” that this might once have been the Aslan that everyone was talking about. As harsh as it may sound, far from wishing for him, Edmund wanted Aslan dead. Indeed, if one were to wish for a God at all, it probably wouldn’t be the God of Christianity, just as Lucy and Susan wished that Aslan might have been something rather more tame than a lion.
“Ooh!” said Susan, “I’d thought he was a man. Is he—quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion.”
“That you will, dearie, and no mistake,” said Mrs Beaver; “if there’s anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they’re either braver than most or else just silly.”
“Then he isn’t safe?” said Lucy.
“Safe?” said Mr Beaver; “don’t you hear what Mrs Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? ’Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.” (LWW, Chapter 8, p. 146)
Is it really plausible to say that belief in God results from wish-fulfillment? Contrary to Freud, it is far from clear that anyone would wish for the existence of a being such as God, and it may in fact be atheism that results from wish-fulfillment.6
The God-Shaped Hole
As readers of the story, we are in no danger of being taken in by the Witch’s arguments. We know that Jill, Eustace, Puddleglum, and Rilian are being deceived: Narnia is real, just as Aslan and the Sun are real. And since we know this, we also know that the Witch’s argument can’t be right.
Since the Witch’s conclusion is wrong (as she knows), there must be a mistake somewhere in her reasoning. But if the Witch’s reasoning is wrong, and Freud’s reasoning is essentially the same, then there must be a mistake somewhere in his reasoning too! The mistake in question is often called “the genetic fallacy,” and involves illegitimately rejecting a belief simply because of where it comes from.7 A belief might be true whatever its origins, whether this be wish-fulfillment, tea-leaf reading, or anything else. Indeed, this is quite obvious in our case; wishes do sometimes come true, although admittedly not as often as most of us would like.
In fact, Freud admitted that his argument didn’t prove that religion is false, but he still thought his arguments showed that religious belief is irrational. If religion is to be rational, it surely ought to be based on good evidence, not on our “infantile wishes.”
Suppose we grant that religion is based on a desire for God. Does it follow that religious belief is irrational? That depends on the desire itself. If the desire is a mere “wish,” and the resulting belief a “wish-fulfillment,” then we must agree with Freud. But what if the desire is better described as an inherent need for God? What if, as the early medieval philosopher St. Augustine (354–430 A.D.) said, “You have made us for Yourself and our hearts are restless until they find their rest in You”? To paraphrase Blaise Pascal (1623–1662), it may be that humans have been created with a God-shaped hole, a need that only God can fill.
The idea of a deep desire for something beyond the physical world is a theme that comes up again and again in Lewis’s writings. In The Voyage of the “Dawn Treader,” King Caspian sets out in search of seven Lords, friends of his father who had been sent to explore the Eastern Seas by the usurper Miraz. Among others, Caspian is accompanied by the incomparably gallant mouse, Reepicheep. Although Reepicheep would have sailed with Caspian out of valor and loyalty alone, his main reason for joining the crew was something quite different.
“But Reepicheep here has an even higher hope.” Everyone’s eyes turned to the Mouse.
“As high as my spirit,” he said. “Though perhaps as small as my stature. Why should we not come to the very eastern end of the world? And what might we find there? I expect to find Aslan’s own country. It is always from the east, across the sea, that the great Lion comes to us.” . . .
“But do you think,” said Lucy, “Aslan’s country would be that sort of country—I mean, the sort you could ever sail to?”
“I do not know, Madam,” said Reepicheep. “But there is this. When I was in my cradle, a wood woman, a Dryad, spoke this verse over me:
Where sky and water meet,
Where the waves grow sweet,
Doubt not, Reepicheep,
To find all you seek,
There is the utter east.
I do not know what it means. But the spell of it has been on me all my life.” (VDT, Chapter 2, p. 433)
In Mere Christianity, Lewis puts it like this:
Creatures are not born with desires unless satisfaction for those desires exists. A baby feels hunger: well, there is such a thing as food. A duckling wants to swim: well, there is such a thing as water. Men feel sexual desire: well, there is such a thing as sex. If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.8
So, far from counting against religious belief, a deep desire for God may provide evidence for His existence.
In sum, Freud’s critique, like the Witch’s, fails. It fails for four reasons. First, the similarity between the concept of God and the concept of an earthly father does not tell us which (if either) is the copy and which is the original. Second, atheism seems just as likely as religious belief to be the result of wish-fulfillment. Third, one cannot show that God doesn’t exist from the (alleged) fact that we wish Him to exist. Fourth, if God does exist and created us with a need to be in relationship with Him, believing in Him on the basis of that need would not constitute wishful thinking.
