Leadership Philosophy in the Fiction of C.S. Lewis [1st ed.] 9783030415075, 9783030415082

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CHRISTIAN FAITH PERSPECTIVES IN LEADERSHIP AND BUSINESS

Leadership Philosophy in the Fiction of C.S. Lewis

a a ron pe r ry

Christian Faith Perspectives in Leadership and Business Series Editors Doris Gomez Regent University Virginia Beach, VA, USA Kathleen Patterson School of Global Leadership and Entrepreneurship Regent University Virginia Beach, VA, USA Bruce E. Winston Regent University Virginia Beach, VA, USA Gary Oster Regent University Virginia Beach, VA, USA

This book series is designed to integrate Christian faith-based perspectives into the field of leadership and business, widening its influence by taking a deeper look at its foundational roots. It is led by a team of experts from Regent University, recognized by the Coalition of Christian Colleges and Universities as the leader in servant leadership research and the first Christian University to integrate innovation, design thinking, and entrepreneurship courses in its Masters and Doctoral programs. Stemming from Regent’s hallmark values of innovation and Christian faith-based perspectives, the series aims to put forth top-notch scholarship from current faculty, students, and alumni of Regent’s School of Business & Leadership, allowing for both scholarly and practical aspects to be addressed while providing robust content and relevant material to readers. Each volume in the series will contribute to filling the void of a scholarly Christian-faith perspective on key aspects of organizational leadership and business such as Business and Innovation, Biblical Perspectives in Business and Leadership, and Servant Leadership. The series takes a unique approach to such broad-based and well-trodden disciplines as leadership, business, innovation, and entrepreneurship, positioning itself as a much-­needed resource for students, academics, and leaders rooted in Christian-­faith traditions. More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/15425

Aaron Perry

Leadership Philosophy in the Fiction of C.S. Lewis

Aaron Perry Indiana Wesleyan University Marion, IN, USA

Christian Faith Perspectives in Leadership and Business ISBN 978-3-030-41507-5    ISBN 978-3-030-41508-2 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-41508-2 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

To my wife, Heather, and our children Emma Beth, Wesley, and Donovan: You have read and listened to C.S. Lewis over long stretches and in quick snippets. You have endured the many moments I paused the story to ponder some detail. You are the family of my dreams and I’m never, ever going to trade you! (I suppose, in good Lewis fashion, I should also acknowledge our dog, Sugar.) To the childhood influences who put the Chronicles of Narnia in my hands: My Dad (now in glory), who, among other things, gave up his weekend evenings to drive my brother and me to our grandmother’s house to watch the BBC productions of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe; my Mom, who was constantly encouraging reading and purchasing reading material; my brother, Tim, who made reading Lewis cool when I was tempted to grow out of it; my brother, Paul, who shared his boxset of the Chronicles with me. (By the way, sorry about the cover of The Last Battle.)

Acknowledgments

Thanks to the following friends, colleagues, scholars, and institutions who provided various kinds of support: • Indiana Wesleyan University, Dr. Bart Bruehler, Dr. Patrick Eby, and Dean Jay Wise supported scholarship through funding, seminars, and research support. • Dr. Devin Brown, Dr. Jerry Walls, and Dr. Michael Ward provided helpful dialogue on the project. • Rev. Ryan Dalrymple, Dr. Dan Freemyer, Clay Himmelberger, Rev. Neil Horner, Rev. Logan Patriquin, and Janelle Phillips read or listened to parts of the manuscript and offered constructive feedback. • Rev. Dr. Tim Perry was a consistent conversation partner and frequent manuscript reader throughout this project.

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Praise for Leadership Philosophy in the Fiction of C.S. Lewis “I believe that leading is an intensified form of being human, which is, of course, a topic that C.S. Lewis knew so well and wrote about so eloquently. So it only makes sense that Lewis’s writings can provide an excellent way to grow in our understanding of leadership, and Perry’s perceptive writing in this book will edify those who love both leadership and the works of Lewis. But even those of us who are sometimes puzzled by Lewis will find valuable insight into the nature of being a leader and doing leadership. It has influenced my own thinking about leadership, and for that I am grateful.” —Mike Palanski, Professor of Management, Rochester Institute of Technology “Over the years, I have read many books on leadership. Some have been good, a few profound, one or two life-changing. But none have been as fresh and fascinating as this book. Lewis was, of course, a towering intellect. But perhaps the key to his success was his ability to wrap his leading insights in literary forms—not as ornamentation but as a way to make his ideas live, move and have being. Perry has done us a great service in surveying Lewis’s literary output for a leadership philosophy that we can not only learn from but implement as a way of life. A great book—highly recommend!” —Todd Wilson, President, The Center for Pastor Theologians “Perry’s insightful examination of the leadership themes in C.S. Lewis’s fiction is a welcome addition to Lewis scholarship and leadership studies. Perry seamlessly blends fictional analysis with leadership theory, providing an innovative lens with which to read and interpret Lewis’s most beloved stories.” —Crystal Hurd, Recipient, 2020 Clyde S. Kilby Research Grant “Most people have not read C.S. Lewis’s fiction looking for lessons on leadership. Perry shows us there are some fascinating insights for leaders in these remarkable stories. This book illumines those stories in some surprising ways and provides valuable guidance for those who would lead as well as those who follow.” —Jerry L. Walls, Professor of Philosophy, Houston Baptist University

Contents

1 Leading Between the Lines  1 Biting Off More Than Can Be Chewed?   1 Why Lewis? A Rationale   3 What Spirit? A Relationship   5 Which Aims? A Record   8 Axiological Aim: Discover the Value of Stories for Leadership Formation and Content   8 Epistemological Aim: Seeing the Storied Self and World  10 Ontological Aim: Lead with New Energy  12 How So? A Roadmap  13 Sinking Our Teeth In  13 References  14 2 If Jadis Ran the N.I.C.E.: Philosophy of Leadership 17 Facing Blank Stares  17 Philosophy of Leadership?  18 Natural Chili Cook: Embedded Philosophy of Leadership  20 Recipe Chili Cook: Critical Philosophy of Leadership  20 Informed Chili Cook: Philosophy-of-Leadership-in-Use  21 Philosophy of Leadership!  22 Analyzing Philosophy of Leadership  24 Ontology  24 Axiology  25 Epistemology  25 xi

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C.S. Lewis for the Philosophy of Leadership?  25 Conclusion  28 References  29 3 Defeating Dragons by Reading the Right Books: Narrative and Leadership 31 Let Me Tell You a Story  31 Leadership and Narrative: Lewis’ Literature Takes a Leap  33 Stories Provide Leadership Contexts  34 Stories Form Personal Virtues  35 Stories Inspire Action  36 Stories Form Social Virtues  37 Stories Simplify the Complex  38 Stories Broaden and Shift Personal Perspectives  39 Stories Form Skills of Critical Judgment  40 Conclusion  41 References  42 4 Womb of Worlds or Silent Space? Imagination and Leadership 45 Van Rides Are for Imaginations  45 Imagination in Leadership  46 Imagination in Lewis  47 Imagination as Means of Perception and Understanding  48 The Desire of Imagination  50 Malformed and Misguided Imagination  52 Imaginations Meeting in Reality  54 Reorienting the Imagination by Another Imagination  55 Reorienting the Imagination: Eustace as an Example  56 Leading with the Imagination  57 Leading as Reorienting the Imagination  58 Gentle Provocation of Imagination  59 Genuine Self-awareness  59 Attention to Subtle Contexts  60 Preparation for Ongoing Imagination Work  61 Selecting the Right Form and Context  62 Imagination Changes Personal Perspective  63 Which Imagination? Leaders in the Making  64

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Conclusion  66 References  66 5 Let the Prince Win His Spurs: Agency Theory and Agency 69 Forks, Knives, Spoons, and Lollipops  69 Lawyers, Doctors, and Principals: What Is Agency Theory?  71 C.S. Lewis and Agency Theory  73 Agency Theory and the Context for Developing Agents  74 Not So N.I.C.E.: The Nihilism of Malformed Agents  75 Win Your Spurs, Save the World, and Become Yourself: Positive Formation of Agents  83 Conclusion  92 References  92 6 Saving Faces: Authentic Leadership and the Tension of Self-Disclosure 95 Have I Said Too Much?  95 Keeping It Real: Authentic Leadership  97 C.S. Lewis and Authentic Leadership  98 A Facial Theme in Fiction  98 Facial Theme Outside Lewis’ Fiction 100 Transformation of the Face 101 The Role of the Face: Showing the Unshowable 102 Risky Wisdom: Leaders and Their Masks 109 Discerning a Philosophy of Leadership 111 Mind the Influence 111 Masks Can Protect the Leader 112 Masks Can Serve the Needs of the Follower 113 Conclusion 117 References 117 7 Upsetting a Basket of Deplorable Words: Overcoming Dark Leadership119 Introduction 119 Leadership from the Dark Side 120 Gifts Gone Wrong: The Dark Side of Charismatic Leadership 120 Transformational Leadership as Dark Leadership 122 Dark Traits and Their Bright Side? 122

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C.S. Lewis and Dark Leadership 123 Dark Leadership in Lewis’ Literature 124 The Character of Dark Leaders 124 The Contexts of Dark Leadership 128 The Conclusion of Dark Leadership 133 Lightening Our Leadership 137 Conclusion 141 References 141 8 A Lewisian Way of Leading143 The Battleground of Beauty 144 Beauty 146 Battle 146 Lewisian Leadership 148 Courage 148 Communication 151 Comedy 153 Company 154 Conclusion 157 References 158 Index161

CHAPTER 1

Leading Between the Lines

Biting Off More Than Can Be Chewed? I bit his head: Shift’s head, the malicious Ape antagonist from C.S. Lewis’ The Last Battle. If you don’t know Shift, perhaps you’ve had a similar visceral reaction to horrific leadership. Hopefully you didn’t actually bite the head of someone whose leadership was resulting in disaster, but I did—I could, of course, because Shift is a fictional character. I was about ten years old and reading my older brother’s copy of the final book from his boxed set Chronicles of Narnia where Shift’s selfish, greedy, malicious, lying face was featured on the cover. I finally came to a point in the narrative where I had had enough of his schemes, so I bit his head. Sank my teeth right in, leaving a mark. (I don’t think my brother yet knows and I don’t think he’ll read this book, so the secret’s safe between us.) I wanted to leave a mark on Shift’s head because the story was leaving a mark on me. Leadership mattered in The Last Battle. “Everything could have been so different!” I thought to myself as a ten-year-old while seeing the problem escalate. While I wasn’t naming the plotted problem as malevolent leadership, something was getting into my imagination through that story—the imagination that I still carry around even into my leadership research and teaching. Perhaps I became interested in leadership that day; perhaps a good story started forming my imagination to see the world as a context for leadership. Either way, I could bite Shift’s head

© The Author(s) 2020 A. Perry, Leadership Philosophy in the Fiction of C.S. Lewis, Christian Faith Perspectives in Leadership and Business, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-41508-2_1

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because he is fictional, but the fictional world to which he belonged was impacting someone in the real world. The story was, in a tangible sense, leading me. You could even say that Lewis was leading me. If someone sufficiently versed in Lewis put my life under a gracious microscope, they would, hopefully, see the influence of Lewis through characters like Peter, Puddleglum, and Perelandra’s protagonist, Ransom. At least, that was the preliminary hypothesis that inspired searching Lewis’ stories for a philosophy of leadership. But to be fair to an actual philosophy of leadership developed from Lewis’ stories, I hurry to say that a philosophy of leadership cannot simply be studied, it must be lived. As Barfield once reminded Lewis of Plato’s relationship to philosophy: Philosophy wasn’t a subject; “it was a way” (Lewis, 1955/2017a, p. 275). So, this book might be considered the articulation and application of a philosophy of leadership from Lewis’ fiction. To that end, I hurry to say three things: First, like James March on using fiction in his courses, this is not a book about literature (Bennis & O’Toole, 2005). I am not a scholar of literature, though, as should be obvious, I believe literature and stories can help us learn about and teach leadership. Second, I am trying neither to be theoretically strict nor idiosyncratic when I talk about leadership in this book. It is famously acknowledged that as many people who talk about leadership define it differently, and the same might be true of authors telling stories that involve leadership contexts. To read literature with a strict definition of leadership might beg the question as to which kinds of literature or which parts of literature might tell us about leadership. At the same time, to read without any parameters would lose the leadership plot. So, while at times I will try to articulate a picture of leadership from Lewis’ literature, I often have a broad view of leadership as a phenomenon that involves influencing and inspiring personally, articulating shared goals  and achieving shared goals as a group, forming team unity through accountability, and so on. Third, and expected, this book operates with a pragmatic philosophy. If leadership is, at some point, about achieving outcomes, then any philosophy of leadership must have some element of pragmatism. Yet because this book attempts, among other things, to name metaphysical realities, it may not provide immediate practical, technical pay-off. As a pragmatic text, then, its final value and, to the extent that I have read, assimilated, and articulated Lewis correctly, the very possibility of Lewis’ literature forming

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a philosophy of leadership,  must be judged against whether or not it is eventually useful and effective. For the rest of this introductory chapter, I will (1) flesh out the rationale for selecting Lewis, (2) articulate the spirit of the book, (3) further delineate the aims of the book, and (4) lay out the structure of the book which will hopefully apply the subject, exemplify the spirit, and accomplish these aims.

Why Lewis? A Rationale Besides his writing a book so engrossing that I bit its cover in anger at its antagonist, I chose to explore a philosophy of leadership from C.S. Lewis because I like Lewis! The excitement I feel in reading and sharing these texts, when applied to the field of leadership resonates with a spirit of postmodern organizational theory (Linstead, 2003, p.  2). Authors and researchers are wrapped up in their subjects. While the researcher must attempt a measure of objectivity, the very nature of literature and stories must also be acknowledged. In his biography of Lewis, A.N. Wilson (2002), speaking of Lewis’ work on Milton, noted Lewis’ ability to enjoy that which he was critiquing (p.  173). In acknowledging my appreciation and joy at reading Lewis, I am not avoiding objectivity as much as acknowledging my prejudice and admitting that I am “probably even less equipped to notice” (Wilson, p. 173) whatever spirit I bring to the text. By acknowledging my appreciation and joy at reading Lewis for leadership, I also hope to exemplify the man’s own ability to enjoy his own subject matter while remaining critical. Of course, this posture to Lewis would be more disconcerting if it was not more widely shared among potential readers. It is possible, perhaps even likely, that you are a fan of Lewis (or the one who assigned you the task of reading this book is a fan of Lewis, in which case it might benefit you to try appreciation or, at least, to feign it!), but even more important is his prominence in popular culture and scholarly discourse. Lewis’ famed series the Chronicles of Narnia has been the source of popular leadership reflection (Maister, 2002; Willard, 2014) and Lewis’ work has been used to consider transformational leadership theory (Hurd, 2012). Further, the series remains important in popular culture as evidenced by three major film adaptations in the last fifteen years (The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe in 2005, Prince Caspian in 2008, and The Voyage of the

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Dawn Treader in 2010) and Netflix’s recent agreement to develop productions of the series (Netflix Media Center). I must make a confession, though: I never met Lewis. It is possible that I know somebody who knew somebody who met Lewis, but I leave my vicarious knowledge there. With this concession in view, this book is not really about Lewis, as much as it is about the stories he has written. So, are we learning from Lewis or the stories? Discussing the nature of fiction as a tool for experiential reflection, Taylor (2008) writes, It is the story itself that seems to teach use something. It draws us in, and by the time we get to the end of it, it is as though what we have been through is not just a reading experience but a series of events encountered at first hand, from which we have emerged wiser than we were before. (p. 265)

Taylor offers an example, “Nor do we feel we are relying on Leo Tolstoy as our authority on love, in the way you might rely on a doctor’s authority on a question of health” (p. 265). So, perhaps we are not learning Lewis’ experiences and reflecting upon them for leadership, but just his stories. At the same time, however, isn’t the author a kind of authority because, well, they wrote the story? Unless one is expressly disagreeing with the author, the author remains the one who has provided at least the narrative context from which knowledge may emerge. Lewis might not be a leadership expert, but might leadership expertise flow through his writing in a way that is faithful to his life and thought, though perhaps not completely conscious to him? Lewis may not have been completely conscious of leadership wisdom contained in the stories, yet he remains the author and to the extent the reader seeks to learn, Lewis remains a kind of authority. One might see here another postmodern move, although one that does not completely do away with the author: I am attempting to learn from Lewis (deference) about a subject he was not explicitly addressing (difference). Consider The Screwtape Letters as a brief test case. I read the book because it is bitingly enjoyable and brilliantly clarifying about the subject of temptation, but Lewis’ “ability to see through human failings, his capacity to analyse other people’s annoyingness, his rich sense of comedy and satire” (Wilson, 2002, p. 177) provides insights into leadership that would not be so readily seen unless one reads it a second time. In the second read, I am learning from Lewis but now I am providing the subject matter.

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Lewis, as an actual person of history, was subject to his own foibles and failures. Those need not be discarded, ignored, or consistently dredged up in order to acknowledge the complexity or condemn the pursuit of learning from him. Even if we wanted to, we could not completely disentangle the man from his fiction when we read of the pious pettiness of older women, the joyous reunion of children with parents, the cruelty of some British prep schools, or the beauty and subtle wisdom of animals in a variety of stories. “How much is the bookish man distinguishable from his imagined self, the self he projects into the book he reads?” (Wilson, 2002, p. 45). We might slightly change Wilson’s question and make it about the book such a man writes. What this concession allows is for us to take Lewis’ stories as the prime focus of this study, while at the same time allowing various essays and sermons to confirm and clarify concepts his stories narrate. Lewis is in the stories and we ought not to ignore his presence. Is this focus on stories while admitting the author is present yet not subject to historical critique a clever equivalent of having my cake and eating it, too? Probably. But the alternative would either be to say nothing on the subject as a kind of false deference or to so completely differentiate the stories from the author that what drew me to the stories and subject would be lost and its potential impact on the reader diminished. Perhaps I’m not eating the cake as much as serving it with lots of icing that, I admit, might mask some of the cake’s flavor.

What Spirit? A Relationship “Mr. McCabe thinks that funny is the opposite of serious. Funny is the opposite of not funny, and of nothing else” (Chesterton, 1905, p. 220). In his characteristic witty, cutting clarity, G.K. Chesterton put side by side things that might otherwise have been kept asunder: the serious and the funny. Of course, this is the very stuff of which the best jokes are made. A very good joke is like the crest on the wave: just as the crest is the context for something potentially elegant because beneath and behind the crest is something actually powerful, so is the joke a context for something funny because it might go horribly wrong. The risk is part of what makes the moment. Likewise, this book will take a risk to put side by side things that are often kept asunder, academically speaking: play and research. I want to keep these together because if I ever meet you, then perhaps we will have not just content to discuss, but a style in which to discuss it. But, beyond,

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I want to keep play and research together because that is faithful to the Lewisian corpus. Lewis’ literature reveals extensive reading and informal and formal training in theology, philosophy, and literature, but without ceasing to be entertaining, and endorsed as fast-paced, clever, biting, and popular. Just as Chesterton’s jocularity was not in contrast to his serious subjects, neither are Lewis’ playful stories in contrast to wisdom. Perhaps Lewis was wise to keep these together. Wisdom, of course, does not come without work. Hodgkinson (1983), in his work on the philosophy of leadership, says that “[w]isdom… must be worked for,” which includes efforts that are “[r]eflective, analytic, synthetic, and intellectual” (p.  3). Further, Carl Jung is supposed to have warned against wisdom that was not earned. I would adjust the supposed Jung slightly to say, “Beware wisdom that comes without effort.” Yet must the effort be on the part of both the teacher and the recipient of wisdom? Perhaps the wisest of all is the one who can take what they have worked for and impart it to the one who has not worked for it. It is not without effort, but the effort is not the same across all agents involved. This is not wisdom without effort, but the effort has already been given. I believe that my attempt to learn from Lewis and to make application to a leadership context has not come without effort, but I hope the style reflects the one from whom I learned and that what counts as wisdom (all credit to Lewis, of course) is imparted with a style and spirit of play. I doubt there was another way to go about the task! If Lewis wasn’t really talking about leadership but leadership can be learned through his stories, then, I submit, I’ve played with the stories. Play has not been the opposite of leadership wisdom, but the means of discovering it. I have not set aside the seriousness of the stories, but presumed their seriousness. Play presumes the very serious business of friendship, relationship, development, even fun (Edgar, 2017, pp. 1–3). Playing with the stories acknowledges there has been more than one person in the game (Benson, 2013, p.  78), which, of course, is true of leadership—there has to be more than one person involved (or a context greater than one person). Stories don’t just have tellers; they have tellers and listeners/readers. And now there is more than just me in the writing of this book because, if it is read, there is also you. And I’m presuming there is a you. It should be clear that this is not a kind of frivolous play that doesn’t care what toy gets broken along the way. Just as leadership’s end is not a pursuit of chaos, neither is the goal of playing with the stories to stretch

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into malformity like a lousy slinky. Playing with the stories is not to leave them fragmented and withered, but to establish wise structures or, perhaps, to point to structures that we had not yet tested. Just as I play with my children to form and strengthen relationships, so we play with the stories to discern wisdom and facilitate actual accomplishments. If you ever think that play should set aside seriousness, then I have three children who will teach you otherwise: refusing to take their play seriously will result in their ample scorn. My children know that you can get by playing with a cushion or two, but if you’re going to build a fort, you’ve got to put in some serious work. At the same time, if you don’t build the fort with a spirit of fun, then once it’s built you’re either not going to know what to do with it or you’ll be all alone. Hopefully you are beginning to see that such a spirit of play is not simply in faithfulness to Lewis, but also how it might be an application of Lewis’ philosophy in this writer-to-reader relationship that involves, among other things, influence. By participating together in such a spirit, I hope to convince the skeptical, encourage the convinced, resource the encouraged, and share joy with the resourced! And that’s you! Consider Lewis (1949/2001): You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilisations—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 splendours. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of that kind…which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously—no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption. (p. 46)

Such an attitude toward the reader and the process of research is appropriate to organizational theory. People should be hopeful and optimistic about their organizations and bring such an attitude to the serious reflection of organizational leadership (Linstead, 2003, p. 12). Such a posture is important because of the very pursuits of leadership: something new, better, more faithful, toward truth, beauty, justice, or the things that make truth, beauty, and justice possible. I hope this book contains truth and, to the extent that it reflects Lewis’ stories, reveals something beautiful. If it is to achieve justice, however, then it will be through the reader and the reader’s efforts. Just as play allows freedom for the “creation of another world” (Edgar, 2017, p.  66) and Lewis certainly created such worlds

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through fiction, I hope that what is not yet real in our world becomes real as you are postured toward the real with optimism, hope, and a spirit of play. Just as Lewis’ stories draw us in and make us part of them yet without swallowing up the real world, I hope the play of this text can draw you in as you are drawn out of certain false, ugly, and unjust contexts—not merely as an escape, but so that you may be sent back with greater courage, resourcefulness, and joy. Perhaps this is part of why Lewis spent much of the 1950s writing children’s literature. No doubt the vulnerability of the world and everyday life was keenly felt by many people, but to this vulnerability Lewis would add a positivity and enthusiasm, which is exactly what is needed when learning how to play from children (Edgar, 2017, p.  22). Listen to Lewis (1966/2017b): No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally (and often far more) worth reading at the age of fifty—except, of course, books of information. The only imaginative works we ought to grow out of are those which it would have been better not to have read at all. (p. 20)

Which Aims? A Record If the previous section was on the spirit of the text, now I’ll try to be more linear. What am I trying to do in this book? The aims of this book come from three categories: axiology (concerning the nature of value), epistemology (concerning the nature of knowledge), and ontology (concerning the nature of being). Axiological Aim: Discover the Value of Stories for Leadership Formation and Content While it was said over thirty years ago in the leadership context, either as an observation or as a warning, it remains applicable today in the leadership context: “Technology and modern organization are committed to the metavalues of efficiency and effectiveness but while they raise productivity they leach away meaning” (Hodgkinson, 1983, p. 16). Stories can help us recover our meaning: a well-plotted story can help us recover our own story’s plot. This is a kind of philosophy.

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For Hodgkinson (1983), this philosophical search “begins in the dirt” (p. 59). Think about dirt. It’s old. It’s been around a long time. To say philosophy begins in the dirt means not only that it begins in the basics of life, but that it also starts in the past. Just as some of the stories and myths (or forms of stories and myths) that have bound people together and given people meaning emerge out of the ancient past, so does a philosophy of leadership developed from these kinds of stories emerge from the dirt. But keep thinking about dirt. If philosophy begins in the dirt, the dirt that must be tended or else it becomes dry and disintegrates. Stories help to keep us from disintegrating (Booker, 2004, p. 7). Stories do not simply begin in the dirt, but they hold together what otherwise might splinter. Brought into present context, a leadership vision or drive can spark in the dirt—somewhere in the past where there is almost only potential—but it can’t stay there. It needs to catch on and be passed on by others. I hope that reflecting on Lewis’ stories will help you to bring coherence to leadership vision and maintain the vision’s integrity. I also hope it will give readers a new angle to inspire and communicate with others. Perhaps you have stories to go back to from earlier days or perhaps you need fresh stories. I read Lewis as a child and then over and over again. Perhaps you have stories that you read as a child that, in hindsight, have formed some of your leadership drive. On the other hand, perhaps you didn’t read such stories as a child and you need to find some stories. I hope this book gives you the reason to dive back into those stories or some new ones to explore. Stories can form leaders and provide content for leaders to deploy. How can stories be used in leadership communication and formation beyond merely reading them? Badaracco (2006) notes that stories can be useful for case studies: “many people associate literature with abstruse academic talk about Freudian imagery or deconstruction; case studies, on the other hand, are familiar tools for management education” (p. 2). By using stories in his educational setting, Badaracco saw students shift between the scenarios of characters and their own scenarios in deep and serious ways (pp. 2–3). When we realize that we can take stories seriously, real life scenarios take on fresh meaning, too, from the perspectives of others (Bennis &

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O’Toole, 2005). Learning to listen to characters in stories might allow us to develop an ability to hear voices that otherwise would have gone unheard, which is essential for leadership in complex scenarios (Heifetz & Laurie, 2001). Epistemological Aim: Seeing the Storied Self and World Secondly, this book aims to help the reader be postured toward the world in a stronger way. While leadership is an ancient consideration, Hodgkinson (1983) argues that leadership has become “demythologized, secularized, empiricized, democratized, and psychologized” (p. 198). Against such a development, Coutu (2006) argues that you might learn as much about leadership from Julius Caesar as from business books or journals. I don’t know that I would want to pit such forms of knowledge against each other, but to engage in leadership studies from contexts where leadership is not the explicit concern has already been admitted as a kind of play— and perhaps a kind of play that we must learn how to do again. To engage Lewis for leadership required a certain amount of knowledge about leadership and familiarity with certain kinds of conversations—in other words, a certain kind of imagination. Stories can re-form fresh imaginations. Lewis’ extensive engagement with myth prepared him to see the world mythologically. In Perelandra, Lewis (1944/2003) allows that what counts as myth in some contexts may have been closer to history in other  contexts. While knowledge has come to be more concerned with demythologization as Hodgkinson noted, Lewis conceived myth to be more foundational than truth: “What flows into you from the myth is not truth but reality (truth is always about something but reality is about which truth is) and therefore every myth becomes the father of innumerable truths on the abstract level” (Lewis as quoted in Wilson, 2002, p. 219). For Lewis, the presence of story is already given. We are in stories. Think about it like going to bed at night. Have you ever gone to bed and the bed was already made? How nice. Perhaps you’ve gone to bed and found the bed needed making. Not so nice, but manageable. But have you ever gone to bed and found there was no bed there? That you needed not just to make the bed that was already there, but that you needed to make an actual bed? I never have. Hopefully you haven’t either. Substitute

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“bed” for “reality.” We might need to make something of the reality that we encounter, but we do not need to make a reality in itself. There is already a “given” to the reality we encounter. Because reality has a flow and movement to it, it is easily conceived as a story. This reality is properly conceived as a story—it has already started and it is going somewhere and it is about something. In Out of the Silent Planet, Ransom, the protagonist on an interplanetary adventure, has such an experience of encountering the heavens—not just empty space through which to travel, but a place already teeming with life that had been going on before Ransom ever encountered it (Lewis, 1938/1965; Whalen, 2015). There is already a givenness to reality, to the story in which we develop. This conception of reality need not simply be large and overarching, though. It may also be small. Philosopher Paul Ricoeur (1992) orients the reader to the storied phenomenon of one’s own life. In one’s own life, one is the narrator, a character, but also the author (p. 160). The person is able to tell the story, act in the story, and conceive the story. But delving a bit deeper into this affirmation reveals that such a conception is not quite right. Who tells the story of the person’s birth? Ricoeur writes, “my birth and, with greater reason, the act through which I was conceived belong more to the history of others—in this case, my parents—than to me” (p. 160). Even more humbling, who tells the story of the person’s death? Answer: those who survive the person. From a strictly natural point of view, persons come from others and are held in memory by others. But in between is the opportunity to be someone, to become someone, hopefully to know and love those from whom we come and by whom we will be remembered. Persons are characters, narrators, and kinds of authors of their own lives, but in a way that is dependent on others as authors, too. As Ricoeur says, we are at least co-authors. Consider the leadership implications of this narrative epistemology as a kind of two-way relationship. Stories cut into us as we encounter them: they can never be unread/unheard. Even if they are forgotten, there might be tiny scars left behind. They have performed a kind of surgery on us and leave their mark. Likewise, our very existence is a cutting into reality: we have performed a kind of surgery on the world just by our very existence. There is no pretending one hasn’t existed if one has. As Dr. Seuss reminds us in Horton Hears A Who, no matter the size, a person leaves a mark. We must see ourselves in story and our reality as story. This is the narrative imagination that I want to see formed in the reader.

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Ontological Aim: Lead with New Energy Finally, I want stories to inspire you. While this book is not a story, it is about stories and stories can set leaders alive, reinvigorate leaders, challenge leaders. Stories encountered in this book may have one of several effects. For example, stories that have lain dormant may be reawakened in the leader’s imagination. Stories that had not yet been encountered may inspire something new. Parallels between stories and life allow leaders to be attuned to fresh opportunity or with new perspective on conflict. Heifetz and Laurie (2001) argue for leaders to sense adaptive moments, being attuned to conflict. Adaptation and conflict can be construed as games—we adapt to the pressures around us or engage in conflict with others on our team or who wish to best us in competition. Proper leadership response in these situations involves not simply obtaining the facts, but perceiving a meaning. Stories, because of the way they allow deep imagination, may posture the leader to take appropriate action in the moment. If leaders are feeling helpless or hopeless in a situation, a story might just be the refreshment needed. Inspiration—fresh air—may just be what is needed in such thickly charged days. Lewis (1949/2001) provides a brilliant picture of this experience with stories: If we were all on board ship and there was trouble among the stewards, I can just conceive their chief spokesman looking with disfavour on anyone who stole away from the fierce debates in the saloon or pantry to take a breather on deck. For up there, he would taste the salt, he would see the vastness of the water, he would remember that the ship had a whither and a whence. He would remember things like fog, storms, and ice. What had seemed, in the hot, lighted rooms down below to be merely the scene for a political crisis, would appear once more as a tiny eggshell moving rapidly through an immense darkness over an element in which man cannot live. It would not necessarily change his conviction about the rights and wrongs of the dispute below, but it would probably show them in a new light …. Stories of the sort I am describing are like that visit to the deck. They cool us. (p. 93)

A quick perusal of your social media might reveal how needed a little break might be. People need to be cooled—to be reminded that there is more to all of life than the stifling, trifling duties that make up our lives—important

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though they may be. We need fresh air. Leaders are beings who need refreshment—they need breathers. Leaders need perspective and time to obtain it.

How So? A Roadmap So, I have three aims in developing a philosophy of leadership from Lewis’ fiction: to convince readers there is leadership wisdom in stories, to posture readers to the storied nature of the world, and to inspire. How are we going to get there? Which way are we going to take? Here’s an outline for the rest of the book. First, I will flesh out what is meant by a philosophy of leadership (Chap. 2) and then describe why narrative may be beneficial in its development (Chap. 3). Second, I will build a bridge from the value of narrative for developing a philosophy of leadership to Lewis’ fiction by discussing the imagination and its potential impact from Lewis’ fiction (Chap. 4). The next three chapters will test Lewis’ narratives for leadership insight, considering agency theory and agency (Chap. 5), authentic leadership and self-awareness (Chap. 6), and dark leadership (Chap. 7). Each of these chapters will introduce the appropriate leadership theory and then provide appropriate discussion and illumination using plot, setting, and characters from the Chronicles of Narnia, Cosmic Trilogy, Till We Have Faces, The Pilgrim’s Regress, The Great Divorce, and The Screwtape Letters. Lewis’ fiction will be fleshed out using some of his non-fiction, as well. Finally, the Conclusion will synthesize findings from ontology, epistemology, and axiology to develop a Lewisian way of leading.

Sinking Our Teeth In Perhaps you have picked up this book because you are interested in leadership. Perhaps you have picked up this book because you are interested in Lewis. Perhaps you are interested in both and want to see if joining the two is possible. Whichever the case, I hope the result is a reader recommitted to the actions, attitudes, and character of leadership and to reading and using the stories that may form such a reader. But even if not, I hope the cover remains free of teeth marks.

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References Badaracco, J. L. (2006). Questions of character: Illuminating the heart of leadership through literature. Boston, MA: Harvard Business School Press. Bennis, W. G., & O’Toole, J. (2005). How business schools have lost their way. Harvard Business Review, 83(5), 96–104. Benson, B. E. (2013). Liturgy as a way of life: Embodying the arts in Christian worship. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Booker, C. (2004). The seven basic plots: Why we tell stories. London: Bloomsbury. Chesterton, G.  K. (1905). Heretics. Harvard University. New York: John Lane Company. Coutu, D. (2006, March). Leadership in literature. Harvard Business Review. Hbr.org/2006/03/leadership-in-literature. Accessed 7 Nov 2019. Edgar, B. (2017). The god who plays: A playful approach to theology and spirituality. Eugene, OR: Cascade. Heifetz, R., & Laurie, D. (2001, December). The work of leadership. Harvard Business Review. Hbr.org/2001/12/the-work-of-leadership. Accessed 19 Dec 2019. Hodgkinson, C. (1983). The philosophy of leadership. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Hurd, C.L. (2012) Transformational leadership in the life and works of C.S. Lewis. Doctoral dissertation. Retrieved from electronic theses and dissertations. Paper 1413. https://dc.etsu.edu/etd/1413 Lewis, C. S. (1965). Out of the silent planet. New York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1938). Lewis, C. S. (2001). The weight of glory and other addresses. New York: HarperOne. (Original work published in 1949). Lewis, C.  S. (2003). Perelandra. New York: Scribner. (Original work published in 1944). Lewis, C.  S. (2017a). Surprised by joy: The shape of my early life. New  York: HarperOne. (Original work published in 1955). Lewis, C.  S. (2017b). On stories and other essays on literature. New  York: HarperOne. (Original work published in 1966). Linstead, S. (Ed.). (2003). Organization theory and postmodern thought. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Maister, D. H. (2002). Courage to lead. Leader to Leader, (24, Spring), 20–22. Netflix Media Center. (2018). Netflix to develop series and films based on C.S. Lewis’ beloved The Chronicles of Narnia. https://media.netflix.com/en/ press-releases/netflix-to-develop-series-and-films-based-on-c-s-lewis-belovedthe-chronicles-of-narnia Ricoeur, P. (1992). Oneself as another. Chicago/London: University of Chicago Press.

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Taylor, P. A. (2008). Sympathy and insight in Aristotle’s ‘poetics’. The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 66(3), 265–280. https://doi. org/10.1111/j.1540-6245.2008.00308.x Whalen, D. (2015). The space trilogy—A Cosmos of old wars and new battles. Online lecture. Hillsdale College. https://online.hillsdale.edu/landing/an-introductionto-c-s-lewis Willard, T. (2014). C.S. Lewis and the imaginative leader. Retrieved from https:// www.faithandleadership.com/timothy-willard-cs-lewis-and-imaginative-leader Wilson, A. N. (2002). C.S. Lewis: A Biography. New York: W.W. Norton & Company.

CHAPTER 2

If Jadis Ran the N.I.C.E.: Philosophy of Leadership

Facing Blank Stares While I was traveling to research this project, I grew accustomed to the blank stare that initially interested friends would give upon hearing the subject matter of the book. “You’re researching Lewis!” they would say. “Terrific. What about him?” I would answer, “I’m developing a philosophy of leadership from Lewis’ fiction.” I can’t blame the hearer for the empty expression that so often met my response. “Philosophy of leadership” is not everyday language and its two main words are not often used together. I came to realize that I sensed something was in Lewis’ fiction for the purposes of leadership studies before I could articulate exactly what it was. It has taken me the writing of this project to understand the initial inkling that gripped my leadership instinct. In a way, this is to be expected: reflection and writing exercises helped students to articulate and develop a leadership philosophy (Sperenza & Pierce, 2019). Further, a philosophy of leadership is personal (Garner, 2012). But the writing process is not linear: One does not write from start to finish. Perhaps they don’t even start at the beginning, even if it’s a very good place to start. In other words, a philosophy of leadership often develops through the writing process and in order to develop in a meaningful way, a philosophy of leadership should improve. This presumption of improvement means that a philosophy of leadership cannot be private, even if it is personal. It must grow in a certain direction. © The Author(s) 2020 A. Perry, Leadership Philosophy in the Fiction of C.S. Lewis, Christian Faith Perspectives in Leadership and Business, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-41508-2_2

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If you currently have the uncertain look on your face that I saw too many times, this chapter is for you. This chapter fleshes out what exactly is meant by a philosophy of leadership. First, I will gather some descriptions of what is meant by the term and articulate some benefits to addressing the subject personally. Finally, I will show how this conception is faithful to thought within Lewis’ fiction and, hopefully, set the stage for how Lewis might be helpful for developing a philosophy of leadership in later chapters.

Philosophy of Leadership? The chasm between philosophy and leadership seems to deepen on the value of action. Leadership seems about getting things done and philosophy seems to be about, well, the opposite. Imaginary ivory towers are more likely to be filled with philosophers than with those we can only picture in action—moving, guiding, building, ordering, organizing. This attitude might be captured by Rooke and Torbert (2005). They write, “Most developmental psychologists agree that what differentiates leaders is not so much their philosophy of leadership…. Rather, it’s their internal ‘action logic’—how they interpret their surroundings and react when their power or safety is challenged.” But two sets of questions illustrate that the gap between the authors’ value for leadership shifts and a philosophy of leadership is not so wide. First, what does one’s “internal action logic” actually mean? I will argue that action-logic is a fine way to think about a philosophy of leadership. Second, Rooke and Torbert persuasively argue for seven shifts in leadership. But why seven? Why not three? Or ten? Why is it possible to categorize such things, at all? Related, why do shifts need to take place, at all? And why is action of value? Embedded in a typology (a list of seven, for example) is a philosophy and underlying a certain value for action is a philosophy. So, what is a philosophy of leadership? Questions are a great way to get started. A philosophy of leadership might be dug up by asking questions such as: • What does the leader consider beautiful, good, and true? (McCaslin, 2013) • Why does leadership emerge? • What kinds of people are leaders?

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• Which direction should a leader face—the past, the present, or the future? (Ncube, 2010) • What is the relationship between a leader and a follower? (Ncube, p. 78) • What are the leader’s expectations? (Tyran, 2017) • What are the follower’s expectations? (Tyran, 2017) While these questions might be answered in practical ways, they begin to reveal deeper values, beliefs, and claims. This is a kind of personal archaeology for a philosophy of leadership—digging deep into a person’s mind for how they conceive of leadership. A philosophy of leadership can also be examined more broadly. Case, French, and Simpson (2011) begin their study by questioning the phrase “philosophy of leadership.” Would it not be better to consider multiple philosophies of leadership? They, too, take seriously the potential gap between these terms and lay out what these terms should mean in relationship to each other. They begin by noting that leadership was first seen as an action rather than a noun or an idea (p. 245). In other words, leadership was something that was done rather than something contemplated. At the same time, by observing both the phenomenon and the history of studying the phenomenon, one can study the presence and influence of various philosophical subjects like ethics, epistemology, and ontology in leadership (p. 243). This study would also reveal how the study of leadership itself influenced the practice of leadership. While it is more complex, this sounds like what might be called, as above, an “action-logic.” Let’s try an analogy. Consider three different chili cookers. The first is a natural cook who just happens to be making chili. Every batch is new. This cook knows chili’s basic ingredients but then also uses what’s on hand. They’ve just always made chili this way. The chili is always a bit different depending on what’s in the fridge. Sometimes there are mushrooms and sometimes there is pineapple. You never know what’s in the chili. They don’t measure—not everything, anyway. As a result, while the chili is consistent, it’s always bit different and even a bit of a mystery. The second cook follows a recipe strictly. What the recipe calls for, and nothing else, is what’s included—even if it gets picked out before eating. The cooking technique is attended to rigorously. You know what’s in the chili and what’s not in the chili. Finally, there are chili cooks

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who are kind of a mix. They have followed a recipe broadly, but accommodations are made when cooking. Perhaps there wasn’t a second can of kidney beans in the cupboard or perhaps one of the family members really likes spicy chili and they have had a tough day so today’s chili is a bit spicier. Some accommodations are made intentionally and others are made subconsciously. These three categories can illuminate different ways of conceiving a philosophy of leadership. Let’s look at them in turn. Natural Chili Cook: Embedded Philosophy of Leadership Everyone has a philosophy of leadership. Recall Barfield’s chiding of Lewis (from the Introduction) about philosophy: It’s not a subject; it’s a way. Just as the natural chili cook has a natural way, so do persons have a natural way of leading in the world. We do not necessarily pay much attention to it, however. This is an embedded philosophy of leadership. I take the term from theological studies. This is a philosophy that is formed through stories, parents, education systems, training, movies, conversations, and so on (Leboeuf, 1999). You cannot figure out all the components that have gone into a person’s embedded philosophy of leadership. It’s a mystery. Like the natural cook’s chili, there are many ingredients in there that you might not be aware of. Recipe Chili Cook: Critical Philosophy of Leadership If the first chili cook didn’t pay attention to ingredient or technique, other cooks are trying to follow a recipe intentionally. You have some who are intentionally examining their philosophy of leadership: they are trying to follow a  style or type of leadership. Everything is being examined and considered. The philosophy of leadership is not a mystery, but one that is consciously formed. The conscious  leadership style shapes the leader’s actions and also  helps to determine the leader’s aims. By attempting to study servant leadership as a model for parenting, Veas and Veas (2018) show how it can become a critical philosophy of leadership. As parents work to study, understand, and apply this theory in their parental mentoring, it is becoming a philosophy—like following a recipe.

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Informed Chili Cook: Philosophy-of-Leadership-in-Use The final chili cook has elements of the first two. They have a recipe in mind, but they make accommodations. Like the second chili cook, they are paying attention to ingredient and technique, but like the first chili cook they have elements forming their action that they may not be aware of. These persons have been formed by critical examination of their words, values, beliefs, and actions but who are not always keeping these things in mind as they act. Underlying their chili is the form of a recipe, but it does not completely explain the chili that was cooked. Other inputs are in play that make up their actual leadership philosophy. This taxonomy, or way of breaking down a philosophy of leadership, is not hard and fast, of course. At some point in the natural chili cook’s life there  was some kind of recipe, even if it was never written down. The recipe cook does not know if the recipe they are following was strictly formed or has some personal touches. This informed cook has a good idea of what is in the chili, but if they were video recorded while cooking, they might see something that surprises them. In other words, no person fits into any of these categories purely. The above draws, in part, on Chris Argyris’ (1991) distinction between theory-in-use and espoused theory. Espoused theory is what a person would articulate as the map that describes or explains their behavior. A third party observing them may describe a different sort of map, however. This actual map is the theory-in-use. I have something similar in mind with leadership philosophy. The person acting according to critical leadership philosophy would be using something like an espoused theory-of-action, except that I have in mind a level of critical intentionality, as well. They are not simply describing themselves, but attempting to live out a certain way. At the same time, even with such efforts, they have an embedded philosophy of leadership that is already internalized. They already have a leadership-­philosophy-in-use, as well.

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Philosophy of Leadership! While all this talk of chili is making me hungry, it also illustrates the benefit of examining a philosophy of leadership. Just as the goal of examining one’s chili cooking is to become a better chili cook who makes better chili, so is examining one’s philosophy of leadership aimed at improving one’s leadership actions. The goal is to have the best approach to leadership (Gonzales, 2019). There are a few ways that examining one’s philosophy of leadership may bring about better leadership. First, there might be a synthesizing of core values and critical practices (Schultz, 2010). What does one consider most important and how does one engage in best effecting these values? The process of self-discovery can help strengthen one’s credibility among others and perception of effectiveness (Kouzes & Posner, 2017; Tyran, 2017). The leader is achieving greater congruence between action-logic and action. Put more practically, building out from one’s values will help leaders and followers determine priorities, expectations, and appropriate attitudes (Tyran, 2017). Second, exploring one’s philosophy of leadership allows a leader to extrapolate potential implications (Leboeuf, 1999). In a military context, such anticipation is critical. Synthesizing and codification of “thoughts, beliefs, and values about leadership” is to “prepare for [the] next leadership challenge” (Garner, 2012, p. 76). Aligning internal beliefs, values, and thoughts with each other and then with future challenges is to connect philosophy, strategy, and tactics. Consider the following diagram (Fig. 2.1). One’s leadership tactics are most obvious. While it might take careful observation, much of what the leader does and how they do it can be seen. If there is intentionality to the tactics, then one’s strategy will also be evident, although it will take even more effort to be seen—and perhaps some

Tactics Strategy Philosophy Fig. 2.1  The relationship between philosophy, strategy, and tactics. (Source: Author’s creation)

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hypothesizing and testing. Strategy can hold tactics together. Hardest of all to observe is one’s philosophy of leadership, yet it supports both strategy and tactics. Philosophy (action-logic) will inform strategy and strategy will inform tactics—whether consciously or not. Another way to consider the relationship between these three elements is that philosophy sets the destination, strategy discerns a route, and tactics are the transportation tools. This example also reveals how tactics influence philosophy, too. One might set the moon as a destination, but if one only has a bicycle, the destination will need to be changed. One might only start with a bicycle, too, and as a result never conceive the moon as a destination. The complex relationship between tactics, strategy, and philosophy shows that alignment may not be possible without effort. A philosophy may go undetected because there is a certain workability already present in a leader’s life. Here’s an illustration. I don’t have a great back. I inherited a combination of silliness, stubbornness, and spinal deficiency from my father. I am accustomed to a measure of back pain, but have learned to work through it. Such stubbornness is not always wise. Sometimes my back finally says, “That’s enough,” and I end up crawling across my lawn, stacked with ice packs, and filling a prescription. I typically have a measure of bodily alignment but it eventually breaks down so that there is no movement. Likewise the relationship between philosophy, strategy, and tactics has a measure of alignment, but there might be pain and the pain may even reach a level of paralysis. Leaders might get stuck. When my back is out of alignment, I can get into a comfortable position and once there, I refuse to move. When leaders get into a measure of alignment, they can stick with their tactics—even if there’s some pain for the leader and the follower. Let’s shift the illustration into organizations, as well. When there is organizational misalignment between philosophy, strategy, and tactics, there can be a measure of comfort, but fear of significant movement. Hodgkinson (1983) examined the philosophy of leadership as the philosophy of management, arguing the benefits of such work applied not only to the theoretician, but also to the practitioner. In other words, those who study the philosophy of leadership understand management better and may practice it better, too. There is increased power for the practical leader and comprehension for the theoretician (p. 2). The upshot of this knowledge allows for more careful application of wisdom in particular cases (p.  3) and clear conceptual connections at higher levels of abstraction

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(p. 137). In other words, what counts as wisdom for one or at one time (idiographic wisdom) can be distinguished from what counts as wisdom for all and at all times (nomothetic wisdom; p.  3) and while leadership looks different from one context to another, there might be deeper realities supporting the same phenomenon. A chili cook in a hospital might follow a recipe in a different format from a teenager experimenting at home, but there might be similarities to their cooking. Let’s see if we can narrow the gap between philosophy and leadership even more clearly. Hodgkinson (1983) writes, “[A human being] is a rational and a social animal. These attributes determine co-operative action since they enable a value consensus to be reached about ends which can then be approximated or attained through a logical sequence of means” (p. 121). What counts as important or valuable and why is a philosophical question and working together to agree about what is valuable and its achievement through logical sequence is part of the work of leadership (Yukl, 2013).  The field of leadership involves behaviors that are embedded with values, thoughts, and beliefs.

Analyzing Philosophy of Leadership Now that the meaning and benefit of a philosophy of leadership is clear, let’s try to simplify our aims in its analysis. A philosophy of leadership, one’s working action-logic while engaged in leadership, will consider the categories of ontology, axiology, and epistemology (Hodgkinson, 1983). Ontology A philosophy of leadership needs to consider its logic of being. These are questions around the nature of human beings, the nature of leadership, how different human beings relate to one another, and so on. For example, have you ever heard someone talk about the importance of “being” over “doing”? This is a kind of ontological question. Frances Hesselbein, former CEO of Girl Scouts, encouraged such a privileging. She argued that leadership is how to be, not how to do (as cited in Irving & Strauss, 2019, p. 35). Whether or not Hesselbein is correct, this is an ontological claim about her philosophy of leadership.

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Axiology A philosophy of leadership includes its logic of value. What’s important? In what order? Why? When Patrick Lencioni (2012) breaks apart different kinds of values, he is articulating an axiology. Lencioni specifically addresses core values as those two to three values for which we are willing to suffer. He tells the story of an airline CEO whose airline took humor very seriously. In response to a letter complaining about the levity of the flight attendants, threatening to use another airline, the CEO responded with a very simple response: “We’ll miss you” (p. 95). This is axiology put into practice. When Ralph Larsen of Johnson & Johnson observed that values are only values when they put a company at a disadvantage and remain, he was making an axiological argument (as cited in Irving & Strauss, 2019, p. 31). Epistemology Finally, a philosophy of leadership includes epistemology, one’s theory of knowledge. How do you know something? How do you know that you, well, know? Several examples could be offered here. I have already revealed part of my own epistemology, that knowledge is, in part, grounded in narrative. That is, knowledge is embedded in a context. I have also admitted that this study has a presumption of pragmatism: that its truth will be seen, over time, by its working. Perhaps more simply, do you base action on data or instinct? Perhaps there’s a complex relationship. Which has the final say? Which overrules the other? A philosophy of leadership—an action-­ logic of leadership, involves claims to knowledge and beliefs about the nature of knowledge—whether critically known and articulated or not.

C.S. Lewis for the Philosophy of Leadership? I trust that if you have come this far that you have a clearer understanding of a philosophy of leadership as a kind of action-logic, that you see the benefits of knowing one’s philosophy of leadership, and have a sense of how such a pursuit might be organized. But would C.S. Lewis find the discussion beneficial? Would he even be interested in participating in such a study with us? In this chapter’s final section, I want to show why I think such a study is faithful to Lewis, focusing mainly on Ransom from Out of the Silent Planet.

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Seeking lodging for the night after a wearying portion of his hike previously  delayed  by some violent storms, Ransom comes upon a physical struggle at a potential place of lodging. While he is not seeking an “adventure,” Ransom is convicted to intervene (Lewis, 1938/1965a, p.  11). Ransom soon discovers he knows of the participants. First, there is Harry, the modestly capable adolescent whose mother had hurried Ransom ahead down the road for lodging. Harry’s combatants are two men about the age of Ransom. One, Devine, was a classmate of Ransom’s, and the other, Weston, is a renowned physicist. Ransom himself is a well-regarded philologist, so the men find natural regard. At least, so thinks Ransom. Ransom, aptly named, secures Harry’s release. While he is not yet aware of it, Ransom has taken Harry’s place as a prisoner in an interplanetary voyage. Whereas Harry was to be Devine and Weston’s captive destined for Mars, Ransom is now on the adventure. Yet he is no less a prisoner than Harry would have been. In fact, his state and circumstances as an unmarried academic on a personal walking holiday with no one aware of his whereabouts make him an even better candidate for Weston and Devine’s purpose than Harry. Once aboard the spaceship, Ransom seeks a full understanding of his situation: “‘And what has all this to do with me?’ he broke out. ‘You have assaulted me, drugged me, and are apparently carrying me off as a prisoner in this infernal thing. What have I done to you? What do you say for yourself?’” (Lewis, 1938/1965a, p. 26). Weston’s initial reply has a false start: “I might reply by asking you why you crept into my backyard like a thief. If you had minded your own business you would not be here” (p. 26). Here Lewis has drawn the reader’s attention back to the circumstances of Ransom’s intrusion and rescue of Harry. The contrast between Harry and Ransom cannot be ignored: Harry is of modest intelligence whereas Ransom is a renowned academic. Harry’s whereabouts are of consistent concern to his mother, whereas Ransom is of no one’s account during his walking tour. Harry is needed for daily work whereas Ransom is in the midst of a lengthy break from his professional responsibilities. The differences between the men amplify Weston’s clearer, continued answer: As it is, I admit that we have had to infringe your rights. My only defence is that small claims must give way to the great…. You cannot be so small-­ minded as to think that the rights or the life of an individual or of a million individuals are of the slightest importance in comparison with this. (Lewis, 1938/1965a, pp. 26–27)

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Weston’s actions are beginning to make sense—and the differences between would-be victims did not impact his choice: against certain grand aims, human beings—even millions of human beings—are inconsequential. Ransom, however, does not agree: the ends do not justify the means. I consider your philosophy of life raving lunacy. I suppose all that stuff about infinity and eternity means that you think you are justified in doing anything—absolutely anything—here and now, on the off chance that some creatures or other descended from man as we know him may crawl about a few centuries longer in some part of the universe. (p. 27)

Consider Ransom’s phrase and its description: philosophy of life. It certainly captures Weston’s action-logic, which is governing his life and influence. His attempts to pioneer new ways for humankind and his treatment of human beings could be described as his leadership axiology and ontology. Now, look at Weston’s reply to Ransom: “‘Yes—anything whatever,’ returned the scientist sternly, ‘and all educated opinion—for I do not call classics and history and such trash education—is entirely on my side’” (p. 27). Now Weston’s epistemology is revealed. Lewis’ use of ‘scientist’ is not by accident. Lewis (1944/2001), in Abolition of Man, voices his concern that the ongoing domination and conquest of Nature by science within the materialist worldview will eventually mean some men ruling others. “Human Nature will be the last part of Nature to surrender to Man” (p. 59). This is the end of a worldview that does not see the worth and value of every human being with a personal obligation to obtain, exhibit, and abide true values. The Harrys of the world will be put under the rule of the Devines (interested in wealth) and the Westons (interested in advancement). While different political orders may have different methods, many, even a “mild-eyed scientist in pince-nez,” will contribute to the abolition of man (p. 73). The image of the “mild-eyed scientist in pince-nez” is picked up and given a name in That Hideous Strength, Professor Augustus Frost. Frost, a psychologist in pince-nez, is part of the leadership of the N.I.C.E. which takes Weston’s philosophy of life to its final end with the remaking of humankind. Let’s bring this together. Weston’s blend of epistemology (what counts as true education), ontology (nature of human beings), and axiology (value of the general over the particular) reveals his “philosophy of life”— a philosophy that Ransom considers lunacy. While leadership may not be in Lewis’ mind, Weston is undoubtedly acting in a leadership role with the

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components that we have set as key for us to investigate and form a philosophy of leadership (epistemology, ontology, and axiology). Here’s an example where Lewis’ implicit philosophy of leadership may begin to touch on the practicality of leadership. In considering the best practices of rewards, Meindl (1989) noted the difference between equity (entitlements based on employee contributions) and parity (entitlements made equal for all employees) (p.  254). What was considered the best practice was influenced by the deeper value of justice of both the individuals giving rewards and those receiving them (p. 272). The internal action-­ logic of the persons has close connection to their responsibilities in management and as an employee. But where might the philosophy of leadership come from and how might it be challenged? Could differing philosophies mask different strategies? In a conversation about the nature of equality, Ransom, now a kind of king (“the Director” in That Hideous Strength) because of his experiences through the narrative, says, “Ah, equality!” said the Director. “We must talk of that some other time. Yes, we must all be guarded by equal rights from one another’s greed, because we are fallen. But the naked body should be there underneath the clothes, ripening for the day when we shall need them no longer. Equality is not the deepest thing, you know.” “I always thought that was just what it was. I thought it was in their souls that people were equal,” [said Jane]. “You were mistaken,” said he gravely. “That is the last place where they are equal. Equality before the law, equality on incomes—that is very well. Equality guards life; it doesn’t make it. It is medicine, not food.” (Lewis, 1946/1965b, p. 148)

While Lewis’ philosophy of leadership may not be immediately applicable to example above, it certainly provides a point of discussion for leadership formation around the nature of human beings and their relationship with work, remuneration, and their value as employees.

Conclusion This chapter has focused on laying out what is a philosophy of leadership, why it is beneficial, how it can be studied (ontology, axiology, epistemology), and how such a framework is at least initially faithful to Lewis. With this in place, let us focus more specifically on narrative and how it might be a resource in the field of leadership.

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References Argyris, C. (1991). Teaching smart people how to learn. Harvard Business Review, 69(3). https://hbr.org/1991/05/teaching-smart-people-how-to-learn. Accessed 16 Mar 2020. Case, P., French, R., & Simpson, P. (2011). Philosophy of leadership. In A.  Bryman, D.  Collinson, K.  Grint, M.  Uhl-Bien, & B.  Jackson (Eds.), The SAGE handbook of leadership (pp. 242–254). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Garner, H.  C. (2012, September–October). Developing an effective command philosophy. Military Review, 92(5), 75–81. Gonzales, S. R. (2019). A leg to stand on: Developing core beliefs and a leadership philosophy for sound ethical decision-making. New Directions for Community Colleges, 185, 43–51. https://doi.org/10.1002/cc.20337 Hodgkinson, C. (1983). The philosophy of leadership. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Irving, J. A., & Strauss, M. L. (2019). Leadership in Christian perspective: Biblical foundations and contemporary practices for servant leaders. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Kouzes, J.  M., & Posner, B.  Z. (2017). The leadership challenge (6th ed.). Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons. Leboeuf, M.  K. (1999). Developing a leadership philosophy. Military Review, 79(3), 28–34. Lencioni, P. M. (2012). The advantage: Why organizational health trumps everything else in business. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons. Lewis, C.  S. (1965a). Out of the silent planet. New  York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1938). Lewis, C. S. (1965b). That hideous strength. New York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1946). Lewis, C.  S. (2001). Abolition of man. New  York: HarperOne. (Original work published 1944). McCaslin, M. (2013, June). Asking appropriate questions. Integral Leadership Review. http://integralleadershipreview.com/9418-asking-appropriatequestions/ Meindl, J. R. (1989). Managing to be fair: An exploration of values, motives, and leadership. Administrative Science Quarterly, 34, 252–276. Ncube, L. B. (2010). Ubuntu: A transformative leadership philosophy. Journal of Leadership Studies, 4(3), 77–82. Rooke, D., & Torbert, W.  R. (2005). Seven transformations of leadership. Harvard Business Review, 83(4), 66–76. https://hbr.org/2005/04/seventransformations-of-leadership. Accessed 24 Jan 2020. Schultz, J. R. (2010). The scholar-practitioner: A philosophy of leadership. Scholar-Practitioner Quarterly, 4(1), 52–64.

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Sperenza, C. R., & Pierce, A. (2019). Development of a personal leadership philosophy: An experiential and reflective opportunity in the graduate classroom. Journal of Leadership Education, 18(3), 167–175. https://doi. org/10.12806/V18/I3/A2 Tyran, K. L. (2017). Preparing to lead: A leadership philosophy exercise for business students. Management Teaching Review, 2(4), 258–268. Veas, G., & Veas, K. (2018). Parents as mentors: Addressing contemporary childrearing through a servant leadership philosophy and the application of mentorship mottos. Christian Education Journal, 15(3), 390–407. Yukl, G. (2013). Leadership in organizations (8th ed.). Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall.

CHAPTER 3

Defeating Dragons by Reading the Right Books: Narrative and Leadership

Let Me Tell You a Story When did you first believe that good overcomes evil? How did you develop this belief? Where did the notion of evil come from? What did it look like? G.K. Chesterton (1909/2009) observed that children don’t need to be taught about evil: ideas of dragons and bogeys are “in the child already, because [they are] in the world already…. The baby has known the dragon intimately ever since he had an imagination.” Warnings about fairy tales for what dangers they might teach children are misguided. Fairy tales don’t tell children that dragons exist; they teach children that the dragon gets defeated. Fairy tales can do even more. They also teach of the kinds of persons who fight dragons and the best ways and wisest times to fight dragons. Fairy tales also warn us that people can become dragons. But not everyone has heard such stories. C.S. Lewis (1952/1994) gives a memorable example in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader: Eustace Clarence Scrubb, a boy who almost deserved his name (p. 3), “had read none of the right books” (p. 84, italics mine). As a result, Eustace had never even imagined a dragon and has no idea what it is when he finally encounters one. To this point in the book’s plot, Eustace has been unable to engage in any kind of meaningful behavior. While he has left his own world of embassies, railways, and banks for the world of Narnia, he persists in wanting to contact a British Consul; is disgusted by a talking mouse of inestimable honor; upon being spared punishment for trying to steal water thinks that getting © The Author(s) 2020 A. Perry, Leadership Philosophy in the Fiction of C.S. Lewis, Christian Faith Perspectives in Leadership and Business, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-41508-2_3

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“two dozen” means cups of water rather than lashes; and does not understand simple kindness, though it has been shown to him numerous times. The scene is set to encounter the dragon. Upon arriving at an uninhabited island, Eustace slyly slinks away from his responsibilities and stumbles onto the unknown creature. By not having read the right books, however, Eustace does not know the danger posed to him. But the danger is not the dragon itself, because the dragon is nearing death. While he is startled, even Eustace can see it is an “old, sad creature” (Lewis, 1952/1994, p. 85). Upon the dragon’s death, Eustace falsely and incredulously begins to feel that he had “fought and killed the dragon instead of merely seeing it die” (p.  86). Lewis repeats that “Eustace had read only the wrong books” (p. 87) and so he does not know that a dragon’s lair contains its great gathering of gold. Frightened, foolish, and fiendish as he is, Eustace falls asleep on the treasure heap. “Sleeping on a dragon’s hoard with greedy, dragonish thoughts in his heart, he had become a dragon himself” (p. 91). If only Eustace had read the right books or heard the right stories! What difference would have been made? The reader is pleased that Eustace was in such moral shape because otherwise he would have stayed with his troupe and no story would have developed. Lewis has given the reader a story to introduce dragons and perhaps caution for one’s own dragonish thoughts. In so doing, we catch a glimpse of the use of narrative for leadership. Leaders are aware of dragons within and that dragons might need to be confronted. Yet fiction does not simply deal with dragons. This chapter will briefly lay out the benefits of stories for leadership purposes from wider studies and the work of C.S. Lewis. My aim is to show that narrative provides helpful resources to examine leadership and to form leaders and that such a claim is faithful to several ideas in Lewis. I need to thread a needle here. To make narrative the focal point of the chapter would be to address a very broad topic indeed. Instead, I am focusing more specifically on the benefit of narrative for leadership. At the same time, while this book will ultimately use the literature of C.S. Lewis, this chapter will sometimes more broadly consider narrative and at other times more narrowly use fictional literature. When I am speaking broadly, what I say about narrative applies to fictional literature and although literature may include a wider range of genres other than fiction, when literature applies in this chapter, I am specifically speaking of fictional literature.

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With this in mind, I will work with broad definitions. By narrative I mean that which unfolds with plot, characters, and setting or context. This broad description could include a myth (an ancient story or story form that communicates overarching explanation for some aspect of current reality), a fairy tale, a fable, or even a fairly complex joke. (If we meet in person, remind me to tell you the one about the two colleagues discussing where one ate dinner the night before. I saw it on a TED Talk.) As a result, I will often use story because it is sufficiently broad to capture various kinds of narrative, but also to exclude such things as jokes. (When my children ask me to tell them a story there are many different acceptable forms, but they are not expecting one of my hilarious Dad jokes. And they never ask me for a joke. I don’t know why.) I also use story because we might say to someone, “Tell me your story.” It’s common and relational language. In so doing, we would be expecting more than just the facts of a situation, which is also the case for literature. (Recall from the Introduction that we will be “playing” with the stories of Lewis.) Given my use of Ricoeur in the introduction, it is clear that not all narrative is fiction; that stories are more than simply facts even if they are true stories. (We will discuss this further in the chapter on Imagination.) One’s life was conceived as narrative, but it is certainly not fiction! Story communicates the form that life takes. So, how might narrative be helpful to the subject of leadership and where is this confirmed by Lewis?

