We are not pursuing dragons; we are the dragons. We are, all of us, Eustace Scrubb.
Even when we mind our most pious and repentant manners, our penance is lukewarm. We can chase after spontaneous repentance, but even as we pursue it, we follow a familiar path. We cannot proceed without applying some method, averting our gaze to a compass point that helps us navigate through the confusing morass to confirm that we are, in fact, heartily sorry for our sins.
But, if we were to set ourselves the task of “getting repentance right,” how would we hit the mark? If we strive to exceed the righteousness of the Pharisees, we would merely succeed in turning ourselves into the Pharisees of Jesus’ parable. Were we to love our brothers and sisters in Christ as the Lord loves us, we wouldn’t be hanging around trying to figure out the finer points of Godly love; we would be hanging on a cross.
There has to be something more than just chasing the dragon of sin through the forests of repentance, hoping we can bring him down with a well-placed prayer or a charitable knock to the head. How long can we keep up our hunt when the specter of the New Testament constantly trails after us, keening, “Unless you repent, you will perish!” (Luke 13:3).
During the “long season,” as it was once called, Lent leads us to entertain such questions, perhaps more soberly than at other festivals commemorated by Christ’s Church. And so, at this time, when repentance and salvation are foremost in our minds, it is probably best to begin with the truth: we are not pursuing dragons; we are the dragons. We are, all of us, Eustace Scrubb.
For those unfamiliar with him, Eustace Scrubb is a character in C.S. Lewis’ novel, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Eustace is no different than any of us, an ordinary sinner. And, like so many sinners, his selfish greed transforms him into a dragon. In this state, he suffers greatly from a painful loneliness and near-unbearable despair. And yet, for this very reason, Aslan, the Christ figure in the story, seeks out Eustace.
Aslan invites Eustace to bathe in a well, wallowing in its waters that will heal his pain. But, first, Eustace must shed his scales. Otherwise, the water will simply slough off, doing him no good.
But like us, no matter how much Eustace attempts to shed his scales, he cannot. He wants to, desperately. He is earnest about it. But, like any serpent, another layer lies just below no matter how often we shed our scales. No amount of molting can transform us. This is why we, like Eustace, often find ourselves in pain, terribly alone, and overshadowed by despair.
However, the Lion comes just when all our efforts seem hopeless (they are), and we will never succeed (we won’t). Christ comes seeking to remove our scales, returning us to the man or woman we were created to become. He sinks his claws into us, digging deeper than we thought possible, right into the heart, to the very marrow of our souls. He pulls off layer after layer of scales, and it “hurts worse than anything I’ve ever felt,” Eustace says.
To heal us and to ultimately save us from our sin, Jesus must dig deeply, deeper than we ever want to or will dig. He cannot stop at, “I didn’t tell any lies last week,” or “I go to worship every Sunday,” or “I’ve been a Christian my whole life.” Jesus doesn’t stop until every scale — every judgment, every murderous thought, and every petty rebellious urge we’ve entertained that turned us away from our God and Redeemer — is removed once and for all.
We know who we are now. We are God’s children, not dragons.
Once he’s finished with the sins of commission, he digs into the sins of omission, such as, “Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven,” and “Love one another as I have loved you,” and “Be perfect as your Father in heaven,” and “Take up your cross and follow me.”
It’s too much for us. It always has been and always will be. But thanks be to God, our Lord Jesus, the Lion who comes to cut deep and pull away our sin scales so that he can lower us into healing well. “It hurts like billy-oh,” Eustace says, “but it is such fun to see it coming away.”
We are selfish, greedy, unloving, and covered in dragon scales. But, the relief after the pain of having the scales torn away by Christ is more satisfying and more fully felt than anything we can imagine.
Better yet, once the scales come off, and Jesus washes us in the soothing baptismal fountain of his grace and mercy, the man or woman he created us to become — even though, for now, we appear sallow and scrawny by heaven’s standards — is revealed. We know who we are now. We are God’s children, not dragons.
So, during Lent, let’s enjoy meditating on our “un-dragoning” rather than on whether or not we have “gotten it right” by chasing after Pharisees and staring at compasses, which all point us to Jesus, our Savior, anyway.