The Spell Is Broken: The Meditations of a Marsh-wiggle
Puddleglum and company didn’t respond to the Witch in the way that I have responded to Freud. Puddleglum’s first response is purely practical. He stamps out the fire with his bare feet, clearing the air of the fumes that have been clouding their thinking and replacing them with the rather less enchanting smell of burnt Marsh-wiggle. The pain in his feet also brings a certain clarity of thought:
“One word. All you’ve been saying is quite right, I shouldn’t wonder. . . . But there’s one thing more to be said, even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things—trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. . . . Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. . . . That’s why I’m going to stand by the play-world. I’m on Aslan’s side even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia. So . . . we’re leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that’s a small loss if the world’s as dull a place as you say.” (SC, Chapter 12, p. 633)
One of the surprising things about Puddleglum’s speech is the way it starts: by admitting that the Witch is probably right. Unlike the previous attempts, this defense of the reality of Narnia and Aslan is not based on any claim to have experienced these things, nor on any other straightforward argument for their existence. Puddleglum seems to be arguing that the belief is legitimate even though he doesn’t have any evidence for it.
In attempting to defend belief in Narnia and Aslan without evidence, Puddleglum’s argument echoes famous defenses of religious belief by the philosophers William James (1842–1910) and Blaise Pascal. Both argue that belief in God can be perfectly rational, even in the absence of rationally compelling evidence. While Freud argues that religious belief is irrational because it is based on wish-fulfillment and not evidence, James and Pascal deny that proof is necessary.
Puddleglum’s Wager
Puddleglum’s argument seems, at least in part, to be that if the Witch is right then nothing real is of value: the made-up things are the most important ones. But perhaps, just perhaps, Narnia and Aslan are real. Either way, Jill, Eustace, Puddleglum, and Rilian have little to lose by staking their lives on the small chance that the valuable things are real after all. If there is no Narnia, nothing will be lost in seeking it, since life in the Witch’s world has nothing to offer. But if Narnia does exist, then giving in to the Witch would be the worst mistake possible.
Pascal’s argument for belief in God is remarkably similar. Whether God exists or not, we have nothing to lose by committing ourselves to Him. If there is no God, then the decision of whether or not to believe is ultimately inconsequential: nothing will be lost if we believe or if we do not. But if God does exist, not believing in him will prove a terrible mistake. If we believe in God and are wrong, we lose little, but if we are wrong in our disbelief we miss out on eternity with Him (and may have a much worse fate to endure). The risks of believing in God are infinitely lower, and the possible gains infinitely higher, than those of not believing.
Puddleglum’s speech is also reminiscent of a famous argument by William James. In his essay “The Will to Believe” (1896), James points out that in our intellectual life we have two important aims: to believe truths and to avoid errors.9 Those who think we need to have evidence for everything we believe seem to place more weight on the second of these aims than on the first—“better risk loss of truth than chance of error” is their motto.10 But, as James points out, there are many important existential questions that cannot be decided by evidence. And since these decisions cannot be based on evidence, it is perfectly legitimate to let some questions be decided not by evidence but by our “passions”—that is, by our hopes, desires, and interests. Perhaps the existence of God is one of these vital and undecidable existential questions.
James didn’t think every question could or should be decided without evidence, but only questions of a particular sort. To qualify, a question must meet four conditions. It must be one that the person cannot decide on intellectual grounds alone; it must be genuinely open in a person’s mind; there must be no way of evading the question; and the question must be an important one.
For a question to be open, the possible choices must “appeal as a real possibility.” For example, to most of us, the proposition Zeus is god above all other gods is not a live hypothesis: “The notion makes no electric connection with your nature—it refuses to scintillate with any credibility at all.”11 In short, all hypotheses are either “live” or literally beyond belief. James admits that what is a live hypothesis for one person may be beyond belief for another. If a question cannot be settled on intellectual grounds and is, in James’s terms, living, forced and momentous, then we not only may, but must, decide the issue on “passional grounds.”
The decision facing Jill, Eustace, Puddleglum, and Rilian is very much of this sort. It certainly seems possible to them that Narnia does not exist, but while the enchantment is not complete, the reality of Narnia remains a live hypothesis. The decision cannot be evaded: either they believe in Narnia or they do not. Any attempt to suspend judgment on the issue will leave them under the Witch’s spell. The decision is also momentous. The only possibility worth living for is Narnia, and if they don’t take their chance now, Narnia will never again be in their reach.
In this situation it is surely unreasonable to suppose that our companions shouldn’t believe without better evidence. As James said, “a rule of thinking which would . . . prevent me from acknowledging certain kinds of truth if those truths were really there would be an irrational rule.”12 While the four remain in the Underworld, the rule “better risk loss of truth than chance of error” is just such a rule, and must be rejected as irrational.
