C. S. Lewis wrote about the “deeper magic” in The Chronicles of Narnia. The idea first appears in the first book of the series, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. There, immediately after Aslan’s resurrection, the Great Lion explains that the Witch’s apparent triumph was destined to fail because, although she knew and could use some magic, “there is a magic deeper still which she did not know” since “her knowledge goes back only to the dawn of Time.” Lewis is contrasting the demonic powers of this age with the eternal power that belongs to God alone. Evil may seem to gain the upper hand, and it certainly appeared so to the disciples immediately after Jesus’ death on the cross, but there is a “deeper magic” which stretches back beyond time, before the foundation of the world, when God chose a people to save by the sacrifice of his Son.
I suppose I am at risk of alienating some of you since I have been informed by more than one Reformed brother that discussions of “magic,” in general, and Lewis’s horrid allegory, in particular, are incompatible with a biblical, orthodox, and Reformed understanding of the faith. I do not wish to offend or quarrel with any of my brethren, I would only point out that their antipathy is not the result of a pre-modern, biblical worldview but actually is the influence of “very up-to-date and advanced people” who wear “a special kind of underclothes.” Modernists, like Eustace Clarence Scrubb, can be saved, but their salvation will involve not only the forgiveness of their priggishness but also the restoration of their imagination. But I digress.
If you asked Lewis during his life if he was a Calvinist, he would have replied that he was not. But if you asked him about his faith, he would have pointed you to the articles of the Faith, specifically the 39 Articles of the Anglican Church of which Lewis was a member. If you then read those 39 Articles, you might respond, with somewhat Chestertonian cheekiness, “So you are a Calvinist after all!” Lewis may not have embraced the desiccated version of late 19th and early 20th century Puritanism that he saw in the UK, and neither should you, but his works are full of the sovereign grace of a God who wrote the story of creation before it began and who saves his people by his own righteousness and not by their cooperation or goodness.
It might seem as if the forces of evil have assembled at the gates and are soon to break down the door. But we should remember, to shift the literary metaphor, that the White Rider is behind the enemy line and he rides forth “conquering and to conquer.” The Battle of Helm’s Deep is not the end of the story but only the midpoint. There are more battles to be fought, evil sorcerers to cast down, orcs to overcome, and black gates to defy. The warriors of righteousness face that conflict with calm and cheerfulness, not despair, because we know that no matter the strength or apparent success of the Dragon’s armies, there is a deeper magic established apart from time, a power and promise that the darkness can neither comprehend nor overcome.
When God’s people gather on the Lord’s Day, they do so knowing that Christ has overcome. He has vanquished death from the inside. He has the keys of Death and Hades, and those two demons must bow the knee and acknowledge that Christ is their Lord. Heaven’s armies join on the Lord’s Day, in heaven and on earth, singing the hymns of Zion as we go forth into battle, knowing the battle is won by the blood of God’s Son. The Lord’s Day is a summons to delight, not despair; to courage, not cowardice; to fellowship, not fragmentation. The Bride is singing redemption’s sweet song with the risen Savior. Lift up your heads and be no longer sad or weary. Behold the King cometh! Let us adore him.
