A gifted storyteller with a background in communications and theology, Ryan J. Pemberton – also a Radix editorial board member – brings a blend of literary skill and spiritual insight to his work. With degrees from Oxford and Duke, he has written for Christianity Today, Sojourners, Image Journal, and others, offering reflections that explore wonder, liturgy, and the art of bridge-building. Ryan is also, happily for us, an Inklings guy – with a special interest in C. S. Lewis. His books, Called: My Journey to C. S. Lewis’s House and Back Again and Walking with C. S. Lewis, trace a personal and spiritual journey shaped by Lewis’s legacy.
In this conversation, Ryan presents what might best be described as a kind of C. S. Lewis sampler: it touches on his enriching journey with Lewis and what Lewis offers our fractured world, particularly through a theology and imagination that still resonate across traditions and ideologies. He speaks to the spiritual and creative significance of interdependence, especially in light of Lewis’s friendships and the myth of the solitary genius. He also touches on the Inklings’ enduring legacy of wonder and why their work continues to invite readers into awe and joy. In tone and insight, Ryan’s reflections echo what made Lewis so widely respected: they offer something timeless.
Radix: To start, can you tell us a little about yourself? It takes a unique kind of perspective and personality to get involved in the type of work you do.
Ryan J. Pemberton: My upbringing happened in the Pacific Northwest, just south of the Canadian border, where the Pacific Ocean meets the Cascade mountains. My grandfather played a significant role in my early life and into my young adult life. While he earned his living as an engineer and a mechanic, I never knew him in those roles. He was always retired, working on projects around the house or on his boat, and always had plenty of time to spend together. He was also intensely creative, and this shaped me early on. My grandfather was a storyteller from as far back as I can remember. As a young boy, I adored his stories of growing up in the south during the Dust Bowl era, flipping a coin to decide whether he’d go to school or fishing, catching rabbits for his family’s dinner. My grandfather’s penchant for weaving stories formed me from a young age, and this skill stayed with me.
Growing up, I spent a lot of time with books—lying in front of the TV on my stomach with the encyclopedia’s pages open before me while the nightly news played, going to the school library during recess and reading Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer’s adventures, walking to the library after school and picking out biographies to bring home. My inner life grew rich with books from a young age. In many ways, books were friends, especially when friendships were difficult. They still are.
In college, I struggled to identify a major. Initially, I studied psychology, assuming I’d become a psychologist, perhaps a therapist. Later, I decided to pick up a business minor in hopes of helping me land a job when graduation arrived. I abhorred my business classes, with one exception: marketing. To me, marketing was, at root, storytelling. It was about identifying an organization’s essence and narrating it in a way that would connect with an audience. In my last quarter, I finally found something that sparked my interest there. One of my first jobs out of college was in a marketing and public relations firm. I was hired to help with market research, given my educational background in statistics (required for both a psychology major and a business minor). But I ended up doing most of my work in public relations: writing, editing, and even speaking on behalf of my clients. Storytelling, again.
After four years at this marketing and PR firm, at twenty-five, I left the Pacific Northwest for the UK to study theology. I hoped to bridge my work in writing and storytelling with a more robust theological education, though I was far from knowing where that might lead. However, the writings of C. S. Lewis motivated this step in many ways. Specifically, Lewis’s creative articulation of the Christian faith, primarily in Mere Christianity, provided a vocational inspiration. When I arrived in Oxford, more than one person ensured I knew Lewis was no longer teaching. Still, his legacy loomed large, and many of my dearest friends there came from my answer to being asked, “So, what brought you to Oxford?”
Radix: Thinking about the times we’re living in now—and I KNOW everyone in their specific time thinks their time is the most tenuous—why is Lewis important?
RJP: Why is Lewis important today? One of the reasons why Lewis is important to me today is the seriousness with which he approaches life in all aspects. Ideas, certainly. Our neighbor. Friendship. Mortality. Theology. All of these, for Lewis, are not to be taken lightly, but with the utmost seriousness (which is not to say without humor). What comes to mind is that moving passage from Lewis’s sermon, “The Weight of Glory” (published in the collection of the same name):
“You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations—these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub and exploit – immortal horrors or everlasting splendors. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of that kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously—no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption.”
True joy comes from taking one another truly seriously. That kind of sincerity is a balm amidst so much cynicism and distraction. Lewis models that sincerity and serious attention that life deserves in his own life and writing, even when the temptation to numb oneself or to avoid the serious considerations of life was just as pressing in his day. In this way, my mind also moves to Susan Sontag (“Space reserved for being serious is hard to come by in a modern society…”), who wouldn’t typically be put in conversation with C.S. Lewis. But they both insist on, or model, the importance of giving our serious attention to life and to one another. There are others, of course. But that’s where my mind goes.
