Mere Christianity (C.S. Lewis) - 03
Part 1. Right and Wrong as a Clue to the Meaning of the Universe
Chapter 1. The Law of Human Nature
Men have long referred to the rules of right and wrong as the “Law of Nature.” Now, when we speak of the “laws of nature” today, we typically mean the laws of gravity, of heredity, or of chemistry. But thinkers of earlier ages had something quite different in mind when they called moral rules the “Law of Nature.” They meant, more precisely, the Law of Human Nature—the idea that just as physical bodies are subject to gravity, and living organisms to biological rules, so human beings too are governed by a kind of law. Yet here lies the essential distinction: whereas a stone cannot choose whether or not to obey gravity, a man can choose to obey—or disobey—this Law of Human Nature. And that difference, they thought, was of utmost significance.
There is a reason why this moral rule—this sense of right and wrong—has been called the “Law of Nature.” It was thought to be something that all men know by nature, without needing to be taught. Though there are indeed variations between one civilization’s ethics and another’s, these differences are never total. Wherever there are men, there is some shared notion of fairness, duty, and decency.
And yet, it is this very law—unlike any other in nature—that mankind may defy. The first to do so, we are told, were Adam and Eve. Though they knew full well that they ought not eat the fruit, they succumbed to the serpent’s persuasion. What enabled this defiance? A seed of doubt in the word of God, a longing for remarkable ability, an appetite for unrestrained autonomy—a hunger to be like God Himself. The desire to raise oneself up, to be acknowledged, praised, admired, desirable—this yearning grows into pride, and pride, we are told, is the engine of the Fall.
As I read this, I could not help but think of the temptations in the wilderness, as recorded in the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 4. The same enemy who led all of humanity astray through Adam and Eve now returns to confront Christ. He offers three trials. First, if You are the Son of God, turn these stones into bread. Second, throw Yourself from the pinnacle of the temple, for angels will surely catch You. Third, bow down before me, and I will give You the kingdoms of the world. The first two trials are appeals to physical laws, but the third, I believe, is a direct assault on the Law of Nature.
As living beings, humans are bound to the need for food; we cannot exist without nourishment. Yet Christ answered this temptation not with bread, but with the Word of God. “Man shall not live by bread alone.” The central word here is Word.
In the second temptation, the Lord is dared to cast Himself down—a human body, subject to gravity, would surely perish. But He responds, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.” The operative word here is faith. I confess that I, in the weakness of my spirit, have at times tried to strike bargains with God—“If I do this, will You do that?” And worse, I have pouted in immature faith, saying in effect, “Let’s see if You’ll help me when things fall apart.”
And then the final temptation: one act of worship in exchange for all the world’s glory. This was a temptation within man’s power to choose or reject, falling within the realm of what we call the Law of Nature—a law one may disobey. How many souls have bowed before it? We live in an age overflowing with temptation, and what is more, a world in which such temptation is widely dismissed as trivial.
People called this the “Law of Nature” because they believed it to be universally known—intuitively understood without instruction. Of course, there are those who seem not to recognize it, yet on the whole, humanity knows what right conduct is. The belief is that all people, somewhere within, grasp the difference between right and wrong. And I, for one, believe that is true. If it were not, then all our talk about justice in this war—this Second World War—would be nonsense. If the Nazis truly had no inner knowledge of what is right, then calling them “wrong” is meaningless. We might resist them, but we could not rightly condemn them, any more than we could rebuke someone for having red hair. (...) But an even more telling fact is this: even those who deny the existence of right and wrong betray themselves. The man who says morality is an illusion will, in the next moment, cry foul when wronged. He will break his promises but fume when others break theirs. “That’s not fair,” he’ll say. And in saying so, he invokes the very law he claims not to believe in.
Lewis believed that a good spirit is planted within human nature. That is not to say we are without evil, but rather that we are born with an instinct to discern good from evil. You have never met a toddler ruled wholly by malice.
No matter how selfish a man may be—no matter how loudly he denies the existence of a moral law—he reveals that he believes in such a law the moment he complains of unfairness. Right and wrong are not matters of taste.
And yet, knowing the Law does not mean we always follow it. We stumble. We make excuses. And in our excuses lies the proof that we still believe in the Law. If we truly thought there was no such thing as a moral law, we would not bother to justify our failings.
What I am trying to say comes down to two points. First, every human being on this earth holds a strange belief—that he ought to behave in a certain way—and he cannot seem to rid himself of that belief. Second, in practice, people do not live according to that standard. They know the Law of Nature, and yet they break it. These two facts form the very foundation from which we can begin to think clearly about ourselves—and about the universe we live in.
Why, then? Why do these two facts offer a clue to the meaning of ourselves—and of the universe?
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