James applies the same reasoning to religious belief. The existence of God is a live hypothesis for most of us. In addition, the question of his existence cannot really be evaded: if you remain an agnostic long enough, death will turn your “perhaps” into a “no.” This is similar to Jill’s decision early in The Silver Chair to approach Aslan so she can drink from the stream. Had she never made her decision she would have died of thirst just as surely as if she decided against drinking from the stream. The decision for or against God is clearly a momentous one: we have only one life in which to make it, and the associated risks and possible benefits could not be bigger, as Pascal’s Wager makes clear. So the case of belief in God meets James’s criteria, and it is therefore legitimate to decide the issue without conclusive evidence.
Look Out! It’s a Live Hypothesis13
A common objection to the arguments of both Pascal and James is that they ignore the possibility of different religious options. For instance, against Pascal it is often claimed that it is possible that there is a malicious god who, after our deaths, would torture those who had believed in God and give everlasting pleasures to those who had not. If we were to take this idea into account, it would seem that Pascal’s argument no longer works, for believing in God would be just as risky as failing to believe.
James and Puddleglum can help us here. Puddleglum wasn’t faced with a choice between all logically possible theories of the universe; he was faced with a choice between believing in Narnia and believing only in the Witch’s dark, gloomy caverns. It would be absurd to fault him for not considering the possibility of the existence of Tolkien’s Middle-earth.14 Middle-earth was not a live hypothesis for Puddleglum. Similarly, the possibility of an evil god who tortures believers is not one that many of us can take seriously. Pascal’s argument is not designed to rule out such options. His argument is directed to those who are choosing between classical theism and atheism, and for such persons the argument has force.
Puddleglum’s Speech: Attack or Defence?
It may be that some readers will now complain that no traditional form of religious commitment is a live option for them. But this doesn’t mean that James’s and Pascal’s arguments are without value. Indeed, the value of Puddleglum’s argument would not have depended on its ability to convince the Witch’s still enchanted Earthmen servants. Fending off the attacks of one’s opponents is quite a different thing from launching attacks of one’s own. If the arguments are supposed to convince outright skeptics they will probably fail. On the other hand, if the arguments are addressed to those for whom God is a live hypothesis or to believers who need rational reassurance, they may succeed.
If, as my reader, you find that religious belief is not a live option, then James’s and Pascal’s arguments are not addressed to you. However, you should be warned that if belief in God no longer appeals to you, that may be because your enchantment is complete.
1 Sigmund Freud, Civilization and its Discontents (1930), in Civilization, Society and Religion; Penguin Freud Library, Volume 12 (London: Penguin, 1990), p. 260.
2 Sigmund Freud, Totem and Taboo (1913), in The Origins of Religion: Penguin Freud Library, Volume 13 (London: Penguin, 1990), p. 209.
3 Compare Richard L. Purtill, C.S. Lewis’s Case for the Christian Faith, second edition (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2004), p. 22.
4 For a little more on this theme, see C.S. Lewis, The Pilgrim’s Regress (London: Fount, 1977; first published 1933), pp. 81–89. Freud is represented in this work by the character of “Sigismund.”
5 Alvin Plantinga, Warranted Christian Belief (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), p. 195.
6 For more on this theme, see Lewis, The Pilgrim’s Regress, pp. 81–96. See also P.C. Vitz, Faith of the Fatherless: The Psychology of Atheism (Dallas: Spence, 1999), pp. 9–16.
7 In other words the genetic fallacy relates to the origin or genesis of the belief—hence the name of the fallacy. For an entertaining critique of the fallacy, see Lewis’s essay “Bulverism,” in C.S. Lewis, God in the Dock: Essays on Theology and Ethics (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1970), pp. 271–77.
8 C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity (London: Fount, 1977; first published 1952), p. 118.
9 William James, “The Will to Believe,” reprinted in Pragmatism: The Classic Writings, edited by H.S. Thayer (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1982), pp. 186–208.
10 Ibid., p. 205.
11 Ibid., p. 187.
12 Ibid., p. 206.
13 C.S. Lewis, Miracles, second edition (London: Fontana, 1960), p. 98.
14 Middle-earth was the setting of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Incidentally, Tolkien and Lewis were, after a rocky start, good friends. There are many passages in The Chronicles of Narnia that were clearly influenced by The Lord of the Rings. To cite just one example: the hypnotic voice of the Green Witch is strongly reminiscent of the scene in The Lord of the Rings (The Two Towers, Chapter 10) in which Saruman’s seductive voice nearly convinces the conquering armies of Rohan to release him.