Who Knows the Worst About You?

“Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed. The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.” — James 5:16 (KJV)

By 1941 strangers were writing to tell Lewis that he had changed their lives. That is hard for anyone to hear, and harder for someone who had spent his youth wanting to be thought clever. He knew he was proud. He feared he might become an expert on religion and stop being a Christian. So he did three things about it, and they matter as much as any of his books.

First, in October 1940 he began going to confession. He chose an elderly priest, Father Walter Adams, a gentle, humble man of over seventy. Lewis admitted that he dreaded it; what might seem a small step to others was a huge one for him. Afterwards he found it had done him good, and he went almost every week for twelve years, until Father Adams died. Confessing to a priest is unusual among Protestants, and Lewis never said everyone should do it. He chose it because he knew his own heart and didn't trust himself to deal with it alone. He needed someone who would hear the worst, not be impressed by his fame, and tell him the truth.

Second, money. As royalties poured in, he had a horror of getting rich on religion. With Owen Barfield's help he set up a charity called the Agape Fund, from the Greek word for love. Two-thirds of his royalties went into it and were given away quietly to widows, struggling clergy, students and families who couldn't pay school fees. He lived simply: shabby clothes, cheap tobacco, worn furniture.

Third, letters. Every morning he spent an hour or two answering strangers, by hand, with a pen dipped in ink: the doubting, the grieving, the lonely, children, even cranks. Warnie typed thousands of replies for him. Lewis complained about the work and kept doing it until a few weeks before he died. And when he promised to pray for someone, he did.

Then came a famous evening. In 1942 Lewis had become president of the Socratic Club, a student society where Christians and unbelievers argued in public, each side hearing the strongest case against it. On 2 February 1948 a young philosopher named Elizabeth Anscombe, herself a devout Catholic, read a paper attacking one argument in his book Miracles. She wasn't attacking Christianity, only what she thought was a bad argument for it. It was a sharp evening, and some who were there thought Lewis had been beaten. He seems to have agreed that she had made a real point. He was low afterwards and didn't hide it. Then he went back and rewrote the chapter for a later edition.

A legend grew that he was so humiliated that he gave up defending the faith and retreated into children's stories. That is mostly false. He led the Socratic Club for six more years and wrote Christian books for the rest of his life. Narnia had been in his head for years. Anscombe herself later called the legend nonsense. His pride was hurt. His faith was not.

James puts confession and prayer side by side and promises healing. Over the years, people who knew Lewis noticed that the arrogant, cutting young man had become, without losing his edge, humble and kind. That kind of change usually happens slowly, through ordinary habits nobody sees. And it helps to have at least one person who knows the worst about you and loves you anyway.

One thing to do this week: ask yourself who knows the worst about you. If no one does, think of one wise, trustworthy Christian, a parent, pastor or mentor, you could be honest with, and take one step toward that conversation.