Recently, I’ve been drawn to how Lewis navigated the significant trials in his life: his mother’s passing from cancer before his tenth birthday, his father’s inability to be the parent he needed, the abuse he experienced at school, his early struggles to land a job after completing his degrees at Oxford, his brother Warnie’s alcohol binges and absences, and, of course, discovering and then losing the love of his life. Amidst all these trials, Lewis continued writing—across genres—often at a prolific rate. It doesn’t always work like that. For some of us, profound trials snuff out our creative energies and efforts, leaving us sapped of those pursuits that once felt essential to our sense of self and vocation. Somehow, that doesn’t appear to have been the case for C.S. Lewis, even amidst these profoundly challenging experiences. This makes me wonder how medicinal writing was to Lewis and how therapeutic or cathartic it was to sit down at his desk and write. We know he labored under the weight of responding to many fan letters (for hours each day, estimated to be in the hundreds of thousands throughout his life). Still, I imagine his book projects, essays, sermons, and more were somehow a reprieve for him. We are certainly the blessed recipients of Lewis’s faithful discipline of writing amidst familial, vocational, and romantic trials.
One last point in this rambling answer. Lewis had a way of relativizing present circumstances. Even in the face of the onset of the Second World War, with bombs dropping over London, Lewis had a way of focusing not only his energies and attention but also encouraging others to do the same. “The war creates no new situation; it simply aggravates the permanent human situation so that we can no longer ignore it,” Lewis famously preached to his Oxford peers and students in his essay, “Learning in Wartime.” “Human life has always been lived on the edge of a precipice. Human culture has always had to exist under the shadow of something infinitely more important than itself.” Who doesn’t need those words, that reminder now?
Radix: It’s fair to say that Lewis was affected by war—personally, ideologically, and likely philosophically and theologically. While we’re not at war in North America, it feels safe to say we’re living in a time of hostilities. What do you think Lewis would say to thoughtful Christians about living in hostile times?
RJP: During his lifetime, C.S. Lewis was described as the most well-read person in England. Given his reading across so many centuries, Lewis had a way of putting our present circumstances into a broader lens. War is not new. It’s certainly not unique to our time or our location. It’s profoundly scary, of course. It’s shocking and deeply unsettling, as are the hostilities we currently see across our nation, and in many other countries worldwide. But I also believe Lewis would bristle at how the word “unprecedented” has made its home in so much contemporary conversation. Are our present experiences of political turmoil, Machiavellian leadership, and gross divisions truly unprecedented? Doubtful. Reminding us that we have been here before, as a species, as disciples, and perhaps even as a political nation, can give us renewed courage, clarity of mind and heart, and maybe even more robust resources with which to respond than we’re led to believe we have access to when every news cycle’s headlines demand our attention with an “unprecedented” experience we’re now facing. We’re not alone. We’re not without help. Wise disciples have come before us and displayed tremendous courage in the face of profoundly disturbing adversity, acted bravely even against grave threats, and loved selflessly in ways that their times demanded. That reminder is, I think, where Lewis would encourage our attention now.
Radix: Not long ago, and before the work of Diana Pavlac Glyer, it was commonly (and wrongly) accepted that the Inklings did most of their work independently. Today, we live in a culture that venerates independence while undervaluing interdependence, though perhaps there’s more openness to it now? What are your thoughts on what Lewis might say about interdependence, and why is it always important?
RJP: Lewis’s friendship with J.R.R. Tolkien and others who found their way to the informal Inkling gatherings is well documented, but friendship is an essential theme throughout the breadth of Lewis’s life and in his writing. As a young boy, Lewis and his older brother Warnie shared a passion for creative storytelling and anthropomorphic characters, drawing on the works of Beatrix Potter. Loneliness was staved off, and his friendship with his older brother enriched his imagination. Arthur Greeves, another childhood friend, was also a source of shared literary appreciation and creative inspiration (very likely the source of that beloved line, “What? You, too? I thought I was the only one!”). These friendships lasted for the rest of Lewis’s life. You can read Lewis’s letters to Greeves in the collection, They Stand Together: The Letters of CS Lewis to Arthur Greeves (1914-1963), edited by Lewis’s secretary, Walter Hooper. And it would be hard to imagine a romantic relationship between Joy Davidman and C.S. Lewis if a deep, robust intellectual and literary friendship didn’t precede it. These relationships, these friendships, were essential for Lewis’s wellbeing. Not only his writing, but the whole of his life was made richer by them and many others.
I’m hesitant to say more here, or to put words into Lewis’s mouth, since the hyper-individualistic culture in which we now live and are shaped by is light years from what Lewis experienced, and because he also savored his own alone time. Lewis certainly models a life that is dependent on others for his own well-being. Interdependence, while not the language I see Lewis using, is undoubtedly the model he offers in his relationships—a healthy interdependence.
Radix: I love that, while Lewis valued academics and scholarly methodology and clearly crafted ideas, he also believed that God still “does stuff.” I’m not suggesting that Lewis was charismatic by any stretch, but he did believe that God moves about here and there. Any comments?
RJP: The relationship between human and divine actions is extraordinarily complex and confusing. But Lewis writes about this topic, indeed. It’s much of the focus of his book The Problem of Pain, and, later, A Grief Observed. Also, I believe in Mere Christianity, there’s that passage about praying that it doesn’t rain, but still taking one’s umbrella on the way out the door. Lewis writes that God might choose to respond to our prayers, but that doesn’t remove our responsibility to prepare for God to decide not to respond to our prayers or, at least, not to respond according to our request. That doesn’t mean God doesn’t move and act, of course. Lewis firmly believed in God’s ongoing movement and activity on earth and in our lives. You find that belief throughout his writing. Lewis was certainly not a deist. But he also insisted that God’s actions are always undertaken entirely in God’s freedom.
