CS Lewis & The Enchanted Universe
CS Lewis wrote that the greatest work of art of the medieval age was the Primum Mobile—the model of the universe, as seen in such places as Dante’s Paradisio.
The medieval man had codified poetic cosmology, with its nine planets, and the nine angelic hierarchies—all ordered with triads within triads—where those beings of the aether, who exist above our gate of lunar air, spend their lives in the dance of the festival of delight as they are moved by the First Mover (Primum Mobile). “God the candle, and the universe the moth.”
Lewis, in “Imagination and Thought in the Middle Ages,” wanted us to reconsider how we view the universe. Do you, as all modern people do, consider this planet as in, and space as out? Do you view our world like a warm cabin adrift in a cold and dark sea? Do you believe light, warmth, life, and music are all in here? Do you believe that space is cold, dark, lifeless, and soundless—and all of it out there?
Lewis wanted us to shift our perspective to that of the medieval man: he measured space not in distance but in height.
What difference does that make? It shifts our perspective to view all above us as greater, grander, and more enchanted. Above us is the hierarchy of angels, reaching to unfathomable heights. If we viewed our world in terms of height, then we will discover “a whole vast network of ethical and social metaphors which we could not shake off even if we tried.”
The medieval man, Lewis argued, did not view space as out but in. The earth was not the center of the universe—at least not in terms of the dynamic, invisible Empyrean order. In the visible, spatial order, yes, the earth was the center. But in terms of the true order of the universe: the earth was near to the outer rim of reality, edging close to not-being and positive unbeing. The only other place further away would be Hell, at the center of the earth, where unreality “asymptotically approaches that zero it can never quite reach.”
Where do we stand in the universe? We are outside the walls—beyond that region of the outermost spheres. If space appears dark, lifeless, soundless, and cold, it is only because we have been living on this sin-sick planet and it has clouded our vision of true reality. Space is not cold but warm. It is not dark but bright. It is not empty but full of life. It is not silent but full of music.
We would have to go out of the silent planet to hear the music of the spheres. In Lewis’ Space Trilogy, he explores these ideas through the character of Ransom. He discovers that space—no, that is not the right word—Deep Heaven!—was full of delight:
“Now that the very name ‘space’ seemed a blasphemous libel for this empyrean ocean of radiance in which they swam. He could not call it 'dead'; he felt life pouring in at every moment.”
How, then is the universe arranged according to the medieval man? In rings of three: the king sits enthroned in his castle, and he rules the aristocracy of the city, who in turn rule the plebeians of the fields:
1️⃣ At the center of the universe sits the Lord in His splendor, ruling like a king of the Empyrean sphere. He is the bullseye of the cosmos.
2️⃣ Further out in the concentric circle is the “city,” ruled by the barons—as the medieval mind conceived their social order in concentric circles. The nine orders of angels like cosmic aristocracy rule the realm of aether.
3️⃣ And further out are the plebeians in our muddy fields. From the Moon down to the Earth is the realm of air, haunted by aerial daemons. Our planet alone is touched by sin. Our vision above is clouded. There has been a declaration of war between us and the high sovereign above us. It is here on the silent planet that we cannot hear the music of the spheres. Again, readers of the Space Trilogy will see the connections.
The medieval man knew that he was one who could only look in to that world above, represented by the symbolic image of the “girl dancing and playing a tambourine; a picture of gaiety, almost of frolic. And why not? These spheres are moved by love, by intellectual desire, never sated because they can never completely assimilate themselves to their object, and never frustrated because they continually do so to the fullest extent which their nature admits or requires. Their existence is thus one of delight. The motions of the universe are to be conceived not as those of a machine or even an army, but rather as a dance, a festival, a symphony, a ritual, a carnival, or all these in one. They are unimpeded movement of the most perfect impulse towards the most perfect Object.”
Which model of the universe should we choose to adopt? The Newtonian model is “correct,” if only scientifically. But have we let science disenchant the universe? Which one should we find more compelling: a universe moved by invisible rules or a universe moved by invisible desire?
“But of course it makes a great difference to the tone of your mind which analogy you adopt—whether you fill your universe with phantom police-courts and traffic regulations, or with phantom longings and endeavors.”
Lewis closes his article this way: “I think the medieval and Newtonian models—the one so ordered, so sublime, and so festive, the other so trackless, so incapable of form—reflect the older, more formal and intellectual world and the later enthusiastic, romantic world pretty well. What our own models—if you continue to allow us models at all—will reflect, posterity may judge.”