Leadership and Narrative: Lewis’ Literature Takes a Leap Because stories run deep into human history and forms of stories cross cultural bounds, stories are a kind of universal language (Booker, 2004, p. 6). While it was said of literature, it also applies to story more generally: stories are “a primary resource that society uses to anchor their identity around celebrated ideals, values, and virtues” (Shoup & Hinrichs, 2020, p. 1). Characters, plots, and settings can all be great (pp. 4–5) and to that extent they transcend cultures. Consider stories in two ways. Stories are like umbrellas that overarch realities and stories are like foundations that support realities. Just as when a little group huddles under an umbrella in a storm, people may draw together under a story and keep out from under some threats. They find connection and shared purpose in the story. Like a group that goes about

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its business and life in a building without considering its foundation, people are supported and their actions given meaning by the story that undergirds their reality—even without them thinking about it. So, with this in mind, what might such a story and a storied conception of reality do for leaders? Stories Provide Leadership Contexts Stories engage the imagination in a dynamic way. Stories can act as frames on which we project a leadership imagination and serve as projections onto the leadership frames of our imaginations. By seeing plot, characters, and setting, the hearer/reader is able to apply certain questions of leadership. What do people do in certain times? What counts as leadership in various conditions? The story is sufficient to provide a frame to test out conceptions, see models, and perform thought experiments, but the story remains a solid frame not completely under the hearer/reader’s power. It is not a thought experiment. We see leadership from characters we might otherwise have missed and contemplate scenarios otherwise not minded. We see leadership in action in contexts other than our own but not without a context. We might even “play” with the characters. Characters have a measure of malleability because the entirety of the imaginative world to which they belong is not filled in by the story. Think about a character in a book. The book provides a context and so the character is not completely under the reader’s power, but the reader might put them under other imaginative conditions. The reader, especially if they have read the story multiple times, might imagine characters taking different actions, revising what the reader knows the character is about to do. But the new action could not be completely disconnected from the story. We can imagine these new outcomes though the character is not an independent agent who can refuse to do what the author has already given them to do in response to the reader’s desires. In a sense, the story pushes back because what the character does is in character according to the book’s author. In this way, the story is not simply passive, but active in forming conceptions and examples. Stories can act as frames on which to project leadership questions and projections from which we receive leadership projections. Further, stories, especially when they include multiple instalments, can provide a narrative arc. For example, the narrative arc of C.S.  Lewis’ Cosmic Trilogy allows the reader to see a kind of progression in the character of Weston. While Weston is initially focused on expanding

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humankind’s habitable homes, he later comes to see his role for the sake of progress itself. He is bound up in a spirit of advancement. What starts as an individual brave, brilliant, adventurous, utilitarian antagonist ends up as a complex, vague, and just as utilitarian  organization, the National Institute for Co-ordinated Experiments (the N.I.C.E.). The reader is drawn to the nature of the N.I.C.E. as an extension of Weston’s character when an earlier character who had been in limited league with Weston is reintroduced as part of the N.I.C.E. but with a new name. Devine from Out of the Silent Planet becomes Feverstone in That Hideous Strength. Devine’s obsession with wealth, which was clear but just in bloom in the earliest book of the series, has now become part of his very name: Feverstone. In a similar way, the narrative history of Narnia is spelled out over time in the Chronicles of Narnia, with various and increasing threats to her ways and way of life. Stories with lengthened narrative arcs provide leadership contexts over time. Stories Form Personal Virtues Stories can also form virtues and challenge vices. By providing a variety of characters and contexts, stories reduce prejudice and intolerance (Singh, 1999, p. 5). A powerful example of this possibility is found in The Last Battle (Lewis, 1956/1980). Previously a soldier for the enemy Calormene army, Emeth is curiously found in the Narnian paradisiac afterlife near the story’s denouement. Several characters wonder at his presence; they have respect for Emeth, yet they want to know who he is and what has happened to him (p. 151). They hold no animosity toward him, though he may yet prove to be an enemy or a friend. The reader who has seen the Calormene soldiers as enemies of the Narnian protagonists is suddenly charged with a new possibility in Emeth. Stories can also form virtues. Stories tell readers that challenges are faced, problems addressed, and wrongs corrected, inspiring readers in all regards. Recall Chesterton’s (1909/2009) observation: stories don’t introduce evil, but show that evil can be confronted and defeated. Such a conviction put into one’s inner life is the virtue of hope, but one could also develop the virtue of faithfulness and honesty as these virtues are lived out and presented as normal or emulable in stories. Once again, Emeth is a ready example. Emeth, a transliteration of the Hebrew word truth, has been an honorable character within his own context. The reader discovers that while Emeth was a servant of the demon-god Tash, Emeth had served

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him with truth and in pursuit of truth. As a result, Aslan, the true Son of the Emperor, receives Emeth’s worship as his own. “I take to me the services which thou hast done to him,” says Aslan (Lewis, 1956/1980, p. 155). Readers are not simply challenged in their prejudice, but formed in the virtues of honesty and the pursuit of truth. Stories Inspire Action Stories awaken us to grander visions and thereby inspire action. Because narrative is the transmission of life’s elements, including its longings, in life’s form, narrative can reveal and challenge these elements in a person’s life. The reader/hearer’s own pursuits may pale in comparison to the actions of one in a story whose longings are better. Lewis (1949/2001) argued that we are too easily pleased and that we must wake up to stronger desires and yearnings (p. 26). Stories can let us know how weak our desires truly are. Likewise, a reader may see similarities between their desires and a character’s desires and see how they might take appropriate action. The nature of narrative also encourages application to a person’s life. Stories can help us to conceive of ourselves as characters in the midst of a plot that bears resemblance to other stories. As a result, readers are able to take action as leaders—even if mainly as leaders of the self. Readers can face scenarios they have not faced in real life and develop a measure of self-­ awareness (Prior, 2018). The pattern is sufficient to conceive and inspire action. By combining an awareness of our desires with the possibility for action, stories develop conviction in readers/hearers. Agency may be awakened and then directed. Stories provide the opportunity to develop conviction and examine how a person has responded to real life scenarios that are encountered in stories (Singh, 1999) and then may change their behavior accordingly. At the end of The Last Battle, when all appropriate characters are located in Aslan’s paradise, Lewis (1956/1980) narrates Aslan’s gentle chiding of the children: “You do not yet look so happy as I mean you to be” (p. 171). The children are afraid that their time in Aslan’s presence is yet going to come to an end. But this is not the case; instead, their time with him is just beginning. Naturally, Lewis does not conceive this as the end of the story. Instead, “it was only the beginning of the real story…in which every chapter is better than the one before” (p. 172). Such confidence has retrospective impact: all actions are now caught up in the work of Aslan; all efforts on his behalf have become of significant value. Now, while this meaning is

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caught up in Lewis’ Christian worldview, it may also have inspiring impact for those who consider their narrative as a kind of comedy, which is one of the basic story plots. Recall, as a final example, the claim that stories may form virtues, as we consider this the theological virtue of love. Lewis (1960) joins together this virtue and its very nature as action in a kind of narrative form. In The Four Loves, Lewis writes, To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and be possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket— safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell. (p. 121)

It might be pointed out that the above is not narrative, but is that really true? While Lewis allows the reader to fill in imaginative details of their own reality, there remains character, plot, and a kind of setting. It is a story without an ending because the reader, rather than the author, is allowed to supply it. Lewis even deploys the category of tragedy with the unnamed alternative of comedy. The story is to inspire the risky action of love to form the virtue of love in the reader. Stories Form Social Virtues Personal experiences create empathy. When we go through personal experiences that test our mettle and make-up but emerge because of ample support and adequate agency, we can become empathetic toward others who face similar challenges. When a reader is learning from a story, it is more like learning from first-hand experience than from propositional truth because the story itself is teaching something: the reader can, among other things, imagine suffering themselves (Prior, 2018; Taylor, 2008). When readers are so impacted, so are their personal relationships. Readers engaged in fiction had a greater understanding of their peers and higher levels of social ability than those who read nonfiction (Mar et al., 2006).

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Fiction facilitates shifts in self-perception of readers who are high in absorption (Kuiken et al., 2004). That is, readers who engage deeply with a story develop self-awareness through three events. First, there is a quieting of the reader’s mind (“stillness”). Second, the reader is put into a different context (“defamiliarization”). Finally, the reader takes on new roles by identifying with different characters. The connection of these three factors can lead to narrative empathy and to real-world empathy allowing for pro-social behavior (Koopman & Hakemulder, 2015). Lewis is able to present intriguing characters who have either varying degrees of complexity and malice or varying degrees of justice and redemption in order to produce wisdom and empathy in the reader. Lewis invents characters who are bad and who use manipulation to their advantage such that readers are warned to such actions (e.g., the White Witch); characters who make harmful choices intentionally that result in significant consequence but who are subsequently redeemed and show due humility (e.g., Edmund); characters who engage in selfish behavior with relatively inconsequential outcomes who are seemingly unaware of their malformed character until they are so confronted (e.g., Eustace); and, finally, characters who never quite grasp their folly and wretchedness yet whose demeanor is softened after their experiences (e.g., Uncle Andrew). These characters provide windows not only into the reader and others in the reader’s life, but also into the potential outcomes of certain choices. Stories Simplify the Complex Stories are able to communicate complexity through simplicity (Plantinga, 2015). Recall above how stories are about more than facts. No story can include all the facts because facts—true states of affairs—grow toward the infinite. To record all the facts is to eliminate the possibility of a story. Even a very simple story-invitation, like “Tell me about your day,” includes the possibility of too many facts that would destroy the story. Yet a day was had. Selecting which facts to include allow the story to be told with meaning. Stories simplify the complex. Now make the situation more complex than a run-of-the-mill day. A story may clearly express the  deep emotion and internal turmoil that a character faces. C.S. Lewis’ character Ransom in Perelandra (1944/2003) describes the benefit of telling the story. Upon returning from Venus,

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Ransom was struggling to describe his experience and his secretary shares a poignant experience. But perhaps the most mysterious thing he ever said about it was this. I was questioning him on the subject…and had incautiously said, “Of course I realise it’s all rather too vague for you to put into words,” when he took me up rather sharply, for such a patient man, by saying, “On the contrary, it is words that are vague. The reason why the thing can’t be expressed is that it’s too definite for language.” (p. 30)

Of course, stories use words but being experiential in nature they come closer to the clarity and power of actual experiences. Stories Broaden and Shift Personal Perspectives Stories broaden personal perspectives by helping the reader/hearer to conceive their own world in new holistic ways. Fiction may allow the reader to “move from seeing mostly incremental opportunities to envisioning a whole new set of possibilities and then sustaining a commitment to create those possibilities” (Furr et al., 2018, p. 30). A new reality that is the world of the story allows for a new reality within real life. (This will be further addressed under the chapter on Imagination.) If self-awareness and change is possible through the world of the story in wholesale ways, then readers can be enabled to live a new reality in the real world as they have new views of others and themselves. Lewis affirms this possibility in two ways. First, stories, specifically science fiction, allow for broadened perspective by allowing readers to give “expression to thoughts and emotions ... that we should sometimes entertain” (Lewis, 1966/2017, p.  92). Stories allow us to explore fears and hopes that otherwise go unexamined. Second, stories, specifically fantasy or myth, have a power to generalise while remaining concrete, to present in palpable form not concepts or even experiences but whole classes of experience, and to throw off irrelevancies. But at its best it can do more; it can give us experiences we have never had and thus, instead of ‘commenting on life,’ can add to it. (Lewis, 1966/2017, p. 72)

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Perspective is broadened not simply through commentary, but through a kind of personal experience or a fresh experience of one’s thoughts and emotions that might otherwise go ignored. Stories Form Skills of Critical Judgment Have you ever started to read a story that you didn’t finish or to watch a  movie  but you walked out? Perhaps the book remained closed or the movie unwatched because of issues beyond the control of the story or perhaps it was only certain elements of the story. Perhaps, however, it was the story itself. In this case, we might say that the story simply shouldn’t have been told. Stories might go untold for moral reasons, aesthetic reasons, or otherwise. Putting the book down or walking out of the theater was a judgment against the story. Lewis (1966/2017) urged a critique of stories, as well. However, the critique was not only to come during the story by the reader. Before writing, the potential author should be asking whether or not the story should be written. “The Author’s impulse [to write] is a desire (it is very like an itch), and of course, like every other desire, needs to be criticised by the whole Man” (p. 69). Stories must be evaluated for their contribution to humankind and for their potential negative impact. Leaders should develop similar critical skills in the context of presenting a vision. Just as Authors are to critique whether a story should be written, so should Leaders critique whether a vision should be pursued. The internal Author may want to write, but the whole Person knows it should not be written. Likewise, the internal Leader may want to pursue a certain vision, but the whole Person must consider whether it is best, right, wise, beautiful, or good. Critical skills need not only be applied in grand ways, but in small applications, too. In the writing of a story, little details should not be superfluous. Little details should play a role in the story. Lewis (1966/2017) writes, “Whatever in a work of art is not used is doing harm” (p.  85). Likewise, leaders may develop vision-communication skills that engage such details, making the vision-communication as clear and compelling as possible. There is one more way that stories may develop critical skills. Have you ever tried to finish a book, appreciate a movie, or engage another story that would qualify as a classic? While not finishing certain stories may be a judgment against the story, not being able to finish the classic may also be a judgment against the reader/viewer. Of course, not everyone thrives at

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reading and not every story appeals to every person. Classics may be appreciated by many, but not by all. At the same time, leaders may be self-­ aware and critical of the kinds of stories that do not appeal to them or perhaps of their stamina when attempting complex classics. Lewis also noted the critical self-awareness that literature affords the reader. One does not know the issues and arguments that capture one’s day and age and so readers should also engage older books (Lewis, 1944/1993). It is not that older books are necessarily right, but that we will be less likely to make the same mistake twice in the same way. Stories cannot be used (Singh, 1999, p. 9). They are beneficial for leadership development and useful, but they are not completely under the control of the teller. Stories will not necessarily obtain specific, prescribed outcomes that the teller intends. Stories may impact one a certain way, but affect others differently or not at all. Leaders should be aware of how deeply the story has impacted her or him. The leader who tells a story for inspiration but who either did not experience the story or was not thoroughly inspired by it will likely be found out by those they are attempting to influence. Similarly, when communicators attempt to impress or influence an audience by appealing to a certain story they have not actually read, the audience can tell (L. Markos, personal communication, March 2, 2020).

Conclusion My three-year-old son (he would want you to know he’s almost four years old) came around as I was writing this chapter. Sitting next to me was a copy of C.S. Lewis’ The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. The cover has two key characters: Reepicheep the mouse, and Eustace, in dragon form. “What you are doing with that book, Dad? That book with the dragon?” My heart jumped. He doesn’t read, but maybe he’s hearing the right stories. Maybe he’s forming the right philosophy of leadership, the right action-logic to carry around. I started this chapter by asking where we first learned that good overcomes evil. Perhaps it was a difficult question to answer. Did you try to retrace your storied steps? Perhaps you tried to remember your dreams. Or movies that you watched perhaps a bit too young. If you made some progress in answering this question, can you now see if your good versus evil imagination was formed by some of the more prominent narratives you encountered? As you have engaged the ways that stories can benefit your leadership, have you considered how your leadership imagination has

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been formed? What role might narrative play in the leadership development of those in your charge? In this chapter, I argued that stories get inside people to influence them and laid out several possible benefits for leadership, forming a “narrative practical wisdom” (Kaczor, 2019). We are now ready to delve a bit deeper, using Lewis to show how this narrative practical wisdom can be considered as a leadership imagination.

References Booker, C. (2004). The seven basic plots: Why we tell stories. London: Bloomsbury. Chesterton, G.K. (2009). Tremendous trifles [eBook edition]. The Project Gutenberg. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/8092/8092-h/8092-h.htm (Original work published 1909). Furr, N., Nel, K., & Ramsøy, T. Z. (2018). Leading transformation: How to take charge of your company’s future. Boston, MA: Harvard Business Review Press. Kaczor, C. (2019, April 29). Lewis vs. Peterson: Is myth truth or fantasy? Angelus. https://angelusnews.com/arts-culture/lewis-vs-peterson-is-myth-truth-orfantasy/ Koopman, E. M., & Hakemulder, F. (2015). Effects of literature on empathy and self-reflection: A theoretical-empirical framework. Journal of Literary Theory, 9(1), 79–111. https://doi.org/10.1515/jlt-2015-0005 Kuiken, D., Phillips, L., Gregus, M., Miall, D. S., Verbitsky, M., & Tonkonogy, A. (2004). Locating self-modifying feelings within literary reading. Discourse Processes, 38(2), 267–286. https://doi.org/10.1207/s15326950dp3802_6 Lewis, C. S. (1960). The four loves. New York: Harcourt Brace. Lewis, C.  S. (1980). The last battle. London: Lions. (Original work published 1956). Lewis, C.  S. (1993). Introduction to Athanasius’ on the Incarnation. https:// www.bhmc.org.uk/uploads/9/1/7/7/91773502/lewis-incarnation-intro. pdf (Original work published in 1944). Lewis, C. S. (1994). The voyage of the Dawn Treader. New York: Harper Collins. (Original work published 1952). Lewis, C. S. (2001). The Weight of glory and other addresses. New York: HarperOne. (Original work published in 1949). Lewis, C.  S. (2003). Perelandra. New  York: Scribner. (Original worked published in 1944). Lewis, C. S. (2017). On Stories and other essays on literature. New York: HarperOne. (Original work published in 1966). Mar, R. A., Oatley, K., Hirsh, J., Dela Paz, J., & Peterson, J. B. (2006). Bookworms versus nerds: Exposure to fiction versus non-fiction, divergent associations with

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social ability, and the simulation of fictional social worlds. Journal of Research in Personality, 40(5), 694–712. Plantinga, C. (2015). Reading for preaching. In K. J. Vanhoozer & O. Strachan (Eds.), The Pastor as public theologian: Reclaiming a lost vision (pp. 136–138). Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Prior, K.  S. (2018). On reading well: Finding the good life through great books. Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos Press. Shoup, J. R., & Hinrichs, T. W. (2020). Literature and leadership: The role of the narrative in organizational sensemaking. London/New York: Routledge. Singh, S.  P. (1999). Learning leadership and decision-making from literature. Vikalpa, 24(3), 3–10. Taylor, P. A. (2008). Sympathy and insight in Aristotle’s ‘poetics’. The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 66(3), 265–280. https://doi.org/10.1111/j. 1540-6245.2008.00308.x

CHAPTER 4

Womb of Worlds or Silent Space? Imagination and Leadership

Van Rides Are for Imaginations In the summer of 2016, my family moved from Ontario, Canada to Indiana, USA. The move coincided with a significant illness in our family and the next 30 months were spent zipping between western Quebec and northern Indiana in our minivan. With three children five-years-old and under, these were not easy rides. While my wife and I also deployed videos to pass the time (you wouldn’t believe me if I said otherwise), we also spent long stretches listening to the Gospel of John from the New Testament, dramatic stories, and a children’s history curriculum. Though we had no video, we saw faces, felt emotions, and took different perspectives concerning these stories. The stories gave us shared images in our imaginations. But did the images look the same? We heard the same voices, but did we picture the same faces? Were our emotions identical or did they take certain nuances depending on the feeler? If I sensed a character feeling fear, did someone else sense them feeling dread? Would the images have matched a video version of the same narrative? These are questions of imagination. While a helpful definition of imagination is “the ability to create mental images of that which is not present to the physical senses” (Booker, 2004, p. 548), mental images should not simply be pictures but also other sensations. Imagination helps us form smells, emotions, voices, and so on. In this chapter, I will show that imagination presents a helpful © The Author(s) 2020 A. Perry, Leadership Philosophy in the Fiction of C.S. Lewis, Christian Faith Perspectives in Leadership and Business, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-41508-2_4

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category for bridging the gap between Lewis’ fiction and his readers engaged in leadership reflection by being the point of connection. If narrative is the means of connection, imagination is the point of connection— and has a natural affinity to narrative.

Imagination in Leadership Let’s begin with a brief review of some places that imagination has been used in leadership studies. Perhaps most obviously, we think of imagination forming a cognitive link between what is and what is yet to be. It’s is like the mind’s eye. Imagination helps us to see forward. But we should not limit imagination’s direction. Imagination is both prospective and retrospective (Enlow, Popa, & Spokane 2008, p.  24). We might say that imagination is the cognitive link between both what is and what might be and between what is and what was. The imagination does not simply form mental images of the future, but of the past, as well. While the past is not accessible to our senses and will never be immediate in the moment, we may have a mental picture of its events. Imagination is not only active in the present moment, but on the present moment. Imagination helps us to discern current realities and the nature of reality itself; to evaluate mental models and to take certain perspectives (Dyck, 2012; Waddock, 2014). Imagination helps us to experience what another is experiencing in the moment and what is their point of view. This means that we are intentionally shifting our perspective to that of another. Being aware that we have a point of view shows us that imagination is not neutral. At the same time, imagination reveals to us that neither is the present moment neutral because it is formed by what was once the imagination located in the past. We might say that the present moment’s reality is a product of shared imagination and still bears these marks. Because the connection between past and future is ongoing in the present moment, the present moment is already filled with meaning to be discerned. In other words, what is now is formed by the imagination that once was and so the imagination of the now has a story of its own. As a result, imagination does not simply look back or forward, but down and around. Imagination is a kind of lens that focuses sight backward and forward, but that also serves as a mirror to itself. It helps us to parse out the underlying collective imagination on which it rests and with which it is filled. Imagination does not simply engage different directions, but it also performs different functions. In order to see the underlying imagination,

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imagination pulls things apart; imagination  analyzes. Just as a diamond may be examined from various points of view, so does imagination let us take what is real and turn it in various directions, even though we ourselves are part of the reality that is being turned. Imagination does not remove the fact of one being contextual, but it does allow one to examine from various points of view—even to consider our own point of view from another point of view. At the same time, imagination serves a synthesizing function. Imagination helps us to reconstruct the whole. Using the example of the prophets from the Old Testament, Brueggemann (2011) argued that leadership involves engaging present ideologies, or ways of seeing the world (analyzing), in order to reform a proper way of seeing the world (synthesizing). Imagination, then, is in a kind of consistent tension. First, imagination is used to project backward and forward, and to reflect on the present. It seeks to know the material from where it came, to where it is going, and its current posture. Second, imagination both analyzes and synthesizes: it pulls apart and puts back together. Third, it allows personal perspective, but also examines personal perspective and attempts to take the perspective of others. Finally, Dyck (2012) notes the tension between too little and too much imagination. “Too little imagination is to fail to see what is possible, beyond the immediate, beyond the crisis, beyond now…. Yet too much imagination can lead to paralyzing fear and worry as one imagines all the possible negative outcomes” (Dyck, 2012, p. 127).

Imagination in Lewis Lewis was no stranger to this kind of too much imagination. In The Screwtape Letters, Lewis (1982) writes fictional letters from a senior demon, Screwtape, to a junior tempter, Wormwood, on the person Wormwood is assigned to tempt. The style of the book takes a bit of reorientation because now God is framed as the enemy and the Devil is framed as the Father. The person under temptation is referred to as the patient. Within this imaginative framework, Lewis writes, We [Screwtape and Wormwood] want [our patient] to be in the maximum uncertainty, so that his mind will be filled with contradictory pictures of the future, every one of which arouses hope or fear. There is nothing like ­suspense and anxiety for barricading a human’s mind against the Enemy. He wants men to be concerned with what they do; our business is to keep them thinking about what will happen to them. (p. 28)

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The entire premise of The Screwtape Letters reveals the presence and promise of the imagination: analysis, synthesis, and perspective taking. The nature of temptation is analyzed, the seen and unseen world is synthesized as a spiritual reality, and the perspective of the demonic is taken. Wilson (2002) saw in the work the potential for Lewis’ more sinister side: [Lewis’] ability to see through human failings, his capacity to analyse other people’s annoyingness, his rich sense of comedy and satire [had limited outlet.] In The Screwtape Letters his inspired malice is given creative rein. “She’s the sort of woman who lives for others—you can always tell the others but their hunted expression.” (p. 177)

Lewis’ powerful imagination certainly made possible such an achievement, even while it allowed—even urged—a deep dive into the idiosyncrasies of characters, such as the over-engaged woman with the hunted expression, in such realistic ways. The success of Screwtape and its potential hidden malice begins to reveal the nature of imagination for Lewis. Imagination as Means of Perception and Understanding Let’s continue considering imagination in Lewis by looking at the role of “pictures” in The Pilgrim’s Regress (Lewis, 1933/2014). In this narrative, which is Lewis’ account of the spiritual journey through various worldviews considered as lands and characters, the pictures are kinds of internal images that draw one toward God in very early and deep ways. The pictures help to orient people to God and to the good life, but they are not sufficient on their own. In contrast to the pictures are the Rules, a way of governing the desires. For Lewis, the pictures and the Rules find harmony in the message and life of Mother Kirk, the personification of the church (p. 172). The pictures are mental images, but are also coupled with desires. The pictures intend to aim at something worthy of the desire they contain. The pictures are not simply mental images, but can become fuller narratives—myths that give birth to desires (Lewis, 1933/2014, p.  177). While myth is an invention of creatures, it is also an invention the Creator has allowed. The Creator says: “[Myth] is but truth, not fact: an image, not the very real” (p. 196). The pictures, we might say, are what can be projected on the imagination and the imagination is supported and formed by desire. Myth is the result of the images gathered together and a kind of searching after desire’s aim.

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We need to see imagination from both sides. Imagination receives images and bears the image of desire’s aim. Recorded in the preface to On Stories, we see Lewis’ connection between desire and imagination in a letter to Ruth Pitter dated January 4, 1947: “From Lyndsay I first learned what other planets in fiction are really good for; for spiritual adventures. Only they can satisfy the craving which sends our imaginations off the Earth” (Lewis, 1966/2017, p. XX, italics mine). The imagination is in search of images that it can receive. The pictures tell of desire and the desire for the pictures reveals a deeper desire in the imagination. Let’s try an analogy with the sense of scent. I might smell something delicious from the kitchen. I perceive a scent and even if I don’t what the food from which it emanates, I do understand that the scent means someone is cooking, that someone is serving our family, even that someone loves our family. Scent both receives the “image” of the smell and is the means of understanding its meaning at a variety of levels. Now, other animals might have a stronger sense of scent, but less understanding. They smell something tasty from further away than I ever could, but that is about the extent of it. They perceive, but do not understand. The well-­ formed imagination will both perceive and understand. This distinction between perception and understanding is like the distinction between fact and meaning. Lewis (1949/2001b) writes, I have tried to stress throughout the inevitableness of the error made about every transposition by one who approaches it from the lower medium only. The strength of such a critic lies in the words ‘merely’ or ‘nothing but.’ He sees all the facts but not the meaning. Quite truly, therefore, he claims to have seen all the facts…. He is therefore, as regards the matter in hand, in the position of an animal. You will have noticed that most dogs cannot understand pointing. You point to a bit of food on the floor; the dog, instead of looking at the food on the floor, sniffs at your finger. A finger is a finger to him, and that is all. The world is all fact and no meaning. (p. 114)

But the sense of scent is not neutral; it is in pursuit of what it understands to be good smells! So, imagination has a connection with both image and desire. Lewis also makes the connection between images and desire in the phenomenon that leads to writing: “In an Author’s mind there bubbles up every now and then the material for a story. For me it invariably begins with mental pictures” (Lewis, 1966/2017, p. 68, italics mine). The Chronicles of Narnia and the Space Trilogy “began with

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seeing pictures in [Lewis’] head” (p. 79). The mind receives the mental image, but it is also connected with an internal yearn or drive—an itch. The bubbling up, the itch, is a kind of longing/desire that must be critically assessed by the would-be Author. Lewis (1949/2001b) argues that the imagination loves to do two things: It loves to embrace its object completely, to take it in a single glance, and see it as something harmonious, symmetrical, and self-explanatory. That is the classical imagination…. It also loves to lose itself in a labyrinth, to surrender to the inextricable. That is the romantic imagination…. (p. 119)

The imagination is in constant pursuit, never quite finding its longing. When writing on science fiction, Lewis (1966/2017) describes this longing as an impulse to imagine “the probable nature of places or conditions which no human being has experienced” (p.  88). The impulse of the imagination is gripped and human beings long to explore its context even further.

The Desire of Imagination Two illustrations can help to clarify the duality of image and desire in imagination. The first I have already introduced: mythology. On the one hand, mythology is the invention of humankind, while on the other it is one allowed by the Creator. Mythology is an act of receiving images and giving them narrative form. The humanly invented mythology is an imperfect way of discerning and imposing order that is the presumed context of the images. Mythology is an imperfect way of responding to the phenomena of life and its received mysteries, yet with the presumption that there is meaning. These phenomena are received in time: the story of the created world is truly that—a story. Unfolding in time, it has characters and plot and setting which imagination receives and with which it produces a kind of narrative order. Imagination imposes order, but also receives order; it imposes story, but is also part of the story. This storied reality is hinted at through smaller stories: “The story does what no theorem can quite do. It may not be ‘like real life’ in the superficial sense: but it sets before us an image of what reality may well be like at some more central region” (Lewis, 1966/2017, p. 21). A second example of the duality of imagination is beauty. The imagination is able to receive images of beauty from the world. In Abolition of

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Man,  Lewis argues that waterfalls are truly sublime (1944/2001a). Missing this truth is the first step to the elimination of the meaning of being human. The imagination appreciates not only the physical sensation of beauty, but longs to participate in it. Imagination receives beauty and has a desiring nature for more than simply receiving the image. The sense of smell wants good smells and also to partake of that which it smells. In his sermon, The Weight of Glory, Lewis (1949/2001b) writes: We do not want merely to see beauty, though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words—to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it. (p. 42, italics in the original)

But without a proper ground of beauty—a beauty with which we rightly long to join—there is no accurate aim for one’s desire. Imagination may receive images, but has no proper aim for what they do. The putting together of images reveals the inherent desire that is imagination. Without a proper aim, there would be no difference between the pornographic and eros, no distinction between the rot and the bloom. Imagination both receives the beautiful and recognizes the desire for the Beautiful that presumes the meaning of its appreciation and desire. The world is not simply an abstraction or a proposition. Thus, imagination is not only necessary to understand the world properly, but imagination’s nature is also a clue to the very nature of reality. As biographer A.N. Wilson (2002) said of Lewis, “human life is best understood by the exercise not only of the wit, but also of the imagination” (p. 77). Let’s take an example from Ransom, the protagonist of Out of the Silent Planet (1938/1965). A philologist by training, Ransom also has the imagination of a philologist. As a result, he does not simply recognize that an alien creature is speaking to him, but that it means the possibility of understanding an entire grammar (p. 55). Lewis describes this phenomenon by saying that Ransom’s imagination had “leaped over every fear and hope” (p. 55) and that if the reader is “not…a philologist, [they] must take on trust the prodigious emotional consequences of this realization” (p. 55). Ransom’s imagination is not simply formed, but seeking a certain end and its nature, as Lewis will come to unfold, is a sign of the nature of Ransom’s reality. The imagination, then, is vital to receiving from the world and being properly oriented within it. Once so properly directed, the imagination is remarkably potent, yet without proper direction, it is turned outward

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neither to its initiating desire, the foundational beauty it desires in which to live, nor to proper reception of its world. We see this combination in Lewis’ conversion, which Wilson (2002) says was about the “whole person, the whole imagination” of Lewis (p. 218). Malformed and Misguided Imagination But what if the sense of scent is misguided? What if it is incapable of smelling certain things? Or what if it does not facilitate good understanding? Likewise, the imagination may be misformed—inaccurately perceiving (or not perceiving) and misunderstanding that which it perceives. Take Lewis’ example in Abolition of Man (1944/2001a) of the nature of the waterfall. While he mentions a grammar book that uses the waterfall as an example of subjectivity, Lewis’ imagination perceives the depth of problem that the authors he critiques (though does not name) do not. Lewis’ imagination is able to perceive the waterfall but also to understand its nature and thereby push in the direction of deeper meaning. Without proper direction, however, the imagination brings internal turmoil. Walter Hooper, in the preface to On Stories, describes the potency of imagination. Hooper describes Lewis as a “man living with a beast with only enough food for one. And the beast wants it all” (Lewis, 1966/2017, p. XVIII). If Lewis’ imagination wasn’t properly oriented, the beast would still be a driving force. When properly oriented, the imagination is a touch point between reality and Reality and so Lewis would describe this mythopoeic participation as a “mode of imagination which does something to us at a deep level” (Lewis, 1966/2017, p. 102). We might say that the sense of scent desires to partake of the food it senses, but in a way that does not share the food it smells. If a better understanding of the smells I perceive from the kitchen is a family dinner, then I shouldn’t go and eat the whole meal by myself. Improperly oriented and deployed, the imagination is a disaster waiting to happen. Rather than simply being a kind of mirror to itself as noted above in the section on leadership, seeing its own glass-like nature that is pointed backward and forward, the imagination is only a mirror, obsessed with itself. This interaction is captured by the interaction between Weston, the Un-man, and the Lady of Perelandra in Perelandra (1944/2003). Weston, a demon-controlled person bent on destroying Perelandra’s rational agents, tells the Lady certain stories. The stories are offered to shape her imagination on the nature of the self. The stories are of other

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women, which Lewis (1944/2003) describes as “apparently [living] at different periods of the world’s history” (p. 107). “What emerged from the stories was rather an image than an idea—the picture of the tall, slender form, unbowed though the world’s weight rested upon its shoulders” (p. 108, italics mine). Ransom, who is the agent sent on behalf of Maleldil, the Divine figure, begins to see the strategy. “No evil intention had been formed in her mind. But if her will was uncorrupted, half her imagination was already filled with bright, poisonous shapes” (p. 114). Notice the connection of story, history, and image. The imagination is presented images to perceive and a mythology that is forming a certain understanding of these images. Of course, the woman is not a cynic, but one eager to learn and understand. As a result, the images can already mislead her will through the imagination. Weston follows up his strategy by presenting the Lady with a mirror. Seeing her own face, the Lady is alarmed, at her own beauty. She holds herself with rapt attention. Lewis’ narration of this event creates a powerful contrast. Weston has lost all agency at this point. Lewis writes that he gives the mirror to the Lady using “horrible fingers which Weston would never use again;” in contrast, the woman, whose will is still being fought over, “turns [the mirror] over in her hands” (p. 116). The cheap mirror is used by Weston to present at a significant cost an image to a free agent: the introduction of fear costs a pretty penny. Lewis uses the concept of fear to deepen the nature of the imagination turned in on itself in the following dialogue: “It comes into my mind, Stranger,” [the Lady] answered, “that a fruit does not eat itself, and a man cannot be together with himself.” “A fruit cannot do that because it is only a fruit,” said the Un-man. “But we can do it. We call this thing a mirror. A man can love himself, and be together with himself. That is what it means to be a man or a woman—to walk alongside oneself as if one were a second person and to delight in one’s own beauty. Mirrors were made to teach this art.” (p. 117)

The phenomenon of eating and Lewis’ use of beauty mentioned above reflects the sense of participating only in one’s own imagination or using the imagination to be engulfed in oneself. The person is the subject of her own longing, the only image the imagination would long for and need to receive. Just as the beast threatened to eat the food of the man with whom it was living, or how I am tempted to consume the whole meal meant for our family, so the imagination consumes itself, obsesses on itself when imagination is only a mirror and not engaging in perceiving images for their true purpose. For Lewis, the field of contention for the Perelandran

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Lady is the imagination, receiving and forming images from the narratives it has been receiving: “He was making her mind a theatre in which that phantom self should hold the stage. He had already written the play” (Lewis, 1944/2003, p. 118). Imaginations Meeting in Reality With proper calibration, however, imagination serves as the point of connection between the perceived world in which the person lives and the actual storied world of the Creator’s that may be understood. Let’s go a bit deeper. For Lewis, there must be a connection between the imagination and the real for there to be meaning in the imagination (Lewis, 2013, p. 40). Thus, we can say that imagination is the organ of perceiving and also of meaning or understanding (Ward, 2015). But this is not the only connection when there is communication between persons. For Lewis, there must be a shared image between the imaginations that has a shared meaning in reality. Lewis (2013) writes: But images are not enough: for the way in which they affect us depends, not on their content as images, but on what they are taken to be. Mention a tower, or a king, or a dog, in a poem or tale, and they come to us not in the nakedness of pictured form and colour, but with all the associations of towerhood, kinghood, and doghood. (p. 44)

These associations are narratively formed (p. 46), so there must be a wider context to any given image in one’s imagination. Just as every actual blade of grass has its own actual context for receiving light, nutrients, and environment conducive to its existence in this world, so would every blade of imaginative grass require such a context in any given imaginative world to the extent the blade of grass is necessary to exist. Now, not every blade of grass implied in a story needs a wider contact, but to the extent that shared meaning of any item is possible, a fuller context is theoretically necessary. For example, if a field of grass is found in the countryside, there are many blades of grass that make up the field, but the field has context enough in the countryside. If a field of grass is found as the only patch of green in the gray steel and cement of a city, one might (rightly) wonder how it got there. Without filling in the context, the grass has no meaning in the imagination. Taylor (2008) makes a similar point through Aristotle’s understanding of characters. For Aristotle, poetry has a “capacity to evoke imaginary people doing imaginary things” (p. 267) but for this to happen,

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the actions of characters must be believable (p. 271). For Aristotle (n.d.), characters must be appropriate to reality and consistent throughout the story. We might say that they fit their context and maintain a context. Now, only one Author, God, is able to maintain the context of every particularity in reality, but to the extent that the blade of grass is meaningfully presented to the imagination of another, a context must be available—and credible and consistent. This is how the image is shared between imaginations, otherwise there would be no meaning that could be shared between reader and author. For imagination to connect with another imagination, there must be some agreed-upon meaning of the image  presented. We often take this imaginative overlap between author/reader or speaker/listener for granted. Northrop Frye wrote, “We are shown that kings would have no motivation to act like kings if poets did not provide the imaginative conception of kingship” (Frye, as quoted by Frank, 2013, p. 187). There is broad familiarity of images that allow for shared imaginations. But even if specific content is not shared, at the very least, the shared imagination is made possible by the nature and content of the reality in which the two are found. As a result, what is occurring in the imagination has some connection with reality distinct from both imaginations. Once again, this reveals the very nature of reality itself. Lewis (1949/2001b) writes, “We can make our language duller; we cannot make it less metaphorical. We can make the pictures more prosaic; we cannot be less pictorial” (p. 133). The overarching reality in which imaginations participate is presumed when one imagination attempts to communicate with another imagination. Reorienting the Imagination by Another Imagination By sharing points with the well-oriented imagination, the receiving imagination may be properly oriented. For example, in Pilgrim’s Regress Lewis (1933/2014) presents, considers, and accepts or rejects various imaginations. The narrative itself is to analyze worldviews through the imaginary world and to synthesize the real world. It is clear that Lewis aims for the reader to go on the journey with Pilgrim to have their own imagination formed. It is a way of properly orienting the imagination in a creative and clever way. Before one reads the book and even while the reader is becoming accustomed to it, the reader may not quite know what is going on in the narrative. In this example, we see there is great freedom in connecting imaginations. Lewis writes “the character of imagining is…free—at least within very wide bounds” (1966/2017, p. 47). The story, for it to work,

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must have an element of unfamiliarity and connection to the reader’s imagination, and also a connection with reality. As the imagination of the reader is properly formed, it is better suited to the real world. But such a transformation may be disorienting. First, it can be disorienting to find out that one is already located within the influence of another’s imagination. Pilgrim, upon encountering one such imagination in personified form as the master of a certain land, tells this master’s police captain he is willing to seek another way around the land to avoid trespassing. The response is bitingly clear: “‘You fool,’ said the captain, ‘you are in his country now. This pass is the way out of it, not the way into it. He welcomes strangers. His quarrel is with runaways’” (Lewis, 1933/2014, p. 52, italics in original). It’s like when my son gets within an inch of my face at 2:00 am to ask me, “Are you awake?”—I’m more aware that I was sleeping than just a moment before, but there’s still quite a jolt. My orientation in my dream was stronger than my orientation in reality, but nonetheless I’m now awake. Reorienting the Imagination: Eustace as an Example Lewis describes this imagination reorientation in Eustace’s first journey into Narnia. Walter Hooper notes how Lewis claims that he didn’t start the Narnian stories with a moral or message, “but that these things pushed their own way in during the process of writing” (Lewis, 1966/2017, pp. XVIII–XIX). Just as the itch to write bubbled up in the author, so do aspects of the imagination push onto the page. Lewis reverses this phenomenon as Eustace is pulled into the picture of a Narnian ship. Eustace does not have a properly formed imagination because he only likes “books of information” (Lewis, 1952/1994, p. 3). As Lewis (1966/2017) would write elsewhere, No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally (and often far more) worth reading at the age of fifty—except, of course, books of information. The only imaginative works we ought to grow out of are those which is would have been better not to have read at all. (p. 20)

No wonder the Narnian picture is hung in the backroom out of a sense of obligation (Lewis, 1952/1994, p.  6). The picture, by contrast, is the “only picture in the house that [Lucy and Edmund] liked” (p. 6). Lucy

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and Edmund, Eustace’s cousins, have been to Narnia and, as a result, have properly formed imaginations. The ensuing conversation between Lucy and Edmund about the picture describes the tension of the imagination: “‘The question is,’ said Edmund, ‘whether it doesn’t make things worse, looking at a Narnian ship when you can’t get there” (p. 7). In this phrase, the reader is being invited into imagining the feeling of the picture—the longing it raises in the viewer since the reader has already been invited into the picture through Lewis’ vivid description of ship with colors and kind of action of the painting. Edmund’s imagination, properly perceiving the ship, experiences desire—longing for Narnia. “‘Even looking is better than nothing,’ said Lucy. ‘And she is such a very Narnian ship’” (p. 7). Lucy understands the picture and appreciates the longing that is already a kind of thirst that is simultaneously a quenching. Eustace reveals his false maturity by producing a limerick that uses assonance; he loves to correct Lucy and only wants to talk “art” about the picture (p. 8). But Lucy answers why she likes the painting: “I like it because the ship looks as if it was really moving. And the water looks as if it was really wet. And the waves look as if they were really going up and down” (p. 8). But Eustace doesn’t answer. “The look of the waves in the picture made him feel sick again” (p. 8). Eustace is being disoriented physically much like his imagination will be disoriented in the land that is drawing him in through “The Picture in the Bedroom” (p.  3), which Lewis has aptly named the chapter. Eustace is caught—unable to disembark the disorienting ship that will reveal and reorient several imaginations of its crew members.

Leading with the Imagination I realize that the previous section has been an exercise in imagination. I have been trying to make touchpoint with your imagination by talking about the imagination. Lewis has provided, I trust, examples that make such connections clear and even inspire potential points of action. For Lewis (1966/2017), such engagement of the imagination is very practical, even when engaged in the fairy tale: It might be expected that such a book would unfit us for the harshness of reality and send us back to our daily lives unsettled and discontented. I do not find that it does so. The happiness which it presents to us is in fact full of the simplest and most attainable things—food, sleep, exercise, friendship, the fact of nature, even (in a sense) religion. That ‘simple but sustaining

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meal’ of ‘bacon and broad beans and a macaroni pudding’ which Rat gave to his friends has, I doubt not, helped down many a real nursery dinner. … This excursion into the preposterous sends us back with renewed pleasure to the actual. (p. 19)

The narrative form is the natural means of attempting such imagination transformation. Lewis (1949/2001b) writes, “Spells are used for breaking enchantments as well as for inducing them. And you and I have need of the strongest spell that can be found to wake us from the evil enchantment of worldliness which has been laid upon us for nearly a hundred years” (p. 31). With this in mind, let’s finish this chapter by teasing out some further possible ways by which imagination is helpful in leadership. We start by affirming a warning that was seen earlier. There was an irony of leadership in Weston’s leadership of the Perelandran Lady: certainly there was influence but it was an influence that intended to lead to isolation and nihilism. This touchpoint between imaginations was intended to close the imagination down, to collapse it into itself, like a fruit eating itself. Instead, the connection of imagination should expand the imagination outward with a proper orientation to receive images and properly orient the person toward the desire which imagination seeks. How might this happen? Leading as Reorienting the Imagination Leaders may attend to the different impacts of imagination reorientation. Just as I am shocked awake or Eustace is made sick, so might others followers have different sensations in imagination reorientation. Further, there is not always shared meaning of images. There may not be a point of contact between the leader’s imagination and the follower’s imagination at the point where such a connection is needed. The simplest example of connecting imaginations is between individual leader and individual follower, but we might also develop more complex scenarios. There might not be a shared point of contact between the imagination of an organization and the social imaginary of its market or wider society. As a result, the leader (or organization) may work at forming the imagination of the follower or providing narrative contexts for the follower to have greater understanding of images. Alternatively, the leader may wish to get to know the follower in deeper ways so as to know what images might provide purchase on their imagination. The leader may also refine their own imagination to be

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strengthened at perspective taking or to analyze the imaginative worldview of the follower or to better synthesize the picture of the preferred future that is in their imagination. Gentle Provocation of Imagination What would it be like to run out of oxygen slowly? I hope you never know the experience personally. But knowing the experience in the imagination might open up other insights. Lewis (1966/2017) writes, “The airless outer darkness is important not for what it can do to [a character] but for what it does to us” (p.  12). By imagining the experience, humility and empathy might develop. Lewis writes, You must, so far as in you lies, become an Achaean chief while reading Homer, a medieval knight while reading Malory, and an Eighteenth Century Londoner while reading Johnson. Only thus will you be able to judge the work ‘in the same spirit that its author writ.’ (Lewis, 1942/2005, p. 61)

Lewis (1966/2017) also uses the example of fear. “Different kinds of danger strike different chords from the imagination…. [I]n imagination, where the fear does not rise to abject terror and is not discharged in action, the qualitative difference is much stronger” (p. 8). Gently engaging the imagination for fear can help to orient the reader to certain realities. Genuine Self-awareness What would your own desires look like if played out? Of course, we cannot play out our own sinister desires in real life, but can we chasten these desires with appropriate self-awareness? To make a character worse than oneself it is only necessary to release imaginatively from control some of the bad passions which, in real life, are always straining at the leash: the Satan, the Iago, the Becky Sharp, within each of us, is always there and only too ready, the moment the leash is slipped, to come out and have in our books that holiday we try to deny them in our lives. (Lewis, 1942/2005, p. 96)

In a Christian worldview, the self is already understood as bent and depraved—enacting a fallen nature that has succumbed to Weston’s

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temptation to be turned in on the self. But as one becomes aware of this internal curve, one is starting to use imagination properly. Repentance from such misformed imagination is part of the conversion of seeing the world properly by seeing oneself properly. Willard (2014) accurately argues that leaders under Lewis’ guidance may become more themselves. This is not an uncritical self-pursuit, but a critical pursuit built upon true awareness of one’s internal life through imagination. Lewis (1951/1962) narrates this humble posture in Prince Caspian. As Caspian is about to begin his reign and rule in Narnia, Aslan explains to him that his distant ancestors were part of a group of pirates who acted as pirates—stealing, killing, and pillaging—who eventually stumbled into Narnia, which was then marked by some disorder, and conquered it. Naturally, Caspian was wishing for more honorable lineage, but Aslan corrects him: “You come of the Lord Adam and the Lady Eve,” said Aslan. “And that is both honour enough to erect the head of the poorest beggar, and shame enough to bow the shoulders of the greatest emperor on earth. Be content.” Caspian bowed. (p. 185)

Caspian is content and properly acknowledges his heritage with honor and humility by bowing before Aslan. Imagination allows proper vision to accept one’s self and responsibility humbly. Attention to Subtle Contexts Imagination helps the leader to attend to subtle contexts. Just as the sense of scent may be better in some than in others, so might imagination better attune some to subtle contexts. As we saw in the connection of different imaginations, the images or story offered by the leader must connect both with the storied context of the speaker, or else there is no credibility, and with the storied context of the listener, or else there is no purchase for influence. What subtle points of the imagination in the followers might be attended to? What little detail might be lurking in their conversation that holds a key to the wider way to see the world? Like Neo, we are advised to watch for glitches in the Matrix!

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Preparation for Ongoing Imagination Work What the leader might think has immediate purchase might not make deep sense in the imagination of another. As a result, the leader might need to introduce the picture or image—even over a period of time. Lewis (2013) writes, “Our imagination uses our images for poetical purposes, much as a child uses material objects for its games” (p. 45). If you give a child a toy that they do not yet know how to use properly, they have the possibility of making progress with it as you play with them. My children are still learning the piano, but I need to engage their imaginations with games and actions that will keep them oriented to know it in more significant ways. This is why imaginative play is so important. Lewis (1952/1997) gives the example of children and play. Very often the only way to get a quality in reality is to start behaving as if you had it already. That is why children’s games are so important. They are always pretending to be grown-ups—playing soldiers, playing shop. But all the time, they are hardening their muscles and sharpening their wits so that the pretence of being grown-up helps them grow up in earnest. (p. 156)

Engaging the imagination is always a kind of preparation. The better the imagination, the better prepared it is to receive images. While the leader’s imagination may not connect with the follower in the moment, they can help sharpen the imagination so that the follower is attuned to other imaginations. Think of it like this. I am currently reading Harry Potter to my two older children at bedtime. (They have been inundated with C.S.  Lewis before now!) Some nights, I am ready to read and  my imagination is going into the story to produce inflection, questions, emotions, and other things that just aren’t on the page. J.K.  Rowling has touched my imagination! But some nights, I am tired. I just want to get through the reading. My kids know the difference. The nights that I am engaged, they are more attuned to the story; they see things I haven’t seen. Their imaginations are being prepared for their own worlds. Leaders might think of it like this: communicating a vision is not just about this vision, but helping followers see all aspects of their world in color. Leaders can spark their own imaginations! What picks up your imagination? What images does it naturally sense? Reading a story/viewing a story for the first time has the benefit of curiosity. The consumer is engaged by

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asking what will happen next. Curiosity is driving imagination. But once this initial curiosity wears off, a deeper curiosity can develop. How has the story been set up? From where did it come? What clues are hidden within it? The imagination, like a dog’s scent at its initial whiff of food, has been piqued and is even more tuned in. Lewis (1966/2017) argues that this initial curiosity needs to wear off. We move from being surprised at the story’s events, to an appreciation of the surprisingness of the story (p. 24). Such a posture of surprise is an imagination cued to the world. Selecting the Right Form and Context Which is the best way to communicate the vision that imagination has been used to produce? One way to consider the question is by asking which medium allows the imagination appropriate exercise with the narrative vision. For example, Lewis argues that some stories should be kept in print: “But it would have been better not to have chosen in the first place a story which could be adapted to the screen only by being ruined” (Lewis, 1966/2017, p. 5). The screen inhibits imagination by removing part of the freedom that the printed word allowed. My college philosophy professor taught me this principle. Lord of the Rings had just come out in theater and we were discussing it as a class. The class reflected how the imagination that had been engaged by reading the text had been so faithfully communicated on the screen. “The little movie in my head looked a lot like the movie on the screen,” my professor offered affirmatively. I agreed with him—and still do. But here is the lesson: the story on the screen will forever impact those who do not first read the book. While something is gained, something else is lost that cannot be recovered when the movie is viewed and the book is not read or read after watching the movie. Even though I read the book before seeing the movies, I can no longer provide a unique image of the orc I once only received from the pen of J.R.R.  Tolkien. Further, the opportunity for unique imagination will be lost for those who view the movies before reading the books. Lewis (1966/2017) warns of such losses if cinema replaces written fiction. “The elements which it excludes are precisely those which give the untrained mind its only access to the imaginative world. There is death in the camera” (p. 22). Two questions emerge: first, which manner of communication best captures the images meant to be presented? Are they best described in print, voice, or video? Is mass communication faithful to the message? Does it need to be personalized? Which form and context enables better

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imagination exercise without achieving communication breakdown between imaginations? Are you working with people who need their imaginations exercised and awakened? How can they participate in forming the vision? Which form best communicates with the reader and sets them up for better imagination in the future? What can you do that will help people engage imagination “for himself” (Lewis, 1966/2017, p. 23)? Imagination Changes Personal Perspective Imagination gives leaders a new perspective. What is the imagination we’ve inherited? As Lewis asked in Pilgrim’s Regress, whose land are we in? Hodgkinson (1983) described the leadership philosophy he observed around him: “If anything approaching a homogeneous or monolithic order remains it is likely to be in the nature of narcissistic or hedonistic materialism…but more likely yet in the form, or lack of form, of heterogeneous pluralism” (p.  15, italics mine). Whether or not Hodgkinson is right, one cannot formulate that concept without distance and imagination. It takes perspective, analysis, and synthesis: imagination! But such imaginative work is not only difficult, but often discouraged. Where are you in heated work and under leadership pressure? Consider Lewis’ (1966/2017) example, offered earlier, but now in new light: If we were all on board ship and there was trouble among the stewards, I can just conceive their chief spokesman looking with disfavor on anyone who stole away from the fierce debates in the saloon or pantry to take a breather on deck. For up there, he would remember that the ship had a whither and a whence. He would remember things like fog, storms, and ice. What had seemed, in the hot, lighted rooms down below to be merely the scene for a political crisis, would appear once more as a tiny eggshell moving rapidly through an immense darkness over an element in which man cannot live. It would not necessarily change his convictions about the rights and wrongs of the dispute down below, but it would probably show them in a new light. (p. 93)

But leaders must perform such work of imagination. Taking a break from the garden as a child to sip a cola, enjoy a breeze, and chat with my Dad did not keep us from putting our hands back to the garden. It renewed our energy for the next time of work. I began to see work as opportunity rather than drudgery. Likewise, the attitude that takes a breath to be reminded

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that there is more to life than the present moment does not remove us from responsibility; it may make us better equipped for the next earthly task before us. Lewis continues: “Stories of the sort I am describing are like that visit to the deck. They cool us” (p. 93).

Which Imagination? Leaders in the Making Want to grow in your leadership? Go for a ride in a spaceship. That was Lewis’ (1938/1965) story for Ransom. At the start of Out of the Silent Planet, Ransom “wasted no time on the landscape” (p. 7). But his time on a spaceship would change all of that. Lewis (1966/2017) advised that “those who brood much on the remote past or future, or stare long at the night sky, are less likely than others to be ardent or orthodox partisans” (p.  66). Perhaps this is because one is oriented to reality in a new way. Before his space travel, Ransom “always thought space was so dark and cold” (p. 29), but he soon develops a new perspective: the glory of the heavens pouring into his body, influencing him with its majesty (p. 31). He once thought space was barren: “he saw now that it was the womb of worlds, whose blazing and innumerable offspring looked down nightly even upon the earth…. Space was the wrong name. Older thinkers had been wiser when they named it simply the heavens” (p.  32). Ransom’s imagination is changing and his nature is changing. Lewis (1938/1965) makes Ransom’s imagination a focal point as he encounters creatures on Malacandra, as well. He initially, erroneously imagines that such aliens will have “bulbous eyes, grinning jaws, horns, stings, mandibles” (p. 35), not remembering that his mind is being twisted at the word of two untrustworthy men of poor philosophy—Devine and Weston. His initial imagination of the sorns (creatures of the planet Mars/ Malacandra in the story) as “[g]iants—ogres—ghosts—skeletons,” will later be changed to the better description of “Titans or Angels” (p. 101). The imagination transformation begins to take root in Ransom almost immediately: Before anything else he learned that Malacandra was beautiful; and he even reflected how odd it was that this possibility had never entered into his speculations about it. The same peculiar twist of imagination which led him to people the universe with monsters had somehow taught him to expect nothing on a strange planet except rocky desolation or else a network of nightmare machines. (p. 42, italics mine)

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To change his perspective, Ransom needed to change his imagination. If he thinks of the first rational creatures he encounters on Malacandra, the hrossa, in terms of human beings, they were “abominable,” but picturing them as animals, they become impressive. “Nothing could be more disgusting than the one impression; nothing more delightful than the other. It all depended on the point of view” (p.  58). Ransom’s transformed imagination has given him new perspective of space and species. At the same time, however, some aspects of imagination are tough to weed out. Ransom consistently thinks of the relationship between the three rational species (called hnau) on Malacandra, the seroni, hrossa, and pfifltriggi, in terms on enmity or rule. He wants to know “which was the real master” (p. 69). But he eventually comes to see his own malformation. It was not the hrossa of Malacandra who were the mystery, but his own species was the puzzle. The result is fascinating: “What was the history of Man?” (p. 74). Ransom’s imagination, awakened by the heavens and transformed on a new planet, longs to look backward for understanding. His transformed imagination is awakening to a brand-new set of possibilities. But this isn’t the only vision of leadership. As mentioned above, Weston will become another would-be leader of another planet in Perelandra. While Ransom’s imagination has been transformed, Weston’s has not. Upon his first visit to Malacandra, Weston was sent for as a kind of honor as a guest of the planet by its Oyara, or angelic ruler. However, the “darkness in [Weston’s] mind filled [him] with fear” (Lewis, 1938/1965, p. 134). It seems his mind is filled with “fear, death, and desire” (p. 134). Weston will go on to describe his vision for humankind, saving the race by expanding its livable boundaries, even if he should die. The final irony of the book leaps out. Weston had mocked Ransom for learning “trash” education, but now he depends on Ransom’s translation skills to make his speech known to other intelligent creatures. Weston’s own powerful vision for humankind and his own philosophy of life that Ransom had regarded as lunacy is reduced to simplistic babble because Weston does not have the imagination to grasp the powerful being to whom he is speaking. By contrasting these two characters, Lewis is attempting an imaginative touchpoint to lead through literature. In a letter to Sister Penelope from August 9, 1939, Lewis writes, What set me about writing the book was the discovery that a pupil of mine took all that dream of interplanetary colonisation quite seriously, and the realisation that thousands of people in one form or another depend on some

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hope of perpetuating and improving the human species for the whole meaning of the universe. (As quoted by Hooper in Lewis, 1966/2017, p. XXII)

The vision of the human leader is up for grabs and Lewis wants to influence in a certain way. The result will become clear in Perelandra as the purpose to which Ransom and Weston give themselves takes root in a new world. The end of both imaginations is at hand and will be addressed in the next chapter.

Conclusion This chapter has attempted to show the role that imagination, conceived and illustrated by Lewis, may play in reflecting on leadership. By making connections between imaginations, leaders may reorient another’s imagination and help others to exercise imagination. What new actions are possible for you through the imagination? What imaginative action do you excel at—synthesis, analysis, or perspective taking? Which can you grow in? Let a story come to mind that will put your imagination to work.

References Booker, C. (2004). The seven basic plots: Why we tell stories. London: Bloomsbury. Brueggemann, W. (2011). Prophetic leadership: Engagement in counter-­ imagination. Journal of Religious Leadership, 10(1), 1–23. Dyck, S. (2012). Leadership: A calling of courage and imagination. Journal of Religious Leadership, 11(1), 113–138. Enlow, B. K., Popa, A. B., & Spokane, W. A. (2008). Developing moral imagination in leadership students. Journal of Leadership Education, 7(2), 24–31. Frank, A.  W. (2013). The wounded storyteller: Body, illness, and ethics. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hodgkinson, C. (1983). The philosophy of leadership. New  York, NY: St. Martin’s Press. Lewis, C.  S. (1962). Prince Caspian. Harmondsworth, UK: Puffin Books. (Original work published in 1951). Lewis, C. S. (1965). Out of the silent planet. New York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1938). Lewis, C. S. (1982). The Screwtape letters. New York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1942). Lewis, C. S. (1994). The voyage of the Dawn Treader. New York: Harper Collins. (Original work published 1952).

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Lewis, C.  S. (1997). Mere christianity. London: Fount. (Original work published in 1952). Lewis, C. S. (2001a). Abolition of man. New York: HarperOne. (Original work published 1944). Lewis, C. S. (2001b). The weight of glory and other addresses. New York: HarperOne. (Original work published in 1949). Lewis, C.  S. (2003). Perelandra. New  York: Scribner. (Original worked published in 1944). Lewis, C. S. (2005). A preface to paradise lost. New Delhi, India: Atlantic Publishers & Distributors. (Original work published 1942). Lewis, C. S. (2013). Image and imagination: Essays and reviews. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Lewis, C. S. (2014). The Pilgrim’s regress. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. (Original work published in 1933). Lewis, C. S. (2017). On stories and other essays on literature. New York: HarperOne. (Original work published in 1966). Taylor, P. A. (2008). Sympathy and insight in Aristotle’s ‘poetics’. The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 66(3), 265–280. https://doi.org/10.1111/ j.1540-6245.2008.00308.x Waddock, S. (2014). Wisdom and responsible leadership: Aesthetic sensibility, moral imagination, and systems thinking. In D.  Koehn & D.  Elm (Eds.), Aesthetics and Business Ethics, issues in business ethics 41 (pp.  129–147). Dordrecht, Netherlands: Springer. Ward, M. (2015). Imagination and Reason, Parts 1 and 2. Online lecture. Hillsdale College. https://online.hillsdale.edu/landing/an-introduction-to-c-s-lewis Willard, T. (2014). C.S.  Lewis and the imaginative leader. Retrieved from https://www.faithandleadership.com/timothy-willard-cs-lewis-andimaginative-leader Wilson, A. N. (2002). C.S. Lewis: A biography. W.W. Norton & Company. New York.

CHAPTER 5

Let the Prince Win His Spurs: Agency Theory and Agency

Forks, Knives, Spoons, and Lollipops I felt the gentle buzz in my pocket on a sunny Spring afternoon and checked what I assumed was a text message. Instead, I saw an incoming phone call from a person in the church I served as pastor. I hadn’t preached that morning, so it wasn’t a compliment (or otherwise) about my sermon. Knowing the caller as I did (and do), I wasn’t leery about taking the call. But perhaps I should have been a bit more cautious. While neither of us used the phrase, what followed was a lengthy conversation about a philosophy of leadership. The specific issue was why we were incentivizing Scripture memorization in our children’s ministry: “We should learn the Bible whether or not there’s a prize. I don’t want my kids to think they need a prize to learn the Bible. I don’t want them to always want a prize for doing something they should already be doing.” I didn’t disagree with him. His concern was right on: actions and expectations form persons—even little ones. At the same time, the strategy of our children’s ministry was reasonable: incentives toward good behavior nudge people in a certain direction. I have used the strategy myself. When my child wonders out loud, “Is there a prize?” after I ask her or him to put away the dishes, sometimes I oblige. Sometimes I don’t. My wife doesn’t always oblige at the same time or in the same way. While we both want our children to become productive members of our family at some

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point in the not-too-distant future just for the love of our family, we don’t always go about it the same way. Embedded in these and similar conversations, whether with the concerned parent in the church or the equally concerned parent in my home, is a philosophy of leadership. C.S.  Lewis (1949/2001b) addressed the above concern by distinguishing kinds of rewards. There are rewards without connection to the action. What was the connection between memorizing Scripture and earning small prizes? No natural connection, really. My friend had a concern, because, taken to its extreme, seeking rewards that have no natural connection to the actions taken leads to people fighting wars for money, marrying for fame, and putting away dishes for lollipops. On the other hand, there are proper rewards, which “are not simply tacked on to the activity for which they are given, but are the activity itself in consummation” (p.  27). Victory is the natural reward of righteous fighting; marriage is the natural reward of a kind of love; and kitchenly order is the reward for putting away dishes. Finally, what Lewis calls a third kind of reward might be seen as a blending of the two. There are some natural rewards which we believe people will come to appreciate only by being kinds of mercenaries. When I incentivize my children to play the piano, I really do trust they will come to play the piano simply for the sake of enjoying music. Not only will they enjoy playing more and more difficult music, but the swell of sound that leads to appropriate pride in their work will lead to greater ability to enjoy larger projects and the enjoyment of life well lived. I believe they will come to enjoy all that a disciplined life will afford them. (And when they learn that lesson, I’m sure they will cut me a check, with interest, to repay my wife and me for the financial sacrifice that is their lessons.) I trust you are beginning to see the complication that pastors and parents face, but also that you have faced or are facing in your own leadership context: complex scenarios of leader and follower character development, motivation, and delegation are never too far off. This chapter gathers these issues together under the subject of agency theory. Wisdom is needed—a philosophy of leadership is at work and needs to be developed.

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Lawyers, Doctors, and Principals: What Is Agency Theory? Have you ever been hired to do a job on behalf of someone else? Have you ever retained a lawyer? Have you sought the second opinion of a medical doctor? Invested in a mutual fund? These are all contexts that agency theory seeks to understand. While each context has its own expectations and rules, they all illustrate a time when an agent (e.g., the lawyer) makes decisions or takes action on behalf of a principal (e.g., the client). This relationship is the heart of agency theory (Jordan, 2020). The agent-principal relationship may arise for a variety of reasons, including: • Complex work: the work requires managed teams (e.g., production) (Shapiro, 2005) • Expert work: the work requires special knowledge or skills (e.g., legal or medical) (Shapiro, 2005); • Distant work: the work requires physical presence across space (Shapiro, 2005); • Opportunity to expand power, action, or efficiency (i.e., politicians acting through bureaucracies) (Lupia, 2001) Agent-principal relationships can arise either because of limitation or because of opportunity. For example, I don’t know how to write or file a legal motion, so if one ever needed to be written on my behalf, I would hire a lawyer. Neither do I know how to repair severed arteries or tendons, so when I needed that procedure for an injured finger, I paid a surgeon to do the work. (Well, my insurance provider did.) These are examples of limitations. On the other hand, while I know how to proofread, edit, research, and format a paper, I expect that a book will be written better and faster if I recruit some help in these areas. I needed a surgeon because of my limited skill and knowledge; I use support in publishing because of greater opportunity. Agency theory points out the asymmetries inherent in these relationships. There might be asymmetries in terms of knowledge, information, skills, or abilities (Shapiro, 2005). There might also be asymmetries of free time or access to resources. Because of these asymmetries, the agent uses whatever resources are at their disposal (such as time, knowledge, information) on behalf of the principal. In some cases, the principal may not be truly aware of asymmetries. When my finger was surgically repaired, I tried

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to research what was going to be done. I couldn’t sit through more than three seconds of the procedure on YouTube. At other times, the principal might have knowledge of the agent’s work, but the agent could misdirect or withhold information. These are called hidden characteristics, which arise when “only the agents know the true state of their knowledge, abilities, and skills” (Linder & Foss, 2015, p. 345). So, the principal may be aware of what they don’t know or they may be unaware of what they don’t know. In other cases, the agent may not be aware of asymmetries. If I secure a six-figure grant for research and writing, I might choose to withhold that information from a team of researchers, rewarding them only with a pizza lunch. At the same time, they may know I have secured a grant and expect more than pizza, but might not know all that goes into grant-writing. With such asymmetries, many injustices can arise. A few examples might help. When an employee wastes the resources of the employer without actually doing the work for which they were hired, or when they advance the employer’s goals in a limited sense by focusing their efforts mainly on an area of their own interests without attending to the more complex nature of the work, there is waste. Another example is when, in an effort to secure work, an agent might lie on her resumé or exaggerate his skills without the principal knowing before offering employment (Shapiro, 2005). There are many ways to minimize these injustices. Principals rely on recommendations and references; some professions require certification or licensing; individuals might earn advanced accredited academic degrees. Principals may also structure employee remuneration based on outcomes (i.e., commission) rather than behavior (i.e., hourly wage) to keep employees accountable for effective work. Even with protocols in place, agency theory illuminates that there remains risk both to the principal and to the agent (Eisenhardt, 1989). Agents and principals are both impacted by the choices and behavior of the other (Jordan, 2020). A lousy agent might harm the principal’s reputation; a lousy principal might hinder the agent’s work. But the relationship between principal and agent may also be mutually beneficial. Principals may so structure work that agents do not simply perform tasks or achieve outcomes, but grow into better agents, with new skills, knowledge, and even stronger character. Agents might go above and beyond the principals’ requests. While agents are supposed to advance the principals’ goals (Pouryousefi & Frooman, 2017), principals can also help agents become the best they can be (Wright, Mukherji, & Kroll, 2001).

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Mutual risk means that principals and agents can also reverse roles. Think of the employer (principal) who maximizes employee (agent) freedom or discretion in their work. In this case, the employer is still acting as a principal, hoping for employees to advance the principal’s goals, but the principal is also acting as an agent, using resources so that employees may advance their goals in professional development, networking, and so on. The employer’s goals are certainly not advanced with bad publicity by being put on blast by their workers or their workers’ social networks, so the worker might use their connections to validate the principal’s work and reputation. Do you see the potential tensions? Should principals regulate agent activity or encourage agent discretion? Whereas the past emphasized limiting agent discretion and increasing regulation, more recent approaches emphasize agent discretion (Shapiro, 2016, p.  406). Should employees seek to become linchpins—indispensable to their teams and organizations (Godin, 2010) or should employers design and strictly regulate and systematize roles (Gerber, 2004)? What about when agents can be mechanized and people are no longer needed? What about when agents are about the principal’s goals but for their own purposes? At times there might be ethical dilemmas when goals or morals are not shared between principal and agent (Wright et al., 2001). At other times, however, ultimate goals of one might not matter to the other. The surgeon who repaired my finger may have been bent on being known as the greatest surgeon in his state without much regard for  anything but my finger, but if he could help me to play golf again, I didn’t care too much about his underlying motives. But perhaps I should have been concerned. Perhaps I will end up with children who cling to lollipops while forks, knives, and spoons sit cluttered on the counter and dishes soak in the sink. With this brief description and  these possible tensions in mind, let’s see if Lewis might be able to provide any help.

C.S. Lewis and Agency Theory Agency theory not only broaches several fields that have implications for leadership, including economics, education, and politics, but the subject of agency is an even broader conversation. To ask about agency is to ask about personhood, especially action and responsibility. One might not expect an article in the Journal of Applied Corporate Finance to be titled

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“The Nature of Man,” but when considering human actors as agents, human nature is a relevant question. What is a person? Such questions as human intelligence, generosity, frailties, and strengths go into the question of agency (Jensen & Meckling, 1994)—even in the economic world— and they all inform action and responsibility. So, broadening our work on agency theory to include the subject of being an agent is necessary and faithful to agency theory concerns. Human beings are persons capable of significant, meaningful action for which they are accountable. Philosopher Diogenes Allen (2004) writes, “Attempts to reduce human agency to a deterministic connection of events we observe, say to stimulus and response patterns, or to neurological connections in the body and brain, always presuppose the very agency they are supposedly describing in non-agency terms” (p. 172, italics in the original). Lewis agrees and encourages human beings to pay attention to their actions. Lewis (1942/1982) describes this in terms of temptation using spiritual irony in The Screwtape Letters: “There is nothing like suspense and anxiety for barricading a human’s mind against the Enemy. He wants men to be concerned with what they do; our business is to keep them thinking about what will happen to them” (p.  28). Lewis is concerned with appropriate formation of persons who take action seriously. Given Lewis’ appreciation for the complexity and importance of human being and human action as agents, there is initial evidence that he may help us develop wisdom for leadership in the face of agency theory. So, what might such wisdom look like? Agency Theory and the Context for Developing Agents People are not perfect. The claim hardly needs to be defended. From the context of agency theory, Jensen (1994) writes that “there is compelling evidence—in family life and social organizations as well as the worlds of business and politics—that people are not perfect agents” (p.  43). But what leads to this imperfection? What is its context? Lewis (1940/2001a) offers one possible thesis—that there is a malevolent being at work in the world. Yet he recognizes that this thesis might not be appealing to everyone who would agree with an assessment like Jensen’s and so allows the term “life force” (p. 139), as well. The context of the world includes a malevolent agent and, as a result, the wider context in which agents are developed. In this thesis, Lewis helps us to bring together the theory of agency with the concerns of agency as responsibility and meaningful

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action. While agency theory includes considerations of the human person, agency theory is more specifically focused on the phenomenon of agents making decisions or taking action on behalf of the principal. Yet within the Cosmic trilogy and The Screwtape Letters, Lewis narrates that the process of becoming an agent capable of meaningful action is bound up in the agent-principal relationship. Human beings help to enact the aims of spiritual beings and take on the characteristics of the principals they serve. First, I will more clearly consider the negative formation of agents given to the wrong principals and, second, I will flesh out the positive formation of agents given to the right principals. Not So N.I.C.E.: The Nihilism of Malformed Agents Let’s begin unpacking this claim by looking into That Hideous Strength (Lewis, 1946/1965b). Mark Studdock, a young junior faculty member who has been married to Jane for just six months, finds himself being courted for a job at the National Institute of Co-ordinated Experiments (N.I.C.E.). As part of the mysterious interview process, Mark is a guest at the Institute, although it is better to say he is a customer. When Mark gets a bill for his residency, his inner weakness begins to be exposed. [Mark] put [the bill] in his pocket after a hasty glance with a resolution that this, at any rate, should never be mentioned to Jane. Neither the total nor the items were of the sort that wives easily understand. He himself doubted whether there were not some mistake, but he was still at that age when a man would rather be fleeced to his last penny than dispute a bill. Then he finished his second cup of tea, felt for cigarettes, found none, and ordered a new packet. (pp. 102–03)

Mark’s tension as a potential agent of responsible action shines through. On the one hand, he is arrogant with his own wife and immaturely conceited—she shouldn’t know about these expenses, since she wouldn’t understand, though he does. At the same time, the unwillingness to dispute a bill shows a concern with appearance, yet a lack of appropriate action. Mark has the ability to order a new pack of cigarettes, but his instinctive reach for his cigarettes reveals habitual, uncritical action. Mark’s insecurity is why he is at the N.I.C.E. As a possible agent of the N.I.C.E., the principal, Mark is expected to carry out the principal’s goals by writing fraudulent newspaper articles to sway the public opinion in

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favor of the N.I.C.E. Both everyday people and the cultured elite are to appreciate the N.I.C.E. and its aims. While Mark is initially confused about these nefarious requests—how is he to write articles before the events they are to describe have happened—he quickly acquiesces. Lewis (1946/1965b) writes, This was the first thing Mark had been asked to do which he himself, before he did it, clearly knew to be criminal. But the moment of his consent almost escaped his notice; certainly there was no struggle, no sense of turning a corner. There may have been a time in the world’s history when such moments fully revealed their gravity, with witches prophesying on a blasted heath or visible Rubicons to be crossed. But, for him, it all slipped past in a chatter of laughter, of that intimate laughter between fellow professionals, which of all earthly powers is strongest to make men do very bad things before they are yet, individually, very bad men. (p. 130)

Mark is in search of an identity and has latched on to one in this nasty group of professionals. He now wonders why he was ever afraid of colleagues he used to consider intimidating. He is finding identity as an important agent (self) as he becomes an important agent of a principal (the N.I.C.E.). Mark imagines that publishing lies will eventually be seen as a sort of trifle, merely part the tales that he will tell junior colleagues who hang on his every word as an old, rich, titled man. The “child inside him” told Mark how splendid and “grown-up” Mark’s life was becoming: filled with alcohol yet not drunk, being read widely in newspapers, “all the inner ring of the N.I.C.E. depending on him, nobody ever again having the least right to consider him a nonentity” (p. 135, italics mine). Mark is in search of identity; meaningful action as an agent and serving at the N.I.C.E. presents the route: he is becoming a somebody—an entity. Yet in stunning contrast, Lewis will reveal that it is precisely a nonentity that Mark is in danger of becoming. Mark has shown the nature of being human that some agency theorists have observed. He is an evaluative, resourceful, and maximizing being who will also work to avoid pain (Jensen, 1994), yet he also reveals his imperfection in the breakdown of previously established relationships. While he is courting/being manipulated by the N.I.C.E., his relationship with his wife is strained and he obfuscates with his current employer. In trying to become a self, Mark is surrendering his character and morals.

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Eventually, as he rises through its ranks, Mark’s attempt to become an entity comes to a head. As part of his final initiation, Mark becomes the subject of a childish yet very serious scientific experiment with Frost, a psychologist and one of only three true initiates of the N.I.C.E. (Lewis, 1946/1965b, p. 336). Mark must perform silly tasks, like climb a ladder and touch a specific point on the ceiling, all the while being carefully observed and the results meticulously recorded. But for Mark, these childish, meaningless actions were “the most indecent and even inhuman of all his tasks” (Lewis, 1946/1965b, p. 310). In completing them, he becomes aware that there really is something objectively true. Whereas he would previously have considered an idea simply within his head, now he senses that the Idea is real—solid and outside himself. Faced with orders to give away his agency in childish tasks to become a full agent of this principal, Mark is realizing that his very self is being corrupted. His desire is to become a meaningful entity as an agent at the N.I.C.E., but instead his agency is being removed as he does meaningless tasks. Yet, contrary to the wishes of Screwtape recorded above, Mark is moving away from being a person who is concerned with what will happen to him, to being  one concerned with what he does. Eventually these silly tasks become more clearly religious and Mark is told to trample and insult a crucifix. While Mark calls this a “superstition” (Lewis, 1946/1965b, p. 335), something grates even deeper inside of him. Mark even thinks the realism of the scene is “remote from that Idea” (p. 335) that is objective reality. In other words, while the scene is silly, vulgar, and nonsense, the stakes are Real. Frost keeps pressing Mark to trample the crucifix, but Mark refuses to act: “It’s all bloody nonsense, and I’m damned if I do any such thing” (p. 337). Mark’s refusal to act in obedience to an initiate of the N.I.C.E., his refusal to follow the wishes of principal, is an act of meaningful agency. Let’s go a bit deeper into Mark’s pronounced refusal. Mark does not yet know the stakes of his refusal, but Frost does. For Lewis, this giving of oneself over is not only a human interpersonal reality, but also a  spiritual interpersonal reality. The context of agency involves agents in a spiritual reality. Frost and the other initiates at the N.I.C.E, Wither and Straik, have given themselves over to Macrobes—semi-personal, demonic intelligences. When Lewis remarks that Mark wonders why the room with the crucifix is filled with religious works, Lewis is hinting at the personal profundity of the scene. Mark introduces the scene as a “‘rum do’—the rummest do that had ever befallen him” (Lewis, 1946/1965b, p. 334). The

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phrase “rum thing” plays an important part in a key scene in Lewis’ own conversion, recounted in Surprised by Joy. Mark’s “rum do” is the disconnect he considers of the crucifix from actual reality. In Lewis’ own life, the similar phrase is used by a cynic of cynics who calls the story of the Dying God a “[r]um thing. It almost looks as if it had really happened once” (Lewis, 1955/2017, p. 273). The cynic’s admission that the historic feel of such a myth strikes Lewis deeply. As Lewis began to see and sense the connection between the mythical nature of the dying God story and the historicity of the crucifixion of Jesus, so did Mark begin to realize the reality of the crucifix. Mark’s abhorrence of the crucifix’s trampling is not simply his propriety, but emerging piety. Mark’s refusal is a meaningful act that reflects Lewis’ own meaningful act in his conversion, too. Immediately following Lewis’ recount of the “rum thing” in Surprised by Joy, he writes, The odd thing was that before God closed in on me, I was in fact offered what now appears a moment of wholly free choice.... I felt myself being, there and then, given a free choice. I could open the door or keep it shut; I could unbuckle the armour or keep it on. (Lewis, 1955/2017, pp. 273–74)

Mark was free to reject giving away his agency and Lewis was free to open the door. So, when Mark says of the whole scene that it’s “bloody nonsense,” there is irony in his words: to Lewis, Mark is exactly right: the crucifixion is a theologically bloody scene that is nonsense to the outsider and when Mark says he’ll be damned if he tramples the crucifix, it is easy to see this is a theologically true claim if Jesus is the Christ. The mirroring of Lewis’ free choice with Mark’s rejection of Frost’s orders reveals that Mark is becoming a meaningful agent as he moves toward true spiritual life. I mentioned above that Mark was in danger of becoming a nonentity. That was the peril Mark faced by following Frost’s orders and it was the peril that Frost unwittingly pursued himself. Just as Mark was pursuing the proper principal by refusing Frost, Frost was pursuing the wrong principals which stood behind the N.I.C.E. Eventually, both Frost and Wither become nonentities. Let’s start with Frost. What is supposed to be a grand evening for the N.I.C.E. turns disorderly and violent as spiritual judgment is enacted. As the banqueting hall descends into chaos, Frost flees the scene. Here’s a description of what follows:

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Increasingly, [Frost’s] actions had been without motive. He did this and that, he said thus and thus, and did not know why. His mind was a mere spector…. The nearest thing to a human passion which still existed in him was a sort of cold fury against all who believed in the mind…. But never, until this evening, had he been quite so vividly aware that the body and its movement were the only reality, that the self which seemed to watch the body leaving the dining room…was a nonentity. (Lewis, 1946/1965b, p. 357, italics mine)

Frost, entrusted as he is to the Macrobes, has lost all agency and succumbed into a kind of nothingness. There is no person. There is only body that will soon be given over to the raging fire that Frost has already set. Mark was in danger of becoming the nonentity, but instead became an agent by refusing to trample the crucifix. Frost, on the other hand, would become a nonentity. The nihilistic end of the other two N.I.C.E. initiates resembles Frost’s outcome, too. Their end also introduces evidence of a positive transformation—that those agents given to the good become better characters. Ransom, often known as the Director in That Hideous Strength, has adopted a brown bear, Mr. Bultitude, into his house. Mr. Bultitude is so safe that Jane, Mark’s wife, is told she could bathe with him in the room, “though,” as Mrs. Maggs says, “he’s that big and that human I don’t feel it would somehow be Nice [sic] myself” (Lewis, 1946/1965b, p.  164, italics mine). Mr. Bultitude is safe because the Director has tamed him by having a “little talk with him” (p. 164). Yet while Mrs. Maggs considers him at least human-like, Mr. Bultitude remains a bear: his “mind was as furry and unhuman in shape as his body” (p. 306). Mr. Bultitude does not know he is a bear or that he lives with people. His life is simply fact and sense, including a sense of the supremacy of the Director, in whose “presence Mr. Bultitude trembled on the very borders of personality” (p. 307). This is an important note because the bear is the literary version of a real bear Lewis had “made friends with” at the local zoo (Wilson, 2002, p. 127). Notice the connection: Not unlike the effect Lewis has on the bear in real life by giving him personality in the book, Ransom/The Director has a similar effect on Mr. Bultitude. Lewis (1940/2001a) had opined on the personality of animals in The Problem of Pain. The error we must avoid is that of considering [animals] in themselves. Man is to be understood only in his relation to God. The beasts are to be under-

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stood only in their relation to man and, through man, to God…. Man was appointed by God to have dominion over the beasts, and everything a man does to an animal is either a lawful exercise, or a sacrilegious abuse, of an authority by Divine right. The tame animal is therefore, in the deepest sense, the only ‘natural’ animal—the only one we see occupying the place it was made to occupy, and it is on the tame animal that we must base all our doctrine of beasts. Now it will be seen that, in so far as the tame animal has a real self or personality, it owes this almost entirely to its master…. [Y]ou must not think of a beast by itself, and call that a personality and then inquire whether God will raise and bless that. You must take the whole context in which the beast acquires its selfhood—namely ‘The-goodman-and-thegoodwife-­r uling-their-children-and-their-beasts-in-the-good-homestead.’ (pp. 142–43)

Not surprisingly, then, though the Director (Ransom) and Mrs. Maggs are not married, they are the “two main factors in [Mr. Bultitude’s] existence” (1946/1965b) and his tameness is in the context of Ransom’s house and company. Mr. Bultitude is formed by the leadership of the Director and Mrs. Maggs. The bear is nearing personality and in so doing he is a reversal of Frost’s end, where he nears impersonality and nonentity. Lewis brings the contrast to completion in the death of Wither. Not only is Mr. Bultitude nearing personality, but he takes on the traits of other, greater beings. Let me explain. Eventually in the story, Mr. Bultitude is abducted in error and taken to the N.I.C.E., being mistaken for one of the animals the N.I.C.E. holds for experiments. Here the bear plays a specific role, as Mr. Bultitude begins to have bear-like desires, thinking of “warm, salt tastes, of the pleasant resistances of bone, of things to crunch and lick and worry” (Lewis, 1946/1965b, p.  351). Like Frost, the other two leaders of the N.I.C.E., Wither and Straik, flee the banqueting room. They continue their evil by executing another of their colleagues and then Wither turns his will against Straik and kills him. As Wither finishes this brutality, Mr. Bultitude shows up. The reader, remembering Mr. Bultitude’s desires for warm, salt tastes and bone to worry, anticipates Wither’s gruesome end. Just enough is left to the reader’s imagination as Wither sees the bear with its “mouth open, its eyes flaming, its fore-paws spread out as if for an embrace” (p. 355). As Wither meets his end, he has a final, telling reflection. Wither wonders, “Was this [bear] what Straik had become? He knew (though even now he could not attend to it) that he was on the very frontier of a world where such things could happen” (p. 355).

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But how wrong Wither is. Straik has not become the bear. It would be insulting to Mr. Bultitude for him to have become Straik. No, while remaining a bear, Mr. Bultitude resembles two honorable characters. First, Mr. Bultitude has acted like Ransom/the Director, who had desired justice and who sought to destroy and ultimately did destroy the Unman in Perelandra. Secondly, before descending into the Unman in Perelandra, Weston, in Out of the Silent Planet, had come before the Oyarsa of Malacandra, a good angelic being, for killing one of Malacandra’s rational creatures. The Oyarsa of Malacandra says he would have “unbodied” Weston (1938/1965a, p.  134), yet it is not the Oyarsa’s decision. The choice to unbody Weston made sense because though Weston has great scientific wisdom, he has “the mind of an animal” (Lewis, 1938/1965a, p.  134). Weston has become less, and eventually becomes nothing. Ransom destroyed the Unman and Mr. Bultitude has destroyed Wither. The Oyarsa had wanted to unbody Weston and Mr. Bultitude has, literally, unbodied Wither. Though he remains a bear, Mr. Bultitude has reflected the actions and will of beings far higher than him. No, Straik has not become the bear. The bear has become greater; Straik has become less. Wither’s pondering—is this what Straik has become?—reveals the direction that Frost, Straik, and Wither have gone. Being given to the Macrobes, they have moved in the direction of being nothing—Frost burned up and Wither eaten by the bear. One of the two connotations of Wither’s name now becomes clear: Wither has withered—he has become nothing. We get a sense of why Wither would give himself over from the other connotation of his name: Wither = Whither. Wither has certain powers that others admire. Wither seems to be at just the right place at just the right time, showing up without any expectation. Like the Unman who didn’t need rest in contrast to Ransom in Perelandra, Wither seems to need no sleep. Different N.I.C.E. employees note Wither’s distinct lack of need for sleep. No one needs to wake him, even when he is needed very early in the morning. While Frost, Wither, and Straik have pursued being entities, they have actually become nothing. These themes are subtly woven together in a scene from Prince Caspian where Trumpkin kills a bear in the instant that Susan delayed using her significant archery skills. Susan had held her arrow for fear that it had been a talking bear. Reflecting on the horror of talking beasts turning dumb and enemy, Lucy says, “Wouldn’t it be dreadful if some day, in our own world, at home, men started going wild inside, like the animals here, and still looked like men, so that you’d never know which were which?”

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(Lewis, 1951/1962, p. 107). The rational animals of Narnia can descend into beastliness and Lucy’s worry has come true in Weston and Wither. I need to draw this lengthy section to a close. Earlier I noted that Mark’s inner child had cheered him on in his moral descent on behalf of the N.I.C.E. This is reminiscent of Weston’s final descent into the Unman in Perelandra. While Weston/Unman and Ransom are engaged in a conflict for the fate of an entire world, the Unman does not take it seriously. Lewis (1944/2003) writes, What chilled and almost cowed [Ransom] was the union of malice with something nearly childish [in the Unman]. For temptation, for blasphemy, for a whole battery of horrors, [Ransom] was in some sort prepared: but hardly for this petty, indefatigable nagging as of a nasty little boy at a preparatory school. (p. 106)

The childish chiding comes in the form of a very simple, very annoying, very revealing game. “Ransom,” it said. “Well?” said Ransom. “Nothing,” said the Unman. … “Ransom,” it said again. “What is it?” said Ransom sharply. “Nothing,” it answered. Again there was silence; and again, about a minute later, the horrible mouth said: “Ransom!”

How could it be that the fate of a world was found in these two characters, one given to the divine and the other given to the demonic? The agents of greater principals are becoming like the principals they serve. Lewis writes about Weston’s aims and purposes by saying, On the surface, great designs and an antagonism to Heaven which involved the fate of worlds: but deep within, when every veil had been pierced, was there, after all, nothing but a black puerility, an aimless empty spitefulness content to sate itself with the tiniest cruelties, as love does not disdain the smallest kindness? (p. 106).

The Unman is speaking Ransom’s name and Ransom is taking on the form of one who also was the ransom, the divine one (p. 125), and the Unman

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is speaking his own name: he truly is becoming nothing. Lewis concludes these reflections with the following: There was, no doubt, a confusion of persons in damnation: what Pantheists falsely hoped of Heaven bad men really received in Hell. They were melted down into their Master, as a lead soldier slips down and loses his shape in the ladle held over the gas ring. (p. 148)

So, the above shows us the context of agency and its high stakes. Frost and Wither reveal the end of those who give themselves over to beings who desire them to become nonentities. On the other hand, Mark’s refusal has started to show the freedom given for one to become a meaningful agent who resembles a good principal and Mr. Bultitude shows how one given to the other side, the side of the good, can grow in personality. Let’s continue Lewis’ connection to agency theory by fleshing out a more positive vision for agents being transformed by their principals. Win Your Spurs, Save the World, and Become Yourself: Positive Formation of Agents Whereas malformed agents descend into less and less, Lewis paints a positive vision for the formation of agents oriented toward the good. While the vision for the properly formed person has been a subject discussed through the book, we can find Lewis’ wisdom for agency theory in four themes: Properly formed agents are self-leaders, take meaningful action, have a differentiated self, and are formed and confirmed through conflict. While the context of agency that I have been focusing on has been from the spiritual realm where the principal is often a spiritual being, humans can also have in mind these goals in mind as they consider the agent-­ principal relationship.  gents Are to Become Self-Leaders A Falsely developed agents became pawns of their leaders. Ransom, the Director, remarks that the Macrobes hate the persons they use as much as these same persons hate Ransom and his company. “The moment we disable the human pawns enough to make them useless to Hell, their own Masters finish the work for us. They break their tools” (Lewis, 1946/1965b, p. 317). In contrast, agents are intended to become competent, capable leaders themselves.

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Let’s look at some examples. Coriakin, a star serving out some kind of discipline, is tasked with ruling the Dufflepuds in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (Lewis, 1952/1994). The Dufflepuds believe they have been “uglified” by Coriakin, turned from their previous handsome selves into some kind of deformity so horrible that they decide to turn themselves invisible. Eventually they tire of this invisible condition and extort one of the protagonists, Lucy, into making them visible, once again. Upon completing the task, Lucy discusses why Coriakin “uglified” them to begin with. While Coriakin thinks that the change was for the better, he also admits it was also a disciplining act. Coriakin says, “Well, they wouldn’t do what they were told. Their work is to mind the garden and raise food—not for me, as they imagine, but for themselves. They wouldn’t do it at all if I didn’t make them” (p. 164). The transformation is to help them become wise though it seems a lost cause. As a result, Aslan asks Coriakin if he wearies of his task. “No,” said the Magician, “there are very stupid but there is no real harm in them. I begin to grow rather fond of the creatures. Sometimes, perhaps, I am a little impatient, waiting for the day when they can be governed by wisdom instead of this rough magic.” (p. 161)

The Dufflepuds will one day be able to be governed by wisdom, raising food for themselves without needing Coriakin’s direction. The Dufflepuds are agents of Coriakin in order to become their own leaders. Lewis (1954/1980a) provides another example in The Horse and His Boy. This story provides the deepest look into the cruel society of the Calormenes where there is slavery for animals and for persons. Although the four main characters have escaped their various kinds of slavery, they are still feeling its effects. A time comes when haste is paramount, but no one is able to rouse the troupe for action. Instead, they sleep away vital hours. Lewis critiques the principal-agent relationship of the Calormenes, including the longer-term effects of slavery on the enslaved agents: “But one of the worst results of being a slave and being forced to do things is that when there is no one to force you any more you find you have almost lost the power of forcing yourself” (1954/1980a, p. 109). However, Shasta, one who has escaped slavery, is able to overcome this character weakness with the help of Aslan. In order to make up for the lost time, Aslan, unbeknownst to the foursome, chases the group to a Hermit’s home, where three are able to rest. But in order to bring news of warning

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to others, Shasta is given instructions to “run, run: always run” (Lewis, 1954/1980a, p. 116). Amazingly, while nobody is chasing him, Shasta runs. He arrives just in time to warn King Lune of an impending attack. Lewis describes King Lune and his troupe in mid-preparation for departure. The hunting horn has already sounded and several riders have mounted their horses. King Lune himself is mounting his horse. But by reaching the group just in time, with every forced stride in mind by forcing himself to run, Shasta has shown his character as an agent capable of self-discipline. Lewis underscores Shasta’s efforts with Shasta’s halted and urgent speech patterns as he delivers the warning. Lewis uses the words “gasp” and “pant,” along with stunted phrases and multiple ellipses to show Shasta’s winded condition (p. 122), yet even more his self-leadership. In the Narnian universe, Aslan does not simply fix situations. He wants characters to grow in agency to be able to lead, even themselves. Brown (2005) writes, “the Narnians and the humans who enter Narnia are supposed to gradually come to be able to do things for themselves, to themselves act as Aslan’s agent” (p. 186).  gents Take and Partake in Meaningful Action A It follows naturally that for agents to be self-governing, they must also take meaningful action, but for Lewis the fact is more complex. While gardening and growing food is important, it would not immediately be thought of as  world changing or society rescuing. Yet Lewis recounts numerous events of agents taking meaningful action, even as relatively normal characters. But these meaningful actions are not taken without help. One way that characters are helped to take meaningful action is by the establishment of a context, often by the weather. The very first words of the cosmic trilogy are about the weather: “The last drops of the thunderstorm had hardly ceased falling” (Lewis, 1938/1965a, p. 7). While “[t]he last thing Ransom wanted was an adventure” (p. 11), the storm contributes to the adventure that will change Ransom and, eventually, entire worlds. Ransom had been kept under a tree because of the weather and is now walking at a specific pace as the sunset hurries him along. The timing facilitates his encounter with two villains and a boy in need of rescue. Narnia’s story also begins with weather. For instance, Polly and Digory’s adventures begin “chiefly because it was one of the wettest and coldest summers there had been for years” (Lewis, 1955/1980b, p. 12) and when the Pevensies’ plan to explore the grounds and woods is spoiled because

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of “steady rain falling, so thick that when you looked out of the window you could see neither the mountains nor the woods nor even the stream in the garden” (Lewis, 1950/1980a, pp. 10–11), the next plan to explore the house “was how the adventures began” (p. 11). Further, these adventures in Narnia don’t continue until “the next wet day” (p. 29). Thus, rain is present at the beginning of journeys into Narnia—both chronologically with Digory and Polly and order of publication with the Pevensies. But the weather does not simply play a role to begin adventures, but in the midst of adventures. Peter, Lucy, Susan, and Mr. and Mrs. Beaver’s tracks and scent are covered by freshly falling snow (Lewis, 1950/1980a, p. 104). Caspian’s flight from his Uncle Miraz is on a cloudy night, which is notedly different from another eventful night (Lewis, 1951/1962, p. 56). That night had been clear, so that Caspian and Dr. Cornelius could witness a planetary portent (pp.  48–49) and  where Caspian sees Dr. Cornelius’ true identity by moonlight (p.  51). But the cloudy night is accompanied by a storm which brings about Caspian’s meeting of Trumpkin, Trufflehunter, and Nikabrik. In The Silver Chair, Eustace, Jill, and Puddleglum’s journey is slowed right over the sign they are to attend, a set of trenches (Lewis, 1953/1970). Lewis writes, There is no denying it was a beast of a day. Overhead was a sunless sky, muffled in clouds that were heavy with snow; underfoot, a black frost; blowing over it, a wind that felt as if it would take your skin off. (p. 82)

They enjoy the trench because they are out of the “infernal wind” (p. 85). And a final example, from Perelandra. While in the thick of temptation with Weston/Unman forming the Lady’s imagination with stories of tragic heroines, “the darkness was suddenly torn by a flash of lighting; a few seconds later came a revel of Perelandrian thunder, like the playing of a heavenly tambourine, and after that warm rain” (Lewis, 1944/2003, p.  108). While “Ransom did not much regard it,” the Lady interrupts Weston to listen to the rain, changing the scene (p. 109). Ransom’s lack of attention is important because he is just learning the depth and nature of his action. The paradox of action is hinted at in the providence of weather. Meaningful action is not action completely individualized, but in conjunction with other agents. [Ransom’s] journey to Perelandra was not a moral exercise, nor a sham fight. If the issue lay in Maleldil’s hands, Ransom and the Lady were those

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hands. The fate of a world really depended on how they behaved in the next few hours. The thing was irreducibly, nakedly real…. It rested with no other creature in all time or all space. This he saw clearly, though as yet he had no inkling of what he could do. (p. 121)

The connection between Ransom’s meaningful action and Maleldil’s action was deep and could not be disentangled. “One of the purposes for which [Maleldil] had done all this was to save Perelandra not through Himself but through Himself in Ransom. If Ransom refused, the plan, so far, miscarried” (p. 123). Ransom’s actions are certainly meaningful, but they are not isolated or nakedly his own. This relationship is also connected to the next aspect of agency I want to explore.  gents Have Differentiated Selves A Whereas agents of the evil principals were lost into childish impersonality, agents are intended to have properly formed selves. For Lewis, the will is not to be removed but strengthened and transformed to pursue proper ends which must be held in proper order. While personal interest is a contested point in agency theory, and a context where there might be conflict or moral disagreement, Lewis believes that desiring one’s own good is to be encouraged. Lewis (1940/2001a) writes, If there lurks in most modern minds the notion that to desire our own good and earnestly to hope for the enjoyment of it is a bad thing, I submit that this notion has crept in from Kant and the Stoics and is no part of the Christian faith. (p. 26)

The problem is not desire itself, which we saw was connected with imagination. Lewis describes the problem with desire ironically. Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased. (p. 26)

No wonder Mark’s inner child is excited at his impending fraud and the Unman is childishly malicious. Their desires were not too strong, but too weak, fading away as they face the wrong direction. While Weston/Unman tempts the Perelandran Lady with stories of great self-sacrifice and

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selflessness (Lewis, 1944/2003, p. 113), a better vision is of a fully formed agent who is able to pass on this identity to others. The fully formed agent’s self-sacrifice is meaningful because it is the giving of a self rather than the rejection of the self. This is not an isolated self, but it is a differentiated self. The Perelandran Lady remarks this kind of selfhood as a terror! Like when my son is released to pedal his bicycle on his own and only by being distinct from my guiding and balancing hand can he experience the joy of biking, so can the self-experience bring such richness by being distinct. The Perelandran Lady describes the experiences as: a delight with terror in it! One’s own self to be walking from one good to another, walking beside Him as Himself may walk, not even holding hands. How has He made me so separate rom Himself? How did it enter His mind to conceive such a thing? (p. 60)

While Lewis is talking in the context of a Creator and creation, his metaphor can be adapted for human relationships. Lewis describes such potent agency as launching oneself into a very swift and great wave that requires one’s entire force. The Perelandran Lady can hardly imagine such a good gift. “You mean, He might send me a good like that?” Ransom responds, “Yes—or like a wave so swift and great that all your force was too little” (p. 60). Becoming a differentiated self takes the support of the greater being. Screwtape is baffled at his Enemy’s desires that “the creatures are to be one with Him, but yet themselves” (Lewis, 1942/1982, p. 38). Yet the support must eventually be withdrawn, at least in some sense. Screwtape continues: Sooner or later He withdraws, if not in fact, at least from their conscious experiences, all those supports and incentives. He leaves the creature to stand up on its own legs—to carry out from the will alone duties which have lost all relish…. He wants them to learn to walk and must therefore take away His hand; and if only the will to walk is really there He is pleased even with the stumbles. (p. 39)

My oldest child, (so far) my only daughter, has learned to ride her bike. The older of my two boys is close. Really close. But I know he’s got some falls left in the process. I relish seeing him throw back his head to feel the wind blow through his hair as he rides on his own, but I know he will need

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to fight through some fear to experience that sense of self. I long to see him become a meaningful agent, but it’s not easy. Actually, I was just kidding above. He will not feel the wind in his hair because I’ll always make sure he has a helmet to protect his head when he falls. But there are some things I cannot protect him from; there are some conflicts he will need to face with only my support and not my power. They are needed for him to become his own person. This brings us to the final aspect of agency.  gents Are Formed and Confirmed Through Conflict A Conflict is of specific interest in agency theory because the nature of acting on another’s behalf invites multiple voices, perspectives, and interests. As such, conflict is inevitable because agents and principals will not always agree on moral values or the appropriate balance between competing visions. Some argue that agents and principals should limit conflict in order to limit cost (Jensen, 1994). On the one hand, conflict may not always be so significant. Our discussion of differentiation might give insight into natural conflict between parties that can be addressed with humility. On the other hand, conflict is not always possible to limit. Significant fates are at stake and can only be honored by not giving up a conflict. For example, the conflict between Weston/Unman and Ransom was not possible to limit or to resolve. The mythical nature of the story presents conflict as a simple reality of the world. With this in mind, we can look at how conflict creates a context for agency and the emergence of leaders in Lewis’ literature. Let’s start with Peter. Immediately after being told of his future Kingship at Cair Paravel, Peter hears Susan’s horn. She is calling for help because Maugrim, the wolf, Chief of the White Witch’s police, has come into camp. Other animals start toward the scene, but Aslan stops them, saying,  “Let the Prince win his spurs” (Lewis, 1950/1980a, p.  119). Apparently Peter will not receive kingship without conflict. Peter understands what he is to do and takes off “running as hard as he could toward the pavilion” (p. 119). Though “Peter did not feel very brave” (p. 120), he successfully kills Maugrim and is knighted “Sir Peter Wolf’s-Bane” (p.  121). The importance of this conflict for Peter’s leadership is confirmed when, upon returning to Narnia in support of Prince Caspian, he finds and grasps the same sword with which he had killed Maugrim. “There was a new tone in his voice, and the others all felt that he was really Peter the High King again” (Lewis, 1951/1962, p. 30). A second example is Orual, from Till We Have Faces. Two conflicts show Orual’s emergence as a leader and agent. First, there is a conflict

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with her father, the King. Orual has donned a veil and her father mocks her for it. “Now, girl, what’s this? Hung your curtains up, eh? Were you afraid we’d be dazzled by your beauty? Take off that frippery!” (Lewis, 1956/1978, p. 190). But Orual has become a stronger person than the last time she encountered her father; since then, she has encountered a god. “No one who had seen and heard the god could much fear this roaring old King” (p. 190). She refuses the King’s demands and is summoned very close to him and stands “still as a stone.” Orual continues to describe the experience: “To see his face while he could not see mine seemed to give me a kind of power. He was working himself into one of those white rages” (p.  190). The King demands, “Do you begin to set your wits against mine?” (p. 190). Her simple answer, no louder than his is, “Yes.” The result is clear: “He never struck me, and I never feared him again” (p. 191). The new posture of leadership against the king allows Orual to emerge as a leader. Orual’s leadership emergence is furthered when she brokers a deal between the political rulers and the religious rulers in the kingdom. The King lies ill and wasting, and Orual achieves a deal where the royal family will give land to the religious rulers upon condition that the guard of the religious rulers comes under the leadership of the king’s guard. The deal is accepted. But before the deal was even thought possible, the second-in-­ command Priest, Arnom, believes that no deal can be made because the Princess is not married and “[a] woman cannot lead the armies…in war” (Lewis, 1956/1978, p. 196). Immediately Bardia, captain of the palace guard, says, “This Queen can” (p. 196). Orual’s status as leader is confirmed as she is capable of handling conflict. Very soon, her ability for physical conflict is put to the test when she will meet Argan, king of the rival kingdom Phars, in one-on-one combat—and it is “a killing matter” (p. 215). In order to prepare for the battle, Bardia has Orual butcher a pig, which she does. If she hadn’t, her identity would have shifted away from being a Queen (p. 216). Orual fights and defeats Argan in personal combat and, as a result, establishes Phars’ next leadership and calls for a banquet in her honor (p. 230). While there is a depth to the internal conflict between Orual and the Queen she is becoming, her victory establishes her leadership. She says to herself, “I am a great queen. I have killed a man” (p. 233). Conflict has established her status and leadership. Finally, Ransom is developed through conflict. I have already mentioned some of the conflict Ransom encounters with Weston/Unman in

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Perelandra, so now I will point to the series’ first book, Out of the Silent Planet. The Cosmic Trilogy has already introduced Ransom as a man somewhat reluctant to engage in conflict, but recounts numerous points of transformation through conflict. As his adventure is getting underway, we are told of Ransom’s strange mood and his lack of self-knowledge. As his mind prepares him for potential conflict with an alien species, Ransom wonders whether a knife he has secured could pierce another species’ flesh. The bellicose mood was a very rare one with Ransom. Like many men of his own age, he rather underestimated than overestimated his own courage; the gap between boyhood’s dreams and his actual experience of the War had been startling, and his subsequent view of his own unheroic qualities had perhaps swung too far in the opposite direction. (Lewis, 1938/1965a, p. 37)

But the result is not conflict among another intelligent species. They do not wish Ransom harm. In fact, there is no conflict within or between the rational specifies of Malacandra, where Ransom is headed. There remains, however, a fierce conflict between the hrossa, one of these rational species, and a fierce water creature, the hnakra. The possibility of being one who kills the hnakra rouses Ransom’s sense of self, though mixed with pride. Still, Ransom is honored to go on the hunt for the hnakra and is part of the company that slays it. Of the event, Ransom reflects: “They had stood shoulder to shoulder in the face of an enemy, and the shapes of their heads [as different intelligent species] no longer mattered. And he, even Ransom, had come through it and not been disgraced. He had grown up” (p. 81, italics mine). Shortly thereafter, Ransom is on his way to Oyarsa and considering the differences between who he is now and who he was when he first arrived on Malacandra. Lewis writes, [Ransom] looked back on that time as on a nightmare, on his own mood at that time as a sort of sickness. Then all had been whimpering, unanalysed, self-nourishing, self-consuming duty, he felt fear indeed, but with it a sober sense of confidence in himself and in the world, and even an element of pleasure. It was the difference between a landsman in a sinking ship and a horseman on a bolting horse: either may be killed, but the horseman is an agent as well as a patient. (pp. 86–87, italics mine)

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Conclusion This chapter has explored agency and agency theory, and their connection, from the fiction of C.S. Lewis. Lewis has shown how agents become like the principals they serve. The contrast between the masters served is extreme. Following one leads to nothingness. Following the other leads to identity, meaningful action, and a full self. But this is not an easy journey. Lewis often shows that persons develop agency and leadership through conflict. The vision helps to inform a philosophy of leadership, revealing aspects of reality that can form leaders from pastors to parents and other principals. So, I suppose if I keep obtaining an orderly kitchen with lollipops, I had better limit my own sugary incentives.

References Allen, D. (2004). Persons in philosophical and biblical perspective. In M. Jeeves (Ed.), From cells to souls and beyond: Changing portraits of human nature (pp. 165–178). Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Brown, D. (2005). Inside Narnia: A guide to exploring the lion, the witch and the wardrobe. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Books. Eisenhardt, K. M. (1989). Agency theory: An assessment and review. Academy of Management Review, 14(1), 57–74. Gerber, M. (2004). The E-myth revisited: Why most small businesses don’t work and what to do about it. New York: Harper Business. Godin, S. (2010). Linchpin: Are you indispensable? New York: Portfolio. Jensen, M.  C. (1994). Self-interest, altruism, incentives, and agency theory. Journal of Applied Corporate Finance, 7(2), 40–45. Jensen, M. C., & Meckling, W. H. (1994). The nature of man. Journal of Applied Corporate Finance, 7(2), 4–19. Jordan, D. (2020). Agency theory (Organizational economics). Salem Press Encyclopedia. Hackensack, NJ: Salem Press. Lewis, C.  S. (1962). Prince Caspian. Harmondsworth, UK: Puffin Books. (Original work published in 1951). Lewis, C.  S. (1965a). Out of the silent planet. New  York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1938). Lewis, C. S. (1965b). That hideous strength. New York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1946). Lewis, C. S. (1970). The silver chair. New York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1953). Lewis, C.  S. (1978). Till we have faces. London: Fount. (Original work published 1956).

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Lewis, C. S. (1980a). The horse and his boy. London: Lions. (Original work published 1954). Lewis, C. S. (1980b). The Magician’s nephew. London: Lions. (Original work published 1955). Lewis, C. S. (1982). The Screwtape letters. New York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1942). Lewis, C. S. (1994). The voyage of the Dawn Treader. New York: HarperCollins. (Original work published 1952). Lewis, C.  S. (2001a). The problem of pain. New  York: HarperCollins. (Original work published 1940). Lewis, C. S. (2001b). The weight of glory and other addresses. New York: HarperOne. (Original work published in 1949). Lewis, C.  S. (2003). Perelandra. New  York: Scribner. (Original worked published in 1944). Lewis, C.  S. (2017). Surprised by joy: The shape of my early life. New  York: HarperOne. (Original work published in 1955). Linder, S., & Foss, N. J. (2015). Agency theory. In International encyclopedia of the social & behavioral sciences (Vol. 1, 2nd ed., pp. 344–350). Amsterdam, The Netherlands: Elsevier. Lupia, A. (2001). Delegation of power: Agency theory. In International encyclopedia of the social and behavioral sciences (Vol. 6, 2nd ed., pp. 58–60). Amsterdam, The Netherlands: Elsevier. Pouryousefi, S., & Frooman, J. (2017). The problem of unilateralism in agency theory: Towards a bilateral formulation. Business Ethics Quarterly, 27(2), 163–182. Shapiro, S. P. (2005). Agency theory. Annual Review of Sociology, 31, 263–284. Shapiro, S.  P. (2016). Standing in another’s shoes: How agents make life-and-­ death decisions for their principals. Academy of Management Perspectives, 30(4), 404–427. Wilson, A.  N. (2002). C.S.  Lewis: A biography. New  York: W.W.  Norton & Company. Wright, P., Mukherji, A., & Kroll, M. J. (2001). A reexamination of agency theory assumptions: Extensions and extrapolations. The Journal of Socio-Economics, 30(5), 413–429.

CHAPTER 6

Saving Faces: Authentic Leadership and the Tension of Self-Disclosure

Have I Said Too Much? I was sitting in Burger King, commiserating with a friend who happened to be an addictions counselor about the emotionally intense nature of our work and leadership. Somewhere in the conversation the dual nature of our relationship emerged. We were friends but we were also as pastor-­parishioner. “I’m sure our work has similarities and dissimilarities,” he said. I asked him: “Do you hang out with your clients?” “No,” he said. It was clearly not an option in his line of work. “I do,” I replied. “I have to. And it’s tough when your friends are the ones struggling to keep it together.” Forgive what might sound like being flippant. What I meant to say was, “It’s very difficult when those under my spiritual care are facing significant, disintegrating challenges in their spiritual, personal, and/or professional lives.” Why did I mean to say the latter? Because about two years later I was attempting to offer pastoral support to him as he navigated estrangement, and eventual reconciliation, with his brother. In the early days of pastoral support, our Burger King conversation came to mind and I strained to remember what I had shared then and at other unguarded times in our friendship. Had I sabotaged any chance of offering pastoral support because of an unprofessional remark? Because he had been a listening ear and a person to whom I had self-disclosed the challenges of my work, would I still be able to offer professional support at this point in his life? Racking my memory, I wondered if the self-revealing I needed earlier in © The Author(s) 2020 A. Perry, Leadership Philosophy in the Fiction of C.S. Lewis, Christian Faith Perspectives in Leadership and Business, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-41508-2_6

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our friendship helped or hindered the guidance I attempted later when he needed a pastor. The instance opens a wider consideration. Can leaders be completely authentic—venting frustrations, hurts, betrayals, and worries and yet maintain a leadership posture? Leaders in various professions and places of responsibility face what exactly is appropriate self-revelation. Here are some questions leaders might ask around self-revelation: • Will knowing more about me help ease the follower’s anxiety, pain, or isolation? • How much of myself do I share? How much vulnerability is appropriate? • Can I entrust myself to a person to whom I am a leader without fear of judgment? • Will telling about myself threaten to dominate the conversation or create an expectation that my experience is prescriptive—even normative? The questions are not simply about self-preservation or power dynamics with the follower. Self-disclosure may also be a route to self-sabotage or a kind of martyrdom. The most extreme form may be a manipulative taking of one’s own life, but it may also be kinds of self-denial or self-­ promotion that are used to guide the actions of others. While it sounds strange, martyrdom is a temptation for leaders, in part because it may achieve such strong results (Heifetz, 1994, p. 246). In the face of such challenges, leaders may find themselves seeking wisdom and insight. Authentic leadership provides a helpful theoretical lens for these challenges. So does the fiction of C.S. Lewis. In this chapter, I will introduce authentic leadership, giving brief description and background to its key concepts. I will then introduce C.S. Lewis as an appropriate conversation partner, especially analyzing his use of the face as a trope, from whom we may discern wisdom for the challenges of authenticity in leadership. I will argue from Lewis that leaders influence out of authentic selves and that the leader may also determine, with great caution, aspects of their selves to keep hidden.

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Keeping It Real: Authentic Leadership Authenticity communicates something being real and genuine. But when applied to persons, is it merely a synonym for sincerity? Can one be aspirational and authentic at the same time—meaning, can a leader act into her best self even though her immediate actions do not convey the complex emotions that lie beneath the surface? Can the authentic leader project confidence while feeling doubt? Courage while feeling fear? Patience while roiling with hurry on the inside? Is this keeping it real? Authentic leadership emerged as an aide in the midst of this complexity. Growing out of an emphasis on positive psychology, the variety of definitions of authentic leadership include emphases on consistency between actions and values and words; self-awareness, self-regulation, and a stable self-identity. The authentic leader is one who can be trusted (Yukl, 2013, p. 351). Yet there remain tensions within authentic leadership. First, there may be the tension of the leader adjusting to certain situations. Authenticity does not mean refusing to adjust or being inflexible to different contexts (Harter, 2002, p. 390). Adapting to different contexts is not necessarily being inauthentic or deceitful. Instead, authenticity involves “owning one’s personal experiences, be they thoughts, emotions, needs, wants, preferences, or beliefs, processes captured by the injunction to ‘know oneself’” (p. 382). Authenticity involves knowing oneself and acting accordingly, not under the strain and constraint of the expectations of others. Second, there is a tension in self-knowledge. Authentic leadership involves differentiation based in self-understanding. That is, the leader knows himself and how he is different from others. Avolio and Gardner (2005), grounding authentic leadership in the psychology of Maslow and Rogers, say that authentic leaders know themselves and act “in tune” (p. 319) with themselves and not under others’ expectations. The result is congruence between outer and inner life. The tension is that aspects of the self remain hidden to every person. Authentic leaders may be in touch with who they are, but not all of who they are (Erickson, 1995). Finally, there is a tension in that authentic leaders do not simply reflect reality, but are agents involved in the construction of reality. Authentic leaders do not simply act with sincerity, but through self-regulation “[align] their values with their intentions and actions” (Avolio & Gardner, 2005, p. 325).

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The above is not an exhaustive list of potential tensions for the authentic leader. Further, these are not tensions to be resolved. Instead, the list acts as a starting point to invite further reflection in order to obtain wisdom in navigating these and other tensions. With this in mind, let’s turn to Lewis.

C.S. Lewis and Authentic Leadership So, what does Lewis have to say about the subject? Of course, Lewis is not working with the category of leadership in mind, but related concepts of self-awareness, stability of self, and disclosure can be found in his work. I propose considering wisdom for authentic leadership in light of Lewis’ use of the face and the mask as a trope. While “face” has several entries in Goffar’s index of Lewis work and terms (1998), none are explicitly connected to character or self-revelation or authenticity. Further, neither “mask” nor “veil” appears in the index. However, I hope this section will bear proof to the value of exploring Lewis with this theme in mind as has been done elsewhere (Manganiello, 2000, 2015). To begin, I offer three reasons why the face and the mask are important themes as it pertains to identity and disclosure by showing its prominence in Lewis. A Facial Theme in Fiction First, we should consider the themes of the face and mask because they are significant in two key works of fiction, Till We Have Faces and Pilgrim’s Regress. The thematic presence of faces, masks, and personas is prominent in Faces, first published in 1956. Lewis considered the work to be his best though it was not so well received by the public as his other fiction (Schakel, 2010, p. 281). The plot focuses on a young woman whose life and leadership are marked by wearing a mask (or veil), and her subsequent struggle for identity and relationship. Acting as a bookend to the other end of Lewis’ career, Pilgrim’s Regress was  Lewis’ first post-conversion work of fiction and contains similar themes. When its main character, John, a young boy in the midst of spiritual teaching, meets with a Steward (a pastor) he finds the fellow is pleasant and welcoming until he begins to talk of God. And then the steward puts on the mask. Prior to the mask, the Steward has a “red, round face” and is “very kind and full of jokes” (Lewis, 1933/2014, p. 6). But just before speaking of the Landlord (God), the Steward “took down a mask

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from the wall with a long white beard attached to it and suddenly clapped it on his face, so that his appearance was awful” (p. 6). In the Steward’s coaching of how John should respond to the question of whether or not John had broken any of the Landlord’s rules (sinned), Lewis writes that the Steward took the mask off and looked at John with his real face and said, “Better tell a lie, old chap, better tell a lie. Easiest for all concerned,” and popped the mask on his face all in a flash. John gulped and said quickly, “Oh, no sir.” “That is just as well,” said the Steward through the mask. “Because, you know, if you did break any of them and the Landlord got to know of it, do you know what he’d do to you?” “No, sir,” said John: and the Steward’s eyes seemed to be twinkling dreadfully through the holes of the mask. “He’d take you and shut you up for ever and ever in a black hole full of snakes and scorpions as large as lobsters.” (p. 7; italics mine).

This conversation with the Steward ends with the Steward taking off his mask and enjoying cake with John and, finally, sending him back to his parents (p. 8). The veil is not only used of human characters, but of God, as well. Specifically, Lewis uses the metaphor of the veil to describe the revealing work of God through mythology in Pilgrim’s Regress. Of the phenomenon of myth, God says, “But this is My inventing, this is the veil under which I have chosen to appear even from the first until now. For this end I made your senses and for this end your imagination, that you might see My face and live” (Lewis, 1933/2014, p.  196; italics added). A similar picture is depicted at the end of The Last Battle, where all creatures, without any other option, must look “straight in [Aslan’s] face” and their fate is revealed in the hatred and fear or the love (though with fright) expressed on their faces in response to Aslan’s face (Lewis, 1956/1980d, p. 144). Outside his fiction, the theme of seeing God’s face and its connection with salvation or damnation is also established. Lewis (1949/2001) writes, In the end that Face which is the delight or terror of the universe must be turned upon each of us either with one expression or with the other, either conferring glory inexpressible or inflicting shame that can never be cured or disguised. (p. 38)

Let’s draw back to Faces. The story is set in a small kingdom about two or three centuries before Christ (Schakel, 2010, p.  283). One of the book’s grand revelations happens during an encounter between Orual, the

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main character, an ugly woman who has lived the majority of her life and career as queen by wearing a veil, and the gods, who take exception to her wearing of the mask. Orual presents her case to the gods and comes to two realizations: First, she asks: “How can [the gods] meet us face to face till we have faces?” (Lewis, 1956/1978, p. 305). By this she means that so long as her identity is hidden to others, and even to herself, so will the identity of the gods be hidden to her. Second, of the gods, Orual says, “Before your face questions die away” (p. 319), by which she means that the complaint she has presented to the gods has lost its weight in light of their revealed identity. We shall return to these themes below, but for now they serve to establish the theme of face and masks and self-revealing within Lewis’ work. Facial coverings both reveal and hide aspects of characters. Facial Theme Outside Lewis’ Fiction Beyond the thematic use of face and masks in his fiction, we can consider this an important context for wisdom because, second, Lewis connects a person’s appearance (face) with their personality and character outside his fiction. Several examples emerge from his autobiography, Surprised by Joy. First, Lewis (1955/2017) describes himself as one who was considered to have a “look on his face”—a look which he was told to take off, ironically, when he was trying to show humility (p. 115)! Yet perhaps what was in Lewis’ face revealed something deeper. Lewis notes, “That ‘look’ which I had so often been told to ‘take off [my face]’ had apparently taken itself off—perhaps when I read Phantastes” (p.  231; italics mine). The transforming effect of Phantastes on Lewis’ imagination—Lewis claims his mind was baptized (p.  222)—should lead the reader to consider how Lewis’ face revealed this inner transformation, as well. Second, not only was Lewis judged by his face, but he judged others for their faces, too. After being tricked by an elder student at “Wyvern” (Malvern College, which he attended in 1913) Lewis goes into detail that it was not receiving a loud burp in his face that set Lewis off, but the very face—with “puffy bloated cheeks, the thick, moist, sagging lower lip, the yokel blend of drowsiness and cunning”—of the elder student which Lewis contemptibly judged (Lewis, 1955/2017, p. 127). A final example of character and the face connected in Surprised by Joy. Lewis (1955/2017) has a description of Winston Churchill looking like a frog. Lewis writes that Lord Big from his childhood story Boxen has a

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resonant voice, is immense in size, and is chivalrous, stormy, eloquent, and impulsive: “[Lord Big] was in many ways a prophetic portrait of Sir Winston Churchill as Sir Winston Churchill came to be during the last war” (p. 97). Lewis continues, “I have indeed seen photographs of that great statesman in which, to anyone who has known Boxen, the frog element was unmistakable” (p.  97). Did the froggy character precede Churchill in appearance or was Churchill’s appearance connected with the persona of Lord Big? Lewis’ connection of the character of Churchill with the character of Lord Big in their appearance reveals a potential connection between one’s inner life and appearance, tying the trope of the face to one’s character. Transformation of the Face Third, Lewis notes the transformation of his face when he was readmitted to the world of Joy and desire. After admitting the error of his Materialist worldview and now allowing for the potential goodness of the spiritual realm, Lewis admits that his longing was re-opened. Lewis (1955/2017) writes, There was a transitional moment of delicious uneasiness, and then—instantaneously—the long inhibition was over, the dry desert lay behind, I was off once more into the land of longing, my heart at once broken and exalted as it had never been since the old days at Bookham…. I had simply been ordered—or, rather, compelled—to ‘take that look off my face.’ And never to resume it either. (p. 265)

Lewis’ bare face—free of the defiant look that had plagued him and that revealed an inner disposition that needed a kind of correction—was set free for longing and desire. Finally, we may consider using the face and mask as a context for further analysis because George MacDonald, Lewis’ confessed “master” and author of the book which baptized Lewis’ imagination, uses the face in a symbolic way. In an 1860 letter to his wife, MacDonald (1994) writes, As stories they just want the one central spot of red—the wonderful thing which, whether in a fairy story or a word or a human being, is the life and depth—whether or truth or humor or pathos—the eye to the face of it—the thing that shows the unshowable. (p. 133, italics mine)

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While on its own this might reveal relatively little, the line does serve to confirm our hypothesis that the use of face and mask may be of wisdom to authentic leadership in its use in self-disclosure, authenticity, transformation, and self-awareness: that the face shows the unshowable. The Role of the Face: Showing the Unshowable To test this hypothesis, let’s turn our attention to the Chronicles of Narnia for a brief review of the role of the face. I used a version of rhetorical analysis, exploring the text’s “sensory-aesthetic texture” to examine the Chronicles’ text. Vernon Robbins (1996/2002) describes this texture of a text as examining what the text does to “attack” and not simply inform. What does the text contain that draws the reader into vivid imagination and meaning? So, I will be testing the hypothesis that the face reveals the unshowable, or stands for more than it is, by seeing the function of language of face, eyes, facial expressions.  he Face Reveals the Character’s Inner Life T First, in the Chronicles of Narnia, the face is used to reveal the character’s inner life, otherwise hidden to other characters, and to reveal a character’s true identity when it is in doubt. Upon their first encounter with Aslan, the Pevensie children remark his “royal, strong, peaceful” face that is also “sad, as well,” because of Edmund’s absence. When Peter admits to his fault in Edmund’s treachery, Aslan is said to observe him with “great, unchanging eyes” (Lewis, 1950/1980a, p. 118). We see Aslan’s empathic, consistent demeanor. Shortly thereafter, at the shearing of his mane before his impending death, the face of Aslan looks small and different, but then “braver, more beautiful, more patient than ever before” (p. 139), revealing Aslan’s faithful character, even to death. Moving on to Prince Caspian, the young prince’s tutor, Cornelius, is said to have a “very wise, very ugly, very kind” face (Lewis, 1951/1962, p. 45). Yet while the young Prince still considers him to be a human, even after Cornelius’ teachings about old Narnia, it is only when Cornelius reveals his face clearly that he is recognized as a Dwarf—though he is part man and part Dwarf. Later in Prince Caspian, while he does not know talking animals personally, Caspian realizes that there is a difference between talking and non-talking animals by their faces: Trufflehunter is said to have a face larger, friendlier, and more intelligent than any other badger’s face (p. 62) and Pattertwig, the squirrel, is easily seen to be a talking beast by the look in his face

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(p. 68). Finally, a bear that is shot by Susan is revealed as not a talking bear by his face (p. 107). Caspian’s identity is also revealed by his face. In The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, Caspian is caught and brought to the slave trade. Upon capture, his identity is to be kept secret (Lewis, 1952/1994, p.  40), but at the market, Caspian is purchased by the Lord Bern, who says, “I bought you for your face” (p. 46). After disclosing his true identity, Caspian is challenged by Lord Bern on how Bern should know the truth of Caspian’s claim, to which Caspian promptly replies, “Firstly by my face” (p.  46). The initial favor that the Lord Bern shows to Caspian is right and confirmed by Caspian’s face. In The Horse and His Boy, King Lune confirms Shasta’s story of impending attack from the Calormenes by seeing truth in Shasta’s face (Lewis, 1954/1980b, p. 123) and Shasta’s initial view of King Lune reveals him as “apple-cheeked” and “twinkling eyed” to go along with his jolliness (p.  122). Faces reveal these characters’ honest intentions and virtuous character. On the other hand, when Rabadash is seen to be another kind of person back in Tashbaan than he was in Narnia, he is said to show “another face” (p. 57). The face reveals the inner life of characters in The Magician’s Nephew, Silver Chair, and Last Battle. In The Magician’s Nephew, Uncle Andrew, a weak, dishonorable, ambitious man is said to have “awful eyes” (Lewis, 1955/1980c, p. 12), an ugly look on his face that betrays his faux valiance (p. 23), and a hateful smile (p. 28). Uncle Andrew’s godmother and inspiration, Mrs. Lefay, is said to have “not a nice face” in a photograph (p. 22). Lewis also uses the faces of images to communicate an otherwise unknown story, where the faces of the leaders of the ruined city of Charn move from “nice,” “kind,” and “wise,” to “solemn,” to “proud, strong, and happy” but “cruel,” to cruel but no longer happy, to despairing, until finally the face of the one who will become the White Witch is described as having a “fierceness and pride that…took your breath away” (p. 48). Later we are told that the witch’s eyes have such a “flash” and her lip such a “curl” that she is revealed to be a great Queen (p. 53), whereas the Queen sees neither royalty nor magic upon Digory’s face (p. 69). On the positive side of this phenomenon, Prince Rilian in The Silver Chair, is said to have a “look” of the Kings of Narnia which no one could mistake (Lewis, 1953/1970, p.  147). Finally, in The Last Battle, when Tirian has called for help and sees the friends of Narnia in their world, Polly is said to have wise, merry, twinkling eyes and Peter has the look of

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king and warrior (Lewis, 1956/1980d, p. 45) and the friends of Narnia see that Tirian has a Narnian look (p. 46). The preceding gives some superficial affirmation of the role of the face. Let me take this a bit deeper. The Voyage of the Dawn Treader also has scenes where the face reveals the inner life of the character. Eustace, after being changed into a dragon, finally recognizes himself truly: “the dragon face in the pool was his own reflection” (Lewis, 1952/1994, p. 91). While this might be taken literally in the story, the dragonish inner life of another character, Caspian, implies that Eustace sees his own character truly when it is revealed in dragon form. A similar phenomenon happens with Caspian and his face. Caspian’s greed for gold is revealed on Deathwater Island where he and Edmund squabble for the rights to this Island where the water turns objects to gold. When Caspian begins to realize the riches that will belong to the King who owns this island, “his face flushed” (p. 128). The dual meaning of flushed—both to blush and to be well-supplied with money—brings Caspian’s character to his face. What should make him blush in humility, actually reveals his dragonish greed for more riches. But why should the reader make this connection of dragonish character to Caspian? First, because the Dawn Treader, a ship in dragon form, is the finest ship built under Caspian’s reign (Lewis, 1952/1994, p. 29). Second, Caspian’s cabin is said to be decorated, in part, with dragons (p. 18; Ward, 2008). Putting these together, we see that the outer dragon of Caspian’s ship mirrors the inner dragon of Caspian’s cabin, just like Caspian’s outer greed on his face reveals his dragonish heart. Later in the book, when Caspian’s selfish desires are challenged by his friends, he retreats to his cabin where he is transformed from his dragonish self. Just as Eustace could not take off his dragonish self on his own, but needed deeper transformation, so it is fitting that Caspian’s later transformation takes place in his cabin. And how does the transformation take place? Upon seeing the face of Aslan, with Aslan’s “terrible eyes” (Lewis, 1952/1994, p. 240). And notice how Caspian emerges from the cabin: with a transformed face, a face now white and with tears (p.  240). Whereas the water reflected Eustace’s dragonish self in reflection, the water of the Island subtly revealed Caspian’s dragonish self in his flushed face. I will discuss transformation on the face more below.  he Influence of the Face T Second, in the Chronicles of Narnia, the face is said to influence others to act, to stop action, or to confirm that right action was taken. Let’s start with

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the face influencing others. Prince Rabadash, in A Horse and His Boy, tries to scare and intimidate by his face. Lewis (1954/1980b) describes Rabadash’s attempt at fearmongering by using descriptions of Rabadash’s eyes, ears, mouth, and grin (p. 170). Next, consider Digory’s face in the Magician’s Nephew. First, a negative example is when Digory condemns Polly’s unwillingness to strike the bell that will ultimately re-awaken Jadis as being “just like a girl,” to which Polly insightfully notes that he “looked just like his Uncle Andrew” when he made the remark (Lewis, 1955/1980c, p. 67). Digory’s intimidating words were connected to his face. But a positive example, using a comparison between Digory’s face and Aslan’s face, is more telling. The reader’s introduction to Digory is by his “grubby face” popping over a fence—a face that is wet with tears and dirty (p. 9), an image that is reinforced when Digory must hold back his tears (p. 10). Digory’s face reveals the story of a young boy, his working (and subsequently absent) father, and his deathly ill mother. Digory’s face comes back to mind just before he is commissioned by Aslan to retrieve an apple to undo the wrong he brought into Narnia. At this sending, when Digory is desperate for Aslan to do something to heal his mother, he is said to have a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes (p.  131). When Digory, downcast, finally dares to look into the lion’s face, what does he see? That Aslan has bent his “tawny face” near to Digory’s own and that Aslan has his own “great shining tears” (p. 131). These tears, reminiscent of Digory’s teary, grubby face, tell Digory that Aslan might be sorrier about Digory’s mother than even Digory himself (p. 131). It is these very tears that confirm to Digory later on that he made the right choice not to use the apple for the personal benefit of healing his mother, though the Witch had tempted him to do so (p.  152). Aslan’s face inspired right action and confirmed it. Another example of influence and the face comes from Prince Caspian. After arriving in Narnia, the troupe of Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy are en route to Caspian, to whom they have been sent. The route is debatable and the landscape, so long after they were last in Narnia, is strange. They need leadership from Aslan, yet Lucy is the only one who can see him. The result is a kind of isolation. Lucy cannot confer with the others for wisdom or insight and so she must rely on her own courage to follow Aslan. And in this key time of leadership, we are told that Lucy knows Aslan’s wishes “by his face” (Lewis, 1951/1962, p. 111). Let’s stay with Lucy for another example of influence. In The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, the face is prominent in the account when Lucy comes

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across a spell that promises to make the utterer beautiful. Lucy “peers at the pictures with her face close to the page” (Lewis, 1952/1994, p. 153). One of those pictures is of Lucy, with her “mouth open and a rather terrible expression on her face” (p.  153). The pictured Lucy and the real Lucy “looked into each other’s eyes and the real Lucy looked away…dazzled by the beauty of the other Lucy; though she could still see a sort of likeness to herself in that beautiful face” (p. 153). While the result of Lucy saying the spell to become beautiful will be a diminishment of Susan’s beauty and a “nasty expression” on Susan’s face (p. 154), even so, Lucy resolves to say the spell. When she goes to read the words, however, “she found the great face of a lion, of The Lion, Aslan himself, staring into hers” (p. 154, italics mine). She “knew the expression on his face quite well. He was growling and you could see most of his teeth. She became horribly afraid and turned over the page at once” (pp. 154–55). Aslan’s face influences Lucy to make a different choice than she otherwise would have.  ransformation Found on the Face T In the Chronicles of Narnia, the face is the locus of personal transformation. While we have already seen this in the story of Caspian, several other examples jump readily to mind. First, in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, the Witch is said to have a white face that is “proud and cold and stern” with a “very red mouth” (Lewis, 1950/1980a, p. 33). Upon eating the witch’s food, Edmund is said to have a red face with sticky fingers and a sticky mouth (p. 39), connecting the witch’s face and Edmund’s transformed face. This transformation at the witch’s influence revealed in Edmund’s face is confirmed by Mr. Beaver who says that Edmund had the “look” of one who had been with the Witch and “eaten her food. You can always tell them…if you’ve lived long in Narnia, something about their eyes” (p. 80, italics mine). Let’s turn to Prince Caspian. Just before addressing the treachery at work within Aslan’s How with Nikabrik, the werewolf, and the hag, Lucy sees that Peter and Edmund now look more like men than boys and show no sign of weariness, though they have traveled great distance and in difficult circumstance (Lewis, 1951/1962, p. 135). Likewise, a little bit later after spending more time in the Narnian atmosphere, Edmund is seen to have “death” in his face, a remark from a foe, the Lord Glozelle (p. 156). Edmund’s face is no longer that of the boy who had arrived and produced no confidence in Trumpkin regarding Edmund’s potential in battle. Prior

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to both of these events, the troupe of Peter, Susan, Edmund, Lucy, and Trumpkin are trying to decide their route to join Caspian and his army, but have come into some difficulty. Upon seeing Aslan once again, though once more Lucy is the only one, it is said that Lucy’s “face had changed completely and her eyes shone” (p. 110). When Lucy is unable to influence her peers to follow Aslan, Aslan reaches out to her one more time. Lucy must own her disobedience even while the others will not follow. When she protests, “The Lion looked straight into her eyes,” but Lucy resists, saying, “Don’t look at me like that” (p. 124), though she finally accepts the correction and, later, though avoiding his face, buries her head in his mane, feeling lion strength go into her. Lucy is subsequently pronounced a lioness (p. 126). Her face, connected with Aslan’s, is the site of transformation. Prince Rilian from The Silver Chair also has such a transformation revealed in his face. While he is initially transformed in a negative way upon the disappearance of his mother—a change confirmed by the “look in his eyes” (Lewis, 1955/1970, p.  50)—his positive transformation is also communicated using similar features. While he is yet under the spell of the Lady of the Green Kirtle, Rilian “looked both bold and kind, though there was something about his face that didn’t seem quite right” (p.  131). Upon destroying the chair, however, “the something wrong, whatever it was, had vanished from his face” (p. 147). In A Horse and His Boy, Shasta’s transformation is connected with his face. Left behind by faster riders from Archenland, Shasta must find the pass through the mountains from Archenland into Narnia. Aslan intervenes, however, providing a way in the darkness, eventually illuminating the way by his own radiance. “After one glance at the Lion’s face [Shasta] slipped out of the saddle and fell at its feet” (Lewis, 1954/1980b, p. 131). And Shasta is speechless. Lewis emphasizes the point: “He couldn’t say anything but then he didn’t want to say anything, and he knew he needn’t say anything” (131). This lack of speech is noteworthy because no less than five times earlier in the story, Shasta is told to be quiet (p. 17; p. 33; p. 38; p. 55; p. 65). Upon seeing the face of Aslan, he is a different person. And Shasta’s face is included as the transformation is completed: Upon Aslan’s mysterious departure, Shasta wonders if it is all a dream. But of course it is not. Proof is the enormous paw print in the ground, which produces a well and spring of water, which Shasta uses to wash his face, be refreshed, and understand how he passaged safely through the mountains (p. 132).

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This transformation is noteworthy. At the story’s beginning, Shasta is not insightful, in two ways: First, Shasta believes he is the son of a Calormene named Arsheesh, though he does not love the man (regretfully since boys should love their fathers [p. 16]), nor does he look like Arsheesh, who is dark-skinned while Shasta is “fair and white” (p.  14). Second, Shasta does not recognize Bree as a talking horse until Bree actually speaks (p.  17), though the face revealed other talking animals many times in other books. Upon seeing the face of Aslan, Shasta has been transformed to be wise with his words and keen with his mind. Here are two negative examples of the face revealing transformation. When Rabadash is changed into a donkey at the end of The Horse and His Boy, the transformation starts with his face—the ears, face, and nose change into those of a donkey first (Lewis, 1954/1980b, p. 171). In The Magician’s Nephew, after eating the forbidden apple, Jadis is said to have a “horrid stain round her mouth” and that she looks “stronger and prouder than ever…but her face was deadly white, white as salt” (Lewis, 1955/1980c, p. 149). Chronologically, this is the final use of “White” in Magician’s Nephew. Up until this point, the Witch has never been the “White Witch,” but from the start of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, she is referred to as Jadis only once (Lewis, 1950/1980a, p. 57), but her first (p. 23) and consistent title is “White Witch.” Her character is now set in the transformation of her face. Lewis structures the story to reveal the hardened character of the witch in her face. One final example of transformation revealed in the face. The first King and Queen of Narnia, Frank and Helen, are revealed to be of new character by their faces. Neither hair nor clothes that made them look so different from their old selves. Their faces had a new expression, especially the King’s. All the sharpness and cunning and quarrelsomeness which he had picked up as a London cabby seemed to have been washed away, and the courage and kindness which he had always had were easier to see. Perhaps it was the air of the young world that had done it, or talking with Aslan, or both. (Lewis, 1955/1980c, pp. 154–55; italics mine)

How complete is this transformation revealed by their faces? As Fledge, the regular horse turning talking, winged horse, says: “My old master’s been changed nearly as much as I have! Why, he’s a real master now”

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(p. 155). Just as royalty had been seen in Jadis’ face, now royalty is revealed in the Cabbie’s transformed face.

Risky Wisdom: Leaders and Their Masks The previous section provided  evidence from a variety of themes that Lewis is a good conversation partner about authentic leadership with his trope of the face and masks. Identity, transformation, influence are all found in the face. As people are known, they can influence and influence from their very selves. We now move to consider what wisdom might be found that is consistent with Lewis’ thought. We will see the importance but also the dangers of veils/masks in order to hide the self from others. To do so, we will delve deeply into Till We Have Faces, specifically considering the book’s main character, Orual. Orual is the eldest child, a daughter, of the King of Glome. The King is an anxious, abusive man, desperate for a son, but for whom no son is forthcoming. What he has is daughters, including Orual, a physically ugly child. The combination of Orual’s ugliness and the King’s cruelty come together when trouble hits the kingdom and a sacrifice must be made to their god, Ungit. Though Orual is a willing sacrifice on behalf of the people to appease the deity, the King scoffs because of her ugliness. The King holds his daughter before a mirror—an object of the King’s pride, such that he keeps it not in his bedchamber but in his hall where it can be seen—and scorns her appearance. “‘Ungit asked for the best in the land as her son’s bride,’ he said. ‘And you’d give her that’” (Lewis, 1956/1978, p. 70). The contrast is striking: The King is proud of a mirror and spiteful to his daughter, a cherished object is used to scorn a subject that should be loved. As the story unfolds, Orual dons a veil and maintains it throughout her life (Lewis, 1956/1978, p. 190). The veil serves as a way to protect herself and to lead the country well in contrast to her abusive father, but the veil also serves as a way to describe Orual’s changing identity. Orual writes, the “Queen of Glome had more and more part of me and Orual had less and less” (p. 235). The mask changed Orual. The final result of wearing the veil is complete estrangement—even from herself. This loss of self is revealed when Orual stands before the gods—which was Orual’s point in writing her story—but realizes that she has become blind to herself. Orual writes, “How can the gods meet us face to face until we have faces?” (p. 305).

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Because the mask changed Orual, we might simply condemn the wearing of masks by leaders. After all, authentic leadership requires transparency. However, Lewis presents Orual as a more complex character. To begin, let me point out an inconsistency in Orual’s character. Because the whole first part of the book is Orual’s complaint against the gods which she retracts in the second part, we realize that Orual is not necessarily a reliable witness throughout the story. However, while in the first part of the book, in describing her leadership and legacy as a ruler, she seems to become very reliable. Her record is humble, even self-effacing. Describing her reign, Orual has the humility to recognize that her leadership is buttressed by “two very good counselors” (Lewis, 1956/1978, p. 236). This reliability is essential because of Orual’s account of her leadership, in contrast to that of her people, which follows. Instead of accepting the lavish praise that the public bestows, Orual records a more chastened account. And in this context as a reliable witness, Orual writes approvingly of her mask for leadership: My second strength lay in my veil. I could never have believed, till I had proof of it, what it would do for me. From the very first…as soon as my face was invisible, people began to discover all manner of beauties in my voice. (Lewis, 1956/1978, p. 237)

In the persona created under the veil, Orual changes the culture of the palace by hanging an unjust, scheming busybody named Batta (p. 239); she frees slaves, facilitates their marriages, and provides them land and cottages to make a life, inspiring their loyalty; she develops systems of economic prosperity and social justice; she funds education for her counselors and enables the building of a modest but “noble library” (p. 241). The reader recognizes that Orual’s just, caring, and fruitful leadership is facilitated by her mask. Yet even though Orual’s admirable leadership was facilitated by masking her face, the effect is devastating. Legends grow about what face is beneath Orual’s mask. Some say that there is a great beauty or a great terror. Some say there is an animal’s face. Orual writes: “The best story was that I had no face at all; if you stripped off my veil you’d find emptiness” (Lewis, 1956/1978, p. 237). In so writing, Orual has written more than she knows: Truly there was no self beneath the mask. While her role as Queen was facilitated and performed with honor, there was a loss of self as Orual. Upon the death of Bardia, one of her aforementioned counselors, Orual

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visits his widow, Ansit. The conversation is a moment of challenge to Orual when Ansit reflects to her the woman she has become: She has gorged her life on the lives of others (p. 275). What Ansit enjoyed of her husband, Bardia, was only what the Queen had left. While she had provided for her realm with good leadership, the Queen had no self but only what she had taken from others.

Discerning a Philosophy of Leadership C.S. Lewis’ use of the face, veils, and masks helps us to develop wisdom for leadership. Lewis suggests that there is such a thing as authentic leadership: by affirming that the face—one’s identity and authenticity—will influence others, Lewis both encourages and warns leaders that leadership is valuable but that self-awareness is essential to keep a leader from passing on elements of themselves that are not virtuous. With this in mind, Lewis helps us to think more deeply about the value and risk of hiding our faces behind masks. By wearing masks, leaders might self-protect from time to time and leaders might protect their followers. However, leaders also risk an element of hiddenness to themselves and others that is detrimental to their relationships and therefore to their leadership and followers. Let’s explore these themes more in depth. Mind the Influence Leaders must beware that their authenticity will influence others. While the morality of leadership is not a new consideration, it must be freshly applied within authentic leadership. Yukl (2013) considers authentic leadership under the broader category of ethical leadership, but authentic leadership is not always considered with a moral component (Shamir & Eilam, 2005). Authenticity—being internally aligned, self-aware, etc.—does not necessarily make for moral leadership. Leaders who operate with authenticity may do so to negative consequences or out of an immoral self. For example, the White Witch/Queen Jadis influenced Edmund to develop selfishness and betrayal; Andrew influenced Digory to reflect moral exceptionalism and sexism. Both the White Witch and Andrew were being authentic— true to their values and personalities, aligning their actions with desired ends—but they were also forming followers in harmful ways and to have immoral character. As the Queen said to Digory, “You must learn, child, that what would be wrong for you or for any of the common people is not

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wrong in a great Queen such as I. The weight of the world is on our shoulders. We must be freed from all rules. Ours is a high and lonely destiny.” The reader is then told that “Digory suddenly remembered that Uncle Andrew had used the exact same words” (Lewis, 1955/1980c, p. 61). No doubt these were authentic and revealing words, if morally misguided. If leaders are authentic in misguided action, then they should anticipate the immoral though authentic image their followers will reflect. There will be leadership as people are authentic with other people. Self-­ awareness will make leaders mindful of what aspect of themselves is worth seeing formed in others. Of course, this would have been no concern to Queen Jadis or to Uncle Andrew, but it may produce humility and temper the actions of those would-be authentic leaders who are concerned with the moral formation of their followers. While the adage “to thine own self be true” is frequent in authentic leadership consideration, the self must not be the sole moral standard of the leader (Luthans & Avolio, 2003). Humble leaders, then, will be mindful of when they must keep aspects of their moral lives hidden from followers. Leaders will be mindful of the necessary, two-edged nature of mask-wearing. This is a complex, even counter-­intuitive point. I am using the mask/veil as a symbol of keeping aspects of oneself hidden from followers, as did Orual. Masks/veils are necessary for two reasons: first, for a measure of self-protection; second, for a measure of service to the follower. I will take each reason in turn, offering the potential for good and the potential for harm in mask-wearing. Masks Can Protect the Leader First, mask-wearing is necessary for self-protection of the leader. It was mentioned above that leaders might be tempted to kinds of martyrdom—self-­ sacrifice that eases the pressure on the leader or removes them from responsibility. This is one strategy of dealing with treachery and the risk of leadership. Indeed, Orual is herself tempted to martyrdom by giving herself to save her sister from being given to Ungit. But another option is to “reduce the likelihood of personal injury” (Heifetz, 1994, p. 235). This might include hiding cautiously and not self-disclosing to subordinates. While writing in the context of pastoral leadership, Willimon’s (2002) insights are readily applied across different leadership roles. Drawing on the psychology of Carl Jung, Willimon introduces the concept of “masks” or “personas” for self-protection of the leader. Willimon writes, “For Jung, the persona is that psychological mask that we put over our real

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inner feelings when we must relate to others. In the church, [pastors] appear to be deeply concerned about people’s problems, even when we really are not” (p. 318). Willimon continues: “The persona is not necessarily an act or a deceitful charade. It helps protect us by keeping parts of ourselves hidden” (p. 318). The point is not to deceive, but to act appropriately and professionally. For Orual, the mask protected her from her father. “To see his face while he could not see mine seemed to give me a kind of power” (Lewis, 1956/1978, 190; italics mine). Orual’s direct challenge to her father’s leadership is accepted by her father in a scoffing way, but the reader senses a shift. After this episode of wearing the veil in her father’s presence, Orual is never struck again by her father, she never again fears him, and she takes on the functional leadership of the kingdom of Glome (p. 191). Yet donning a mask is not without dangers. Heifetz and Linsky (2017) acknowledge that the dangers of leadership are real and that self-­protection makes sense. However, when you cover yourself up, you risk losing something as well. In the struggle to save yourself, you can give up too many of those qualities that are the essence of being alive, like innocence, curiosity, and compassion. To avoid getting hurt too badly, it is easy to turn innocence into cynicism, curiosity into arrogance, and compassion into callousness. (p. 225)

The danger of such self-protection is not simply in losing innocence, but in losing identity. This is why self-awareness is so essential: the leader must know what kind of mask they are wearing so they may know how it needs to be taken off around those who are completely safe. Orual had not realized that in her loss of self, that she had gorged on the lives of others. Bardia and the Fox, her two closest friends and counselors, were both willing advisors but also victims of her mask. She did not know that beneath her mask really was no face, at all, and that lack of identity contributed to the stealing of Bardia’s life. Masks Can Serve the Needs of the Follower Second, mask wearing is necessary to serve the needs of the follower. Consider God’s purpose of wearing the veil that Lewis notes in Pilgrim’s Regress. The veil was not to hide God indefinitely, but to conceal in the short term in order to be unconcealed in the long term. The full brunt of God could not be experienced in one moment. Just as the Dufflepuds

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were not able to see Aslan for many generations (Lewis, 1952/1994, p.  162), so does God conceal with others in mind. Likewise, authentic leaders will deploy wisdom to know what genuine aspects of their life and leadership can be known without being (1) overwhelming, (2) misleading, or (3) a hindrance to the follower. In this regard, the mask is not only about self-protection, but for the sake of, or in service to, the follower. Willimon (2002) continues his discussion, started above, by saying, [The mask/persona] is the professional face that we present to the world in order to fulfill our responsibilities. The pastor is not being deceitful when he goes and expresses sympathy and care for [a parishioner in grief]. The pastor is putting his own personal feelings aside in order to accomplish the greater good of offering pastoral care to a grieving person. (p. 318)

Consider the insight of authentic leadership here: The leader is not being disingenuous or deceitful by wearing this mask; the leader is not changing their self for manipulative purposes or accepting the expectations of others in martyrdom. The leader is putting on their best self, exercising discretion so the follower can best be served without compromising the leader’s own values. These masks for serving are not about compromising values; instead, masks may be displays of those very values when the leader is tempted to act otherwise. Andy Crouch (2016) notes that leaders may bear burdens for the sake of their followers. It is not inauthentic of the leader to bear vulnerabilities that nobody else sees, especially when followers have no power to remedy the problem or address the burden borne by the leader (p. 122). Note the differences between the masks: the first mask was about self-­ protection; this mask of service may actually cover the false-self that the leader wishes to leave behind. The leader may cover feelings or attitudes of jealousy or apathy that would otherwise cripple or mislead the follower. Just like self-awareness was vital above, however, so that the leader had safe people around whom the mask could come off, so must the leader be selfaware that such a false- or pseudo-self (of jealousy, apathy, etc.) still exists. The mask, then, that covers the false-self must come off around safe people, who will hold the leader accountable and who will appropriately challenge the false-self, even while the leader is loved in the whole complex self. Two insights emerge from the complexity of Orual’s character. First, we note that Orual dons the mask as an adolescent. The mask, though at

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first hiding her identity on a secret and forbidden mission, also helps her to adapt to different roles that are being thrust upon her. The mask allows Orual to exert leadership in roles that were previously unfamiliar to her. This psychological move matches the experience of adolescents who must navigate different identities in different contexts (Harter, 2002, pp. 384–385). Teens may wear different masks to see which self they want to adopt in the long term. Orual’s choice to don and maintain the veil against her father’s demands is an act of the self for Orual. To don the mask is her choice; she is the veiled person at her own choosing. Outside of donning the veil, the reader doubts if Orual could have withstood her father’s tyranny and exhibited any kind of burgeoning leadership. However, the mask that facilitated her service also hindered her relationship with one of her advisors, the Fox. Upon returning from her mission to rescue Psyche, Orual, though unveiled, does not tell the Fox her secret (pp. 188–89). His knowledge that she has a secret from him though she is unveiled goes to show how the veil has already started to inhibit their relationship. Even in the midst of mask-wearing for the purpose of serving, there must remain a genuine relationship for there to be authentic leadership (Avolio & Gardner, 2005, p. 316). While leaders may use masks to navigate the anxieties of their various responsibilities, neither in denial of themselves nor to manipulate others, but as ways to protect the self and serve others, authentic leaders will maintain genuine relationships with some—perhaps a select few—for whom the identities they must navigate are as simple as possible. For example, the leader must have people with whom they are simply friend or spouse. From the field of pastoral ministry, pastors are encouraged to have an opportunity to de-role, to take off the mask, otherwise they will have a life of posturing, suppressing true feelings, and losing touch with the real self. Willimon (2002) concludes, When too much energy is expended in keeping up this mask, when there is no chance to move out of the role, take off the mask, and let down our image, there is a fundamental disjunction between who we are and the role that we play. (p. 319).

When the mask is never taken off, it is impossible to be an authentic leader because there is no self to reveal authentically. Like one of the stories told of the Queen of Glome, we might have no face beneath the mask.

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A final consideration that risks overcomplicating this discussion: are there masks upon masks? While even the question of whether we might cover some masks with other masks risks presenting a rabbit hole with no bottom, it might also allow for ultimate clarity. I am arguing from Lewis that some masks are helpful and necessary for the leader, but that they also present challenges for the leader in relationships and their own personhood. A kind of pretending might also be active in transforming a person into the person they want to become (Lewis, 1952/1997, p. 156). When the mask is worn for appropriate protection or healthy leadership, it is good. However, the mask that is a façade, an “[attempt] to act as a perfect person for a time” (West, Oswald, & Guzman, 2018, p. 21), is best considered as an unhealthy mask. The leader who is in touch with their true self through relationships with safe and trusted persons will be aware of when they are tempted to make such a false presentation. C.S. Lewis shares briefly of just such a relationship with one from his battalion who died in the First World War. Johnson was a youth like Lewis, but able for verbal dispute and argument. He was also a critical thinker who wanted to live truthfully, chastely, and dutifully. In this friend’s presence, Lewis did not show himself to be unconcerned with these values— though in reality he was unconcerned. Lewis (1955/2017) writes, There was no distinction between us on the point [of values] and I do not think he ever suspected the truth about me. I was at no pains to display [my lack of concern for Johnson’s values]. If this is hypocrisy, then I must conclude that hypocrisy can do a man good. To be ashamed of what you were about to say, to pretend that something which you had meant seriously was only a joke—this is an ignoble part. But it is better than not to be ashamed at all. And the distinction between pretending you are better than you are and beginning to be better in reality is finer than moral sleuthhounds conceive. (p. 236)

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Conclusion For leaders to deal with the tensions of leadership, I have suggested that authentic leadership provides a helpful guide. Leaders must align their selves with their words and actions. They must be self-aware and selfrevealing. At the same time, tensions exist for leaders, including tensions of not serving followers well, overwhelming followers, or presuming upon followers  through their self-revealing. Fictional leaders from C.S.  Lewis provide wisdom for appropriate mask wearing in self-­protection and in service to the follower, but also illustrate the inherent risks of wearing masks. Leaders might wear masks from time to time to protect themselves, their followers, and even to act into greater leadership and as better characters, but leaders must also pursue relationships where no such mask is necessary in order to stay in touch with their current self, to understand this self accurately.

References Avolio, B.  J., & Gardner, W.  L. (2005). Authentic leadership development: Getting to the root of positive forms of leadership. The Leadership Quarterly, 16(3), 315–338. Crouch, A. (2016). Strong and Weak: Embracing a Life of Love, Risk and True Flourishing. InterVarsity Press. Downer’s Grove, Illinios: InterVarsity Press. Erickson, R. J. (1995). The importance of authenticity for self and society. Symbolic Interaction, 18(2), 121–144. Goffar, J. (1998). The C. S. Lewis index: A Comprehensive guide to Lewis’s writings and ideas. Wheaton, IL: Crossway. Harter, S. (2002). Authenticity. In C. R. Snyder & S. J. Lopez (Eds.), Handbook of positive psychology (pp. 382–394). New York: Oxford University Press. Heifetz, R. (1994). Leadership without easy answers. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Heifetz, R., & Linsky, M. (2017). Leadership on the line, with a new preface: Staying alive through the dangers of change. Boston, MA: Harvard Business Press. Lewis, C.  S. (1962). Prince Caspian. Harmondsworth, UK: Puffin Books. (Original work published in 1951). Lewis, C. S. (1970). The Silver chair. New York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1953). Lewis, C.  S. (1978). Till we have faces. London: Fount. (Original work published 1956). Lewis, C.  S. (1980a). The Lion, the witch and the wardrobe. London: Lions. (Original work published 1950).

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Lewis, C. S. (1980b). The Horse and his boy. London: Lions. (Original work published 1954). Lewis, C. S. (1980c). The Magician’s nephew. London: Lions. (Original work published 1955). Lewis, C.  S. (1980d). The Last battle. London: Lions. (Original work published 1956). Lewis, C. S. (1994). The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. New York: HarperCollins. (Original work published 1952). Lewis, C. S. (1997). Mere Christianity. London: Fount. (Original work published in 1952). Lewis, C. S. (2001). The Weight of glory and other addresses. New York: HarperOne. (Original work published in 1949). Lewis, C. S. (2014). The Pilgrim’s regress. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. (Original work published in 1933). Lewis, C.  S. (2017). Surprised by joy: The Shape of my early life. New  York: HarperOne. (Original work published in 1955). Luthans, F., & Avolio, B.  J. (2003). Authentic Leadership Development. In K. S. Cameron, J. E. Dutton, & R. E. Quinn (Eds.), Positive organizational scholarship (pp. 241–258). San Francisco, CA: Berrett-Koehler. MacDonald, G. (1994). An Expression of character: The Letters of George MacDonald. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Manganiello, D. (2000). “Till We Have Faces”: From Idolatry to Revelation. Mythlore, 23.1(87), 31–45. Manganiello, D. (2015). The Epiphany of the face: Visions of love in Dante and C.S.  Lewis. In D.  Pietropaolo (Ed.), Dante and the Christian imagination (pp. 203–226). New York/Ottawa, Canada: Legas Publishing. Robbins, V. K. (2002). The Tapestry of early Christian discourse: Rhetoric, society and ideology. London: Routledge. (Original work published 1996). Schakel, P. J. (2010). Till We Have Faces. In R. MacSwain & M. Ward (Eds.), The Cambridge companion to C.S.  Lewis (pp.  281–293). Cambridge, U.K.: Cambridge University Press. Shamir, B., & Eilam, G. (2005). “What’s your story?” A life-stories approach to authentic leadership development. The Leadership Quarterly, 16(3), 395–417. Ward, M. (2008). Planet Narnia: The seven heavens in the imagination of C.S. Lewis. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. West, J. L., Oswald, R. M., & Guzman, N. (2018). Emotional intelligence for religious leaders. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Willimon, W.  H. (2002). Pastor: The theology and practice of ordained ministry. Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press. Yukl, G. (2013). Leadership in organizations (8th ed.). Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall.

CHAPTER 7

Upsetting a Basket of Deplorable Words: Overcoming Dark Leadership

Introduction He sat across from me in what was about to become a performance review from hell. I was young in management and found myself unprepared for the leadership moment that I was facing. The review was 90% positive, but the final 10% was not just proverbial. It was paramount. Some negative habits threatened the employee’s success. I hadn’t planned on addressing them in this moment, but the topic came up spontaneously. And I dealt with it foolishly. The result turned what had been a blessed recap into a botched review. He quit. On the spot. I don’t blame him. Looking back on it, elements of dark leadership—vices of pride and arrogance blinded me. I have since realized that dark leadership isn’t always about a sinister  leader; sometimes it sneaks up on the leader. What is hidden inside eventually turns up—sometimes at the worst of times. In this chapter, I will explore dark leadership and make connections to C.S. Lewis’ fiction. Lewis’ fiction will help us to flesh out and further clarify the concept of dark leadership and then be used to offer wisdom to avoid dark leadership personally.

© The Author(s) 2020 A. Perry, Leadership Philosophy in the Fiction of C.S. Lewis, Christian Faith Perspectives in Leadership and Business, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-41508-2_7

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Leadership from the Dark Side Let’s consider dark leadership in three ways. First, dark leadership may be considered the dark side of charismatic leadership. Second, dark leadership may be a kind of pseudo-transformational leadership. Finally, dark leadership may be a confluence of certain dark triads at work in a leader. Gifts Gone Wrong: The Dark Side of Charismatic Leadership When people think leadership, charismatic leadership is an easy image that pops to mind. Coming from the Greek word charis (grace), charismatic leadership can be considered as a kind of gift. The charismatic leader inspires, transforms, facilitates change, and touches deeply on values and emotions (Yukl, 2013, p.  310). Whatever leadership is, the charismatic leader has it. But if charismatic leadership stems from grace or gift, from whom does the gift of leadership come? First, charismatic leadership may be considered an attribution—something ascribed to the leader by followers in unique circumstances. Would-be followers experience in the leader such things as self-sacrifice, emotional appeal, compelling vision, perhaps unconventional behavior (Yukl, 2013, pp. 310–311), and identify with the leader. The followers ascribe to the leader a gift of leadership and the leader lives into the role in increasing ways. If they don’t, negative consequences follow for the leader. Second, charismatic leadership may be seen as the result of several interacting processes. First, followers identify with the leader and/or with a group that has identified with a leader. Second, the leader needs power, has deep conviction of their goals and beliefs, and has high self-confidence. These characteristics are not ascribed to the leader by followers but belong to the leader regardless. Finally, the wider context presents opportunity for this leader to put these characteristics on display. For example, a dangerous or critical situation brews and the leader identifies with their followers and their needs and values in the complexity of this season and takes action from their self-confidence (Yukl, 2013, pp. 312–314). Third, charismatic leadership may be considered a gift of God. This view is not only a further option, but also may be part of a worldview that frames the previous views (attribution of followers and interactive processes). It is possible that the leader may receive a direct divine gift and have favor with followers they would not otherwise have had. Yet it is also

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possible to consider that God, providentially, arranges factors in such a way that a person with appropriate characteristics emerges as a leader or that God develops the wisdom and character of a community over time or in expedited ways that the community is able to ascribe to the leader and facilitate the gift of leadership in the potential leader. I introduce this aspect of charismatic leadership because, as we will consider from Lewis, leadership may not simply be the result of divine activity, but also from the Dark Side, itself. In a theistic worldview, dark forces—whether personal or impersonal—may also be working in any scenario for charismatic leadership: the divinely gifted leader may misuse their abilities; contexts may be arranged for abusive leaders to emerge; and communities may be so misformed that they ascribe leadership to malevolent or foolish people. So, charismatic leadership may be the result of one or a blend of the above factors. What is the result of such leadership from the “dark side” or “shadow side” of charismatic leadership (Conger & Kanungo, 1998)? First, charismatic leaders may have “delusions of infallibility,” “risky, grandiose projects [that] are more likely to fail,” “excessive confidence and optimism [that] blind the leader to real dangers” (Yukl, 2013, p. 319). This is exacerbated when followers do not question or critique the leader. Second, given the contexts of danger or crisis in which bold and courageous leadership actions may be required and significant attitudes may develop, charismatic leaders may have very loyal followers, but also very staunch foes (p. 319). A polarized context can be created that is personified and epitomized in the charismatic leader. The charismatic leader may be considered to be on the side of all that is light or of all that is dark, depending upon the perspective of the follower. Second, the critical nature of the situation may preclude reflective processes or due consideration to different strategies and leadership approaches. The context is charged, so anxiety is high, and wisdom may decrease; action is needed and those willing to act do so—and do so quickly. This kind of oversimplification deemed necessary by the context may combine with personal failures to keep the leader from sharing credit and deferring personal appreciation, or encourage them to accept praise or oversimplify complex scenarios. Third, historically, the charismatic leader may not prepare followers for leadership succession (p.  320). This is not simply the converged context of the moment, but a changing context over time, perhaps a result of charismatic leadership. The outflow may be a dearth of skilled leaders, supporting structures, and conflict over leadership style. Because charismatic leadership is contextual—perhaps ascribed to an individual or conveyed upon an

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individual through converging processes at a given time—it may not be passed on. Transformational Leadership as Dark Leadership Elements of the dark side can be seen through the lens of transformational leadership, too. While charismatic leadership and transformational leadership are distinct, we might consider the four elements of transformational leadership (intellectual stimulation, inspirational motivation, individualized consideration, and idealized influence) to have dark sides. Bass and Steidlmeier describe this as the difference between authentic transformational leadership and pseudo-transformational leadership (Bass & Steidlmeier, 1999, p. 187). Here’s how these four elements can take on dark characteristics: • Idealized influence: pseudo-transformational leaders uncritically emphasize distinctions between groups; fall prey to insider bias; value the familiar over the unfamiliar; seek “power and position even at the expense of their followers’ achievements” (p. 187); are inconsistent in behavior and cannot be relied upon. • Inspirational motivation: pseudo-transformational leaders “mislead, deceive, and prevaricate” (p. 188). • Intellectual stimulation: pseudo-transformational leaders place more emphasis on authority and less emphasis on reason (p. 188). • Individualized consideration: “Pseudo-transformational leaders will welcome and expect blind obedience;” seek individualized power rather than power spent in service of the community (p. 189). Dark Traits and Their Bright Side? Finally, we might think of dark leadership as certain dark traits of leadership. Dark traits of leadership may coalesce to become the Dark triad of narcissism, Machiavellianism, and psychopathy (Paulhus & Williams, 2002). These traits may overlap, but also remain distinct. Machiavellianism is about having a manipulative personality (p. 556); psychopathy is a collection of thrill-seeking and impulsive behaviors, alongside low anxiety and low empathy; narcissism includes self “grandiosity, entitlement, dominance, and superiority” (p. 557). To these traits, Judge, Piccolo, & Kosalka (2009) add hubris (excessive pride) and social dominance (preference for

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control, demanding explanation, and exerting pressure to accomplish their will) (p. 867). Yet some of these negative traits are not considered completely “dark”— or, at least, equally dark. For example, while people consider Machiavellian and psychopathic traits and actions as less desirable for themselves than for others, they also believe that the effects of these traits and actions are more grievous when exhibited and taken by others than by themselves (Rauthmann & Kolar, 2012). In other words, while a person believes that Machiavellian or psychopathic traits and actions are less desirable and acceptable for themselves than for others, if the person him- or herself has the traits or takes these actions, the negative impact  will be less than if someone else has these traits or takes these actions. So, people may be more willing to exhibit such dark traits because they desire them less themselves and they think the consequences simply won’t be as bad as if someone else had exhibited them. One might hear such a hypothesis phrased like this in common speech: “I really don’t want to be like this, but I need to be and it won’t hurt others as much as when someone else does it, anyway.” Another way to frame the complexity of dark leadership traits is whether dark traits may have positive social outcomes or whether “bright” traits might have negative social outcomes (Judge et al., 2009). For example, a self-confident individual (bright trait) may take undue risk that is altruistically motivated and fail (negative consequence); or, a dominant individual (dark trait) may take responsibility in a chaotic situation to bring order (positive outcome). What might Lewis have to say in the midst of this complexity?

C.S. Lewis and Dark Leadership So, what do we know? That dark leadership is complex; that there is a kind of bright side to dark traits; that there is a dark risk to leadership gifts. There may even be an idiosyncratic nature to dark leadership that emerges from the individual leader in the complex of processes that foster the emergence of leadership. Lewis helps us to see this complexity both in individual characters, but also by abstracting several common themes pertinent to dark leadership. In what follows, first I will show characteristics of dark leadership and contexts of dark leadership. Second, I will offer lessons that might be helpful in keeping from exhibiting dark leadership.

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Dark Leadership in Lewis’ Literature While some argue that there are no pure types of dark leaders in the real world (Conger & Kanungo, 1998, p. 212), there certainly are such types in Lewis’ fiction. Especially in children’s literature, the evilness of a character can be highlighted without complexity or significant  depth. The White Witch, the Lady in the Green Kirtle (Silver Chair), and Weston/the Unman (especially in Perelandra) readily come to mind. They exist to dominate, domineer, and destroy without purpose altogether or with immoral aims. Because of their simplicity (even if profound), these kinds of characters clarify and contribute to reflections on dark leadership. Yet Lewis also has several characters who exhibit dark leadership (or dark traits from leadership positions), but who are situated across a spectrum of (near) hero to (near) villain. These characters are relatively complex, ranging from good characters with character faults (e.g., Caspian and Rilian) to bad characters with, possibly, complicated pasts and eventual tempered transformations (e.g., Uncle Andrew and Prince Rabadash). Seeing the possibilities before us, let’s explore dark leadership a little more extensively. The Character of Dark Leaders Grandiosity As seen in the literature, several leaders exhibit the dark traits of narcissism and grandiosity. For example, Jadis, the Queen of Charn who becomes the White Witch, claims that she can read minds (Lewis, 1955/1980c, p. 63), even through walls (p. 70). Yet, while the claims seem to be uttered genuinely and not simply for threat, the reader has reason to doubt their truth since Jadis does not know how Digory and Polly use magic to move between worlds (p. 92) and her first instinct is that Digory’s Uncle Andrew is a great King, even though Digory protests the point (p. 63). Only upon seeing Andrew does she realize his humble position (p. 70). When Jadis finally realizes it is the magical rings that transports the wearer, she decries Andrew’s folly at revealing this information since she can read minds, but it is the narrator who says she actually has good ears (p. 92). While having good hearing may be an asset, it is far from reading minds through walls. A second example is Uncle Andrew’s self-obsession. Far be it from Andrew, the “great scholar, the magician, the adept, who is doing the experiment,” it must be a common person who tests the effects of the

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magic rings that transport one to another world (Lewis, 1955/1980c, p.  27). Andrew’s self-obsession undergirds his moral relativism. While Digory advocates for the virtue of promise-keeping, Andrew only goes so far. You mean that little boys ought to keep their promises. Very true: most right and proper, I’m sure, and I’m very glad you have been taught to do it. But of course you must understand that rules of that sort, however excellent they may be for little boys – and servants – and women – and even people in general, can’t possibly be expected to apply to profound students and great thinkers and sages. No, Digory. Men like me, who possess hidden wisdom, are freed from common rules just as we are cut off from common pleasures. Ours, my boy, is a high and lonely destiny. (p. 23, italics added)

Jadis uses the exact same phrase. She, the Queen, is freed from the rules of common people: “Ours is a high and lonely destiny” (p. 61). The connection between these characters reveals not only their grandiosity, but their folly. Andrew is weak and pathetic and while Jadis may be able to dominate Andrew, her own self-understanding is foolish. Rhetorical Manipulation Several of Lewis’ characters mislead via words for treacherous purposes. Gumpas, Governor of the Lone Isles from The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, is one who would “have spoken soft words for the moment, and hoped to have [Caspian and his company] all surrounded and killed during the night” (Lewis, 1952/1994, p. 58). Note the passive voice: to have them all surrounded and killed: Gumpas is not one who will act on his convictions, but who will mislead with words and have others take action on his behalf. Second, Nikabrik, the misguided, sullen, and skeptical Dwarf of Prince Caspian, reveals his treacherous turn when he falsely recounts battles, suggesting that the Dwarfs take heavier losses and face tougher assignments in battle (Lewis, 1951/1962, p. 140). When challenged on the point, Nikabrik permits Trufflehunter the Badger to describe his own version of events (p. 141). However, while Nikabrik encourages others to speak plainly because of their dire straits, his evil recruits (a werewolf and a hag) speak in flattery, false humility, and riddle (p. 142). Lewis draws attention to the false words of the speakers by describing their voices as “thin, whining” (p. 142) and “dull, grey” that makes Peter’s flesh creep (p. 143). Third, the Lady in the Green Kirtle, Queen of Underland, questions the very meaning of words. Challenging the overworld experience

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that Puddleglum, Jill, Eustace, and Rilian have of the sun, the manipulative Queen not only draws a subversive parallel to the lamp which she argues is surely the true root of the false projection of the “sun,” but she also undercuts whether the speaker can even “mean anything by the word” (Lewis, 1953/1970, p. 155). Finally, perhaps the clearest example of rhetorical manipulation is Shift, the ape, who misleads the donkey Puzzle, who is “more like Shift’s servant than his friend” (Lewis, 1956/1980d, p.  7). Shift is able to convince Puzzle to fetch him food, swim in cold water, and don a lion skin to impersonate Aslan all the while convincing Puzzle that not doing so would be selfish, cruel, and irresponsible.  eficiently Practical Mind D Dark leaders are said to have deficiently practical minds. I must be careful with this point because it is not to denigrate those characters who act with practical matters in mind. For example, Mrs. Beaver has a very practical mind, setting about packing loads of food and other basic supplies before she and Mr. Beaver with the Pevensie troupe set off to escape the White Witch upon Edmund’s betrayal (Lewis, 1950/1980a, pp. 93–94). Mrs. Beaver’s practicality though under stress is clearly commended in contrast to the hastiness of the others. On the contrary, dark leaders with a deficiently practical mind are those who have a strongly utilitarian approach to life. In fact, it would be hard to call it an approach, as much as it is a despicable disposition. For example, Arsheesh, a poor fisherman who took a young child into his home to be raised as a kind of slave, is said to have had a “practical mind” (Lewis, 1954/1980b, p. 12). Arsheesh is not concerned with such things as stories or geography or imagination. Instead, even while during a peaceable attitude, he steers Shasta away from questions of the north, from whence Shasta has come though Shasta doesn’t know, to Arsheesh’s concerns of business. Arsheesh’s practical mind is most keenly on display with his use and abuse of Shasta. During their bargaining for Shasta’s ownership, Anradrin Tarkaan rejects Arsheesh’s supposed love for Shasta, saying that Arsheesh has had “10 times the worth of daily bread out of him in labour” (p. 15). Arsheesh has only seen Shasta as a practical tool. A second, even clearer, example of the deficiently practical mind is Shift, the Ape, who wants to see the use of a lion’s skin that has been discarded by a hunter and is now floating in Caldron Pool (Lewis, 1956/1980d, p. 11). While his self-effacing and weak friend Puzzle has the proper sense

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to honor the animal by burying the skin, Shift uses the skin as a pretense for injustice and manipulation. His warped mind imagines the nefarious practicalities of the skin. Shift implores Puzzle’s impersonating use of the skin by forcing him to consider all the good that can be done—all the wrongs that can be righted (p. 15). Shift wants to make Narnia a “country worth living in” with such things as cities, roads, and schools (p.  34). While perhaps these could be read in a favorable light, Shift’s list quickly deteriorates: right after “schools” comes “offices” and then the list takes a decidedly sinister turn: “whips and muzzles and saddles and cages and kennels and prisons—Oh, everything.” (p. 34). This theme of industrialized value is also seen when Jadis says she will make Digory and Polly’s world “worth seeing” (Lewis, 1955/1980c, p.  63). Lewis uses the practical language again: Such is the case with witches: “They are terribly practical” (p.  71). Likewise with Edmund: Upon leaving Mr. and Mrs. Beaver’s house, struggling through the snow to the Witch’s house, he says, “When I’m King of Narnia the first thing I shall do will be to make some decent roads” (1950/1980a, p. 84). He then goes on to think about cars, railways, cinemas, and laws. Of course, Edmund does become King of Narnia and these kinds of roads are never built during his reign. Finally, the Tisroc, the leader of Tashbaan, capital city of the Calormene empire, embodies this practicality. In The Horse and His Boy, set during the adult years of Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy, the three youngers have sailed to visit Tashbaan. The reader is let into secret council where they hear the Tisroc’s deficiently practical opinion of Narnia and other free lands, which are “idle, disordered, and unprofitable” and “are hateful to the gods and to all persons of discernment” (Lewis, 1954/1980b, p. 91). A deficiently practical mind is not limited to such utilitarian concerns of economic development, but is also revealed in displays of skewed justice. Let’s start with Shift. Tirian and Jewel, the Unicorn, have killed unarmed men without defiance (Lewis, 1956/1980d, p.  27). Lewis uses explicit and (rare for the Chronicles of Narnia) violent language: beheading by sword and goring through the heart (p.  26). Coming to their shame (p. 27), Tirian and Jewel turn themselves in for judgment. The language of justice is stunning in the forthcoming scene: Tirian and Jewel, not knowing this Aslan to be the sham of Puzzle in the lion skin, give themselves “up to the justice of Aslan” (p. 29). Tirian is disarmed and uncrowned (p.  28). They are brought to the highest point of the hill and there encounter the Ape, who has donned a scarlet jacket and “paper crown”

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(p. 30). Shift takes Tirian’s sword and places it around his neck. The result is not regality and justice, but silliness. Shift’s first words betray his pathetic sense of justice. Having been presented two prisoners charged with brutal murder, Shift says, “We’ll see about those two later.” Then he continues, "I got some other business first. They can wait. Now listen to me, everyone. The first thing I want to say is about nuts” (p. 31). The setting is one for courtly justice; the action is comic jest. Unjust Justice A final theme of dark leadership comes from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. The White Witch and her Dwarf discuss what to do with Edmund, who has betrayed his family but is now of little use to the Witch's plot (Lewis, 1950/1980a, pp.  122–23). After discussing if they might hold Edmund as hostage, the White Witch and the Dwarf finally settle on executing him. While the Witch says that the “proper place” for this execution is the Stone Table (p. 123), that location is now occupied by Aslan and his company. The Dwarf repeats the Witch’s sentiment and fear: “It will be a long time now before the Stone Table can again be put to its proper use” (p.  123). So, faced with executing Edmund without a just context (Stone Table) or having him rescued, the Witch opts for unjust execution. Of course, Edmund is rescued and the Stone Table is very shortly used to execute Aslan in place of Edmund. Notice the stunning irony of this supposed justice: The Dwarf was wrong about the timing of the Table’s use and the Witch is wrong in her action there. She has been willing to take just action (executing  a traitor) outside a just context (the Stone Table) but now she is willing to take unjust action (killing an innocent) within a just context (the Stone Table). She had appealed to law for Edmund’s life (p. 128), but as Aslan is about to be executed in Edmund’s place, she hisses that she will take Edmund’s life anyway (p.  140). This perfect display of injustice—willingness to take just action in unjust context and unjust action in just context—reveals the Witch’s complete corruptibility and the complete corruption of her appeals to justice. The Contexts of Dark Leadership Having seen some of the misshapen characteristics of dark leadership, let’s take a look at the contexts involved with dark leadership.

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 ark Desks: Bureaucracy and Dark Leadership D Hodgkinson (1983) warned that bureaucracy and technology could increase the power of an administration to accomplish evil (p.  14). He writes, “In general [bureaucracy] implies the application of rationality to administrative affairs” (p.  99). Yet, in our age, where “[s]cience is the religious orthodoxy” (Hodgkinson, p. 97), Lewis warns that such acts of administration may hide evil within organizations. For example, in That Hideous Strength, we are shown the deadly combination of sufficient, if unclear bureaucracy, with a positivist view of science at the National Institute of Co-ordinated Experiments (Lewis, 1946/1965b). Dark leadership thrives in bureaucracy in Lewis’ fiction. I do not intend to navigate the discussion between management and leadership here, except to say that Lewis, as he is so capable of doing, skewers bureaucracy in a way that admits its effectiveness and efficiency. While in his Preface to That Hideous Strength (1946/1965b) Lewis denies selecting the education profession and the bureaucratic nature of a small college for any other reason but his familiarity (p. 7), he does note the growth of dark leadership in bureaucracy with typical charm and wit. Feverstone, a faculty member of Bracton College, is not obsessed with climbing the college's ladder, but with being embedded in the N.I.C.E. In fact, Feverstone scorns the desire of the college’s inner ring to make him warden. “God!” he scoffs. Mark, the character Feverstone is recruiting to the N.I.C.E., who is also desperate for Feverstone’s approval, realizes that such a move would be like Feverstone becoming “Headmaster of a small idiots’ school” (p. 40). It’s like Bracton is hardly bureaucratic enough for Feverstone’s purposes. Feverstone is obsessed with the N.I.C.E. and its “fifteen sub-directors!” (p. 40). Governor Gumpas provides another comically tainted picture of bureaucracy and dark leadership. Gumpas is highly concerned with managing carefully the affairs of the Lone Islands, but is unconcerned with the injustice of the slave-trade vis-à-vis the islands' economic development (1954/1980b, p. 58). Gumpas is obsessed with minutes, correspondence, motions, and commissions of inquiry (p. 57), but cannot be expected to deal with the buying and selling of persons. S uspect Structures: Social and Organizational Structure and Dark Leadership Let’s consider a related field. Lewis describes dark leadership emerging in the midst of relatively complex organizational with significant power differential. First, while her administration seems quite thin, the White Witch

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has structures for Maugrim and her Dwarf that is reinforced in their language. Maugrim, Captain of the Witch’s Secret Police, takes orders submissively: “I hear and obey, O Queen” (1950/1980a, p. 104). Later, the Dwarf, who clearly knows the Witch well and has formed a kind of relationship with her, is quickly chastened for offering advice: “Are you my councillor or my slave?” (p. 109). Finally, we are told of the Queen of the Underworld, who is believed to have descended from the same race as the White Witch (1953/1970, p. 52), that “Her will is not to be questioned but obeyed” (p. 122). In contrast to these structures, Lewis includes contrasting examples of healthy structures and leadership. In contrast to the Witch and the Dwarf, Aslan accepts Peter’s council for battle and affirms his plan, though it will be unnecessary (1950/1980a, pp. 132–33). Prince Rilian receives and accepts counsel from Eustace and then from Jill and Puddleglum when considering going into Bism or returning to Narnia, even though the counsel goes against his desire and inclination (1953/1970, pp.  181–182). The structures of dark leadership reveal uncritical obedience whereas other structures, while certainly having hierarchical elements, are respectful. Yet the clearest display of differentiated power and complex social structures is in the context of the Calormenes and Tashbaan. First, an example of power differential. While in secret council between the Tisroc, Ahoshta Tarkaan, and Prince Rabadash, Aravis sees two slaves whom the reader is told are “deaf and dumb…and therefore used at the most secret councils” (1954/1980b, p.  88). By contrast, the Narnian lords, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy, have multiple councilors as they discuss their flight from Tashbaan, including Tumnus the Faun, two Dwarfs, and Sallowpad the Raven (pp. 56–57). The reader is also given a sense of the relational system of Tashbaan upon hearing Aravis’ story of escape. Shasta is confused by the story since Aravis has power when she is so young, but Bree chastens Shasta from displaying his ignorance (p. 41). Aravis’ status—and the nature of Tashbaan—is further revealed when she is upset to be sneaking into the city rather than being paraded in a manner commensurate with her status. Shasta is confused at the “odd look on [Aravis’] face” (p.  49); Aravis twice notes how status in Tashbaan wouldn’t matter to Shasta, but it matters to her. Sure enough, once arriving in Tashbaan, Shasta is cuffed for not knowing how to speak to a higher classed individual. Within the city, there is one traffic rule: “everyone who is less important has to get out of the way for everyone who is more important” (p.  51). The geo-physical structure of the city even reveals its social

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structures. The city is terraced and rises to a hill, the very top of which is the Tisroc’s Palace. This is in contrast to the rolling, green hills that is the nature of Narnia. Finally, dark structures of leadership form incapacitated followers. A scene from The Horse and His Boy perfectly illustrates the result. Bree, Hwin, Aravis, and Shasta are racing to warn King Lune of Archenland. After a miserable and arduous journey across the desert, the troupe finally reaches a river, pool, and soft grass. They are all overcome with weariness and no one has the ability to rouse the gang, let alone himself or herself to push on into Archenland to accomplish their mission. The result is not simply a brief rest, but a sleep that goes well into morning. Even then, Bree, often the self-styled source of knowledge, claims to know about “campaigns and forced marches” (1954/1980b, p.  109) and the foursome is even slower in finishing the journey. The narrator sums the effect of dark leadership on the four: “But one of the worst results of being a slave and being forced to do things is that when there is no one to force you any more you find you have almost lost the power of forcing yourself” (p. 109). Without the aid of Aslan chasing them the final leg of the journey, their mission would have been lost. S canty Beards: Age and Dark Leadership While several dark leaders are purely so, other leaders exhibited dark characteristics. Yet in these cases, Lewis often admits the ages of these leaders. For example, earlier in this chapter we saw that Tirian could take enraged, unjust action, killing unarmed, undefied men. But Lewis (1956/1980d) had previously described Tirian as having broad and strong shoulders with limbs hard with muscle, “but his beard was still scanty” (p. 17). As this has to do with Tirian’s face, which is immediately described as “fearless” and “honest,” we know there is a character element included in the description. (See Chap. 6 for more details on the role of the face.) Tirian’s leadership is still forming. Likewise, Lewis (1953/1970) describes Rilian as a youth. While he considers himself a man (comparing his relationship to the Underworld Queen as what Jill will want with her own “man” and saying the Queen is worthy of a “man’s whole worship”), Eustace considers him a “great baby” and Puddleglum considers him a “young fool” (p. 139). Rilian’s impulsive vengeance for his mother’s death was not good self-control. Another young leader whose character deficiencies are connected with his age is Caspian. As seen in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, Caspian has

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a penchant for wealth, riches, and experiences. When they encounter an island with water that turns items to gold, Caspian has a confrontation with Edmund regarding the ownership of an island. Later in the book, Caspian has a defiant spirit, one that would shirk his kingly responsibility, to seek the end of the world. Lewis (1952/1994) connects both threatening scenarios by having Caspian’s hand go to his sword hilt, only minimally changing the wording (p. 128 and p. 239), followed by Lucy’s more thoughtful speech that works to release the tension. In each case, Caspian’s youth is highlighted, once directly and the other indirectly. First, on (what would come to be called) Deathwater Island in this dark moment, Lucy says of Caspian and Edmund, “Oh, stop it, both of you… That’s the worst of doing anything with boys. You’re all such swaggering, bullying idiots” (p. 128; italics mine). While Lucy’s attention is soon drawn to a vision of Aslan and the scene is defused, her use of “boys” is clearly both a chiding of Caspian and a reminder of his age. Later on when Caspian is about to abandon his ruling responsibilities in Narnia to pursue the end of the world, Lucy reminds him of Ramandu’s daughter and his intent to return to her. This is an indirect reference to Caspian’s youth because of how Lewis has formed in the reader the approximate age of Ramandu’s daughter. When Caspian, Reepicheep, Edmund, and the others meet Ramandu’s daughter, they admit she has stunning beauty and is a great lady with Reepicheep even drinking to her his pledge (p. 201). The narrator, however, describes her as a “girl” no less than eleven times in five pages (pp. 199–203). Caspian is a leader, no doubt, but he remains a boy. One might further consider the potential darkness of Caspian’s leadership given his adventurous spirit. While he obtained Aslan’s approval for his voyage on his coronation day (1952/1994, p. 20), the danger of such a voyage is hardly understood, let alone reckoned by one so young. The tension of Caspian’s folly and nobility in this adventure is revealed by his inability to remember one of the names of the Lords whose fate he has sworn an oath to discover and avenge if possible (pp.  20–21). Further, Lewis describes Caspian as “a golden-haired boy” though he is “some years older” than Lucy (p.  13). Caspian has traits of low-risk aversion, narcissism, and a willingness to threaten, but he is also, in Voyage, a golden-­ haired boy.  mpty Thrones: When the King’s Away, Dark Leaders May Play E A final thematic context of dark leadership is its emergence when good leadership is absent or inattentive. Several examples leap to the foreground.

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In The Horse and His Boy, High King Peter is away on a raiding party against the northern giants, a plan he has allowed Prince Rabadash to see (Lewis, 1954/1980b, p. 93). The result is a treacherous attempt against Archenland and Narnia. Second, the location and timing of Rilian’s treacherous attack at the Underworld Queen’s manipulation in The Silver Chair is in the middle of the snow dance (1953/1970, p. 193). While the dance reveals the delightful Narnian spirit, it is also in conjunction with King Caspian’s absence (he is off seeking Aslan elsewhere) and the near-­ deaf Trumpkin, hardly a capable steward, being placed in charge. This combination of absence and inattention is the context of the near assault on Narnia. Finally, in The Last Battle, King Tirian has been away from the “state and pomp of Cair Paravel, the royal city” (1956/1980d, p.  17) before it is overtaken. This is not a rare absence. He loved to be away for ten  days or so (p.  17). Tirian’s absence from the city is parallel to the absence of appropriate teaching in Narnia about Aslan through recent history. Several times in the book, leaders and followers alike use Mr. Beaver’s famous line from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe that Aslan is “[n]ot like a tame lion” (1950/1980a, p. 166). However, in The Last Battle the phrase often has no connection to Mr. Beaver’s meaning. Only once does it seem to be used properly—that Tirian is unable to summon Aslan at his bidding (p. 72). Its other uses, however, reveal a distinct misunderstanding of Aslan. Aslan’s misunderstood lack of tameness leads to confusion and injustice, as this wild Aslan acts against the foretelling of the stars, permits the felling of living trees for economic development, and allows the enslaving of talking beasts. Had leaders been attentive to true teaching, Aslan’s lack of tameness would have prohibited rather than encourage such action. The absence of leaders giving proper teaching has allowed the dark leadership of the Ape, Rishda, and Ginger to take root. The Conclusion of Dark Leadership Dusty Power The Queen presents a warning for the effects of dark leadership. The White Witch’s beginning is rooted in conflict as she is preserved after a war with her sister upon uttering the deplorable word (as told in The Magician’s Nephew). In contrast to the singing of Aslan, Jadis’ deplorable word only arrests death; it does not bring new life. This is not a passing theme. Recall that the creation of Narnia as told in The Magician’s Nephew has several

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allusions to the biblical creation narrative, including creation by spoken word, creation out of peace, and the bringing of content to emptiness and order to darkness. Jadis’ power in The Magician’s Nephew has other connections to the biblical narrative, namely, her ability to turn things to dust. Of course, in the creation narrative, life comes from dust when God forms a man from the dust of the earth (Genesis 2:7) and throughout Scripture, dust is a symbol for death (e.g., Gen. 3:19; Job 10:9; Job 20:11, 21:26; Ps. 22:15, 104:29). The potential for dust is clear with Uncle Andrew. He has received dust that will take you to another world if only he can get it in the right form (Lewis, 1955/1980c, p.  25). In Charn, Jadis reduces “high and heavy doors” to “a heap of dust” (p.  57, italics added). In London, she attempts to turn Letty to “dust” just as she had the gates in Charn (p. 76), but when she realizes this power of “turning people into dust” has left her (p. 77), she settles for hurling Letty across the room. Finally, in London, Digory believes that Jadis has reduced several policemen to “little heaps of dust” (p. 79, italics added). Her words and actions are powerful, no doubt, but they are not creative. Her words result in death and destruction. Her words, at best, only arrest her own death. Likewise, the White Witch’s leadership in Narnia was only possible to arrest spring. She does not bring joviality; she can only keep it out. In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Father Christmas says, “She has kept me out for a long time, but I’ve got in at last” (Lewis, 1950/1980a, p.  99). The Witch’s leadership is not fruitful because nothing grows in winter. While Charn had grown to become a great city under her ancestors, one assumes that the Witch’s leadership in Charn was likely similar to Narnia: stunted growth and stifled life. In The Silver Chair, the owls say she “bound our land” (Lewis, 1953/1970, p. 52). While Edmund notes that the Lone Islands were under the control of Narnia during the White Witch’s reign (Lewis, 1952/1994, p.  38; the narrator says they do not know the story) and the title “Empress of the Lone Islands” is used of the Witch in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (p. 57), the reader is actually told in The Last Battle that it was King Gale who was given the islands upon defeating a dragon that had been terrorizing its residents (Lewis, 1956/1980d, p. 85). In word and deed, the Witch cannot lead to anything of life; she cannot bring newness or construction. She can only preserve from death or bring to dust. Finally, the near dark reign of Prince Rilian confirms this theme. Rilian, next in line to the throne as King Caspian’s son, has been missing for about ten years. Yet, the owls do not believe he is dead because no bones

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were ever found (Lewis, 1953/1970, p. 52). Instead, the Prince has been abducted by a witch, cast under an enchantment, and kept hidden in an underground realm or beneath black armor when above ground. The witch’s plan is to dig beneath Narnia and for the Prince and his armies to emerge from the ground in a surprise, kill the leadership, and be crowned king (pp. 137–138). Indeed, the Prince thinks this is a great honor! But the reader knows the deep dishonor of the plot. Rather than truly ruling, the Prince will be a pawn of the witch. Rather than providing justice, the prince would be slaying his own people and, perhaps, his own father, King Caspian. Rather than defying Narnia’s enemies, he would be an enemy of Narnia  himself. The witch is not only stealing what is rightfully the Prince’s, but acting as though she is presenting it to him as a gift. Her leadership is not capable of just reign or righteousness, but only enacting a pseudo-resurrection as the lost Prince emerges from the ground to a kind of pseudo-reign as a shadow of himself. Ironic Justice One attends to dark leadership to turn away from dark leadership. One clue to the presence of dark leadership actions or words might be ironic points in the leader’s life. While irony is present at several points in Lewis' fiction, it does not always result in the leader turning (and may even eliminate the possibility of turning). The theme of irony is readily seen in Digory’s exchange with Uncle Andrew and its unfolding. Digory, after being forced into taking a risky journey to another world, blurts his frustration at this state of affairs. “‘Well, I’ve never read a story in which people of that [bullying] sort weren’t paid out in the end, and I bet you will be. And serve you right.’ Of all the things Digory had said, this was the first that really went home [to Andrew]” (Lewis, 1955/1980c, p. 28). Uncle Andrew, fashioning himself a very important magician who has found a new way into another world, will not attempt the journey himself; instead, he tests out the journey with hamsters and then, later, with the children Digory and Polly after they stumble into his possession. This scene’s description is important: Once the children enter the room, Andrew locks the door and shows his teeth (p. 18). He is acting beastly. Later on, however, Andrew’s identity and nature end up being the subject of discussion of talking, conscious animals in Narnia. When the animals try to speak with Andrew, he is “struck” by their “open mouths” (pp. 117–118) and, because of his inability to communicate with them, they end up putting Andrew in a “sort of cage or coop” (p. 156). The Great Magician who has misused hamsters and kidnapped children, ends up being imprisoned by animals because they do

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not know what he is. He had acted like an animal and now animals don't know how to treat him. Fortunately for Andrew, the effect is somewhat redemptive, as he becomes a “nicer and less selfish old man than he had ever been before” (p. 171). While Andrew’s end is more positive, several have negative ironic ends. The Queen of Underland/Lady of the Green Kirtle in The Silver Chair can transform into a snake and in that form kills Prince Rilian’s mother, but resumes the form of a beautiful lady to lure Prince Rilian while he is pursuing the snake, not knowing it is the Queen. Rilian is enchanted and kidnapped by the Lady of the Kirtle/Green Snake in order to lead an attack against Narnia. However, when Rilian is disenchanted by Eustace, Jill, and Puddleglum, he kills the Lady, only the Lady has re-transformed back into the snake prior to her death. Rilian confesses his heart and honor are done well (Lewis, 1953/1970, p. 161). The snake is killed by Rilian, whom she lured away, while in the form of the one when she killed Rilian’s mother. In so doing, she achieved her own just death without dishonoring the avenger. Rilian says, “My mother is avenged” without his slaying a woman (p. 161). Likewise, Miraz is killed at the hands of those he thought loyal to him after he has done away with or killed those who were loyal to his brother (Lewis, 1951/1962, pp. 156–158). Two examples emerge from The Last Battle. First, Shift, the Ape, states that he is a Man and not an Ape. If he looks like an Ape, it’s because he is very old and because he is very old, he is very wise (Lewis, 1956/1980d, p. 32). Yet later on, Shift will appeal to his being an ape in proper treatment. “Not so fast, don’t go so fast, I’m not at all well. Oh my poor head! These midnight meetings are getting to much for me. Apes aren’t meant to be up at night: It’s not as if I were a rat or a bat  – Oh my poor head” (p. 95). That the Ape’s nature is an important factor is seen not only in the use of contrast—the ape isn’t a rat or a bat, but also that he has taken Rishda’s hand with his paw (p. 95). By physiology and by nature, he is an Ape. Whereas Shift had once been clever with his words, now Lewis has him “whimpering and muttering” (p.  95). The reader is poised for this unfolding by an earlier account of the Ape being a “brute”—used merely for others' purposes that are soon drawing to an end (p. 77). The use of “brute” should not be overlooked. Lewis (1955/2017) uses the example of “brute” in Surprised by Joy to show why one must use metaphor carefully, at the direction of his childhood teacher,  Professor Kirk. Kirk had chided the one who uses “brute” because brutes do not do what the speaker had claimed—the metaphor had not held. Yet for The Last Battle, it seems that “brute” is the proper claim and that it reinforces the irony.

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The Ape, by reaching to be considered more than an Ape, has soon become less than an Ape—he is now a brute; the Ape, by using Puzzle, has now come to be used by Rishda Tarkaan and Ginger the Cat. Whereas the Ape had started by tricking Puzzle, he is finally told to “[s]ay the words that wiser heads have put into your mouth” (p. 97). The one who had helped to craft the scheme, Ginger the Cat, further reinforces Lewis’ irony. The Ape’s leadership has deteriorated and the Cat has emerged along with Rishda Tarkaan to trick the animals and maintain the ruse of Aslan, even though Puzzle has been rescued. The ruse is to invite the curious into a stable and there to be killed or spared, depending on whether they are in league with Rishda and Ginger or not. Ginger offers to go first to show the crowd that all is well and Aslan is in the stable. The problem is that while Ginger anticipates safe passage, he has not reckoned that the demon Tash has actually arrived in Narnia and taken up residence in the stable. When Ginger goes in, he immediately bolts from the stable, knocking over Shift in the process. Previously so eloquent, Ginger's speech is now gone and gradually everyone becomes aware of it. Ginger, the cunning wordsmith who had determined Rishda Tarkaan’s plot by careful query, has become a “poor, witless animal” and is never seen again (p. 105). The final example of a dark leader meeting an ironic end comes from the White Witch. While the White Witch tricks Edmund in accordance with his will, getting him to tell her things while enchanting him with Turkish Delight (Lewis, 1950/1980a, pp. 37–38), Aslan also, in a way, tricks the Witch in accordance with her will. Just as the Witch permitted Edmund to have his way, so does Aslan permit the Witch to have her way and it is her demise. The irony is extended into The Magician’s Nephew, as well. While the Witch fed Edmund Turkish Delight that would not satisfy Edmund, even  though he eat as much as he like (Lewis, 1950/1980a, p. 38), neither will the Witch be satisfied with the life-giving apples she steals from the garden of the far north in The Magician’s Nephew (Lewis, 1955/1980c, p. 149). Aslan reinforces the irony: “All get what they want; they do not always like it” (p. 162).

Lightening Our Leadership Now that we have seen several examples of the character and contexts of dark leadership in Lewis, what wisdom might the leader draw from Lewis to lighten their leadership? First, we should be aware that human beings have the potential for dark leadership. Second, we should practice self-­ evaluation with outside wisdom.

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Leaders should carefully consider their own potential for dark leadership. While the traits of Machiavellianism, psychopathology, and narcissism need not be part of the charismatic or transformational leader (Bass & Steidlmeier, 1999), leaders and followers should be cautious of these potential shortcomings among leaders who exhibit courage and persuasion. Efforts to engage one's own leadership critically are commanded by Aslan. At the end of Magician’s Nephew, in the wood between worlds—a place where small pools serve as portals to various other words—Aslan gives a warning to Digory and Polly just before sending them back to their own world. The warning has specific implications for our purposes. “When you were last here,” said Aslan, “that hollow was a pool, and when you jumped into it you came to the world where a dying sun shone over the ruins of Charn. There is no pool now. That world is ended, as if it had never been. Let the race of Adam and Eve take warning.” “Yes, Aslan,” said both the children. But Polly added, “But we’re not quite as bad as that world, are we, Aslan?” “Not yet, Daughter of Eve,” he said. “Not yet. But you are growing more like it. It is not certain that some wicked one of your race will not find out a secret as evil as the Deplorable Word and use it to destroy all living things. And soon, very soon, before you are an old man and an old woman, great nations in your world will be ruled by tyrants who care no more for joy and justice and mercy than the Empress Jadis. Let your world beware. That is the warning.” (Lewis, 1955/1980c, p. 164)

Take note that the efforts of dark leadership were to obtain evil secrets. Observing dark leadership takes vigilance. Recall Uncle Andrew’s affirmation that knowledge takes sacrifice. By using the Deplorable Word, the Witch sacrificed others under her care. So, why might such a warning be so necessary? Because the pursuit of secret knowledge is the vice of the virtue of yearning for true knowledge. It is a kind of pursuit of knowledge for its fruit rather than for knowledge itself (Ward, 2008, p.  107). Human beings can be turned; they can be bent and not broken (Lewis, 1944/2003). This warning comes in the form of the White Witch/Empress Jadis and the effects of her leadership. The White Witch/Empress Jadis is a kind of archetype of dark leadership among humanlike creatures. She is not human, but neither is she clearly inhuman. Consider how the Witch might be compared to Tash.  She is distinguished from Tash, the chief evil character of The Last Battle because Tash is clearly not human. While Tash is roughly the shape of a man, it is

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only referred to as “he” once, with the pronoun being quickly changed to refer to Tash as “the Thing” (Lewis, 1956/1980d, p. 80). Instead, Tash is clearly an “it,” unlike humans with its physical characteristics of beak, four arms, claws, etc. Tash is also said to be a demon (p. 81). However, Tash's apparent desire to “snatch all Narnia in its grip” (p. 79) is strikingly similar to the Lewis’ description of the White Witch as she who has “got all Narnia under her thumb” (Lewis, 1950/1980a, p. 23). Likewise, the origin story of the Empress Jadis is mysterious. In the actual order of the Chronicles of Narnia, Jadis, the White Witch, is introduced in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. There she is said not to be human, but to have been a descendant of Adam and Lilith (Lewis, 1950/1980a, p. 76). In the chronology of the Narnian world, however, she is actually from another world and exists prior to Narnia. She is before the Narnian world, yet she is not without beginning. In her there “isn’t a drop of real human blood” (p.  76), which is why Mrs. Beaver says, “she’s bad all the way through” (p. 77). She is not to be trusted. Mr. Beaver goes into depth here: Don’t trust something that is going to be human but isn’t yet, or that was human and now isn’t, or that ought to be human and isn’t. It’s fair for the reader to determine that the White Witch falls into one of the final two categories. As such, leaders who would follow her path are heading in the direction that does not tend to true humanity. This view, that the Witch was once human but is no longer, fits with Lewis’ ontology of human glory in the divine, that human beings are destined to become beings who mortals would be tempted to worship or beings mortals would consider a horror or nightmare (Lewis, 1949/2001, p. 45). Bringing this together, the Queen paints a picture of the pseudo-human being and the pseudo-human leader. Just as she is attempting to present herself as human, humans may be tempted to become more like her. Within each leader lies the potential for darkness. Second, leaders should engage in self-monitoring (Conger & Kanungo, 1998, p. 239). Lewis’ work provides unique opportunity for this self-evaluation from a literary point of view. In his Preface to Paradise Lost, Lewis (1942/2005) shows the power of dark characters. It remains, of course, true that Satan is the best drawn of Milton’s characters. The reason is not hard to find. Of the major characters whom Milton attempted he is incomparably the easiest to draw. Set a hundred poets to tell the same story and in ninety of the resulting poems Satan will be the best

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character. In all but a few writers the “good” characters are the least successful, and every one who has ever tried to make even the humblest story ought to know why. To make a character worse than oneself it is only necessary to release imaginatively from control some of the bad passions which, in real life, are always straining at the leash; the Satan, the Iago, the Becky Sharp, within each of us, is always there and only too ready, the moment the leash is slipped, to come out and have in our books that holiday we try to deny them in our lives. But if you try to draw a character better than yourself, all you can do is to take the best moments you have had and to imagine them prolonged and more consistently embodied in action. But the real high virtues which we do not possess at all, we cannot depict except in a purely external fashion. We do not really know what it feels like to be a man much better than ourselves. (Lewis, 1942/2005, p. 96, italics added)

The benefit of using Lewis for leadership philosophy is to obtain outside wisdom for personal application. Lewis memