C.S. Lewis’ works have blessed me greatly, both as entertainment and as teachings. When I consider him, my first mental picture is of “Professor Lewis,” a lavishly gifted senior intellectual who stimulates my own thinking with his delightful, insightful prose. His door is never closed to me, and when I seek him out he welcomes me with an open smile.
I visualize him at his desk, seriously evaluating his students’ submissions, occasionally chuckling or laughing out loud at the young people’s novel perspectives. When I knock his doorsill he looks up, the remnant of his thoughtful frown still decorating his face, but on recognizing me everything changes; the frown is gone and his face lights up. He removes his reading glasses and those piercing eyes that had just been studying his students’ writing suddenly begin studying me. I feel as though he is a physician, but his specialty is not diagnosing and treating physical illness. Rather, his eyes are his diagnostic apparatus, penetrating all my facades and pretensions, rather like the Sword of the Spirit.
When he’s not Professor Lewis, or Doctor Lewis, he is my dear Uncle Jack. As Professor, Doctor, or Uncle, he never feeds me pseudo-spiritual platitudes or intellectual pablum, but always well thought-out, unique insights that bless my heart and mind. He truly was, and still is, God’s gift to us.