Radix: Most beautifully, Lewis was both a scholar and an artist. What would you like to say about the importance of the scholar’s role, the artist’s role, or perhaps the two?
RJP: My friend Br. Christian Matson wrote his DPhil thesis on Lewis’s views of Christianity and art, and I remember him often telling me that Lewis insisted that making art that’s “Christian art” doesn’t excuse it for being “bad art.” The Christian artist’s goal should be to make the best art possible. Utilitarian art—created to achieve a particular purpose or effect in the viewer—is misguided. Such an approach is a misunderstanding of the Christian artist’s vocation. The same could be said of a Christian scholar.
Radix: Okay, one of my favorite questions to ask is (and partly it’s because I still believe that pastors and clergy have an influence – albeit lesser than before) if you were able to have all the pastors/clergy in a room, and they had to listen to you with a smile! – because when smiling, we are more receptive – what would you want to tell them?
RJP: Keep going. You’re not alone. We need you.
Radix: Since you’re a Lewis and Inklings guy, I’d love to ask a similar question: If you could say one thing to the Lewis/Inkling scholars community, what would it be?
RJP: Respectfully, Lewis intended to offer us spectacles to see the world, ourselves, and our Lord more clearly, not to become a spectacle for our gaze.
Radix: You’ve written about the importance of imagination and wonder. Why do you think the Inklings inspire so much of both?
RJP: Imagination and wonder are receiving a resurgence of attention and popularity among readers, film and television viewers, and even among social scientists. I think of UC Berkeley Psychology Professor Dacher Keltner’s book, Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder and How it Can Transform Your Life, for example, which has been getting a lot of positive attention, which I highly recommend. But that doesn’t mean these topics have always been popular or interesting. But this informal group of friends (I emphasize “informal” because this was anything but an established group with membership, etc.) was united by, among other things, a passion for and a delight in imaginative storytelling. It brought them great joy, individually and, especially, collectively. While it would not have always been seen as a proper pleasure for adult men in their day and, perhaps, especially in their setting, they were eager to share their appreciation for imaginative stories with one another. That delight spilled over the walls of their friendship, in some cases, to many others in their published works. It is, I think, a lesson in the importance of sharing what you enjoy. If something brings you joy, it’s likely that many others find joy here, too, and would appreciate it if you explored and shared your joy in generous and generative ways. This is potentially off-topic, but this is one of the primary reasons the poet and memoirist Ross Gay’s work on joy has meant so much to me lately. He gives joy the serious attention it deserves. Lewis, Tolkien, and others in their community did that, especially in the areas of imagination and wonder.
Radix: One of the things I love about Lewis’s works, at least to me, is that he resonates with all Christians: Catholics, Orthodox, Anglicans, Evangelicals, left and right. That seems to indicate a remarkably broad message. I think it reflects true Christianity in that it is about all humanity, not just some. Okay, that’s more of a statement. Thoughts?
RJP: You’ve named what has made Mere Christianity the most important book of the twentieth century, at least according to Christianity Today’s readers: its appeal to Christians across deep denominational and ecumenical divides. It’s certainly an explanation for MC’s staying power. The fact that it’s still read as much as it is today, by such disparate groups of disciples, I think, would have shocked C.S. Lewis. But it’s that ecumenical harmony that has led to its persistence in readership. Lewis was clear about his aims at that end. He intentionally brought early drafts of his broadcast talks to friends in different denominations to get their opinions before going on the air for the BBC. He took his invitation to speak to England’s public audience seriously about what most Christians believed in most of Christianity, and so he sought input from a variety of denominational perspectives. These radio lectures, of course, later became Mere Christianity.
Radix: Was there anything in particular that first drew you to Lewis?
RJP: Like so many others, reading C.S. Lewis when I did (at nineteen), I just hadn’t experienced anything like it before. He wrote with equal parts imagination, creativity, reason, and logic. And it was that pairing that, for me, was so striking. It made an impact. It certainly made me want to read more of him, but it also offered me a different approach to the Christian faith than I previously had available to me, one that would invite me deeper into this tradition. Lewis was, you could say, the gateway drug to a more intellectually rigorous and creative Christianity. It’s been an incredibly exciting, mystifying, and, at times, profoundly challenging journey ever since. But one I’m so grateful to have been invited into.
Another thing: I found myself trusting Lewis as a writer very early on. It is hard to say why, but perhaps one reason is his intellectual humility. There were, for example, several times in MC, which was the first work I read of Lewis’s, where he would make what felt like a well-reasoned, considered, and persuasive point, but then he’d end the thought with something like, “But that’s simply the way I look at it. If it’s not helpful for you, throw it out.” That non-anxious voice that’s not offended if you don’t buy what’s on offer, that open-handed invitation to look at things this way, got me. We could use more intellectual humility like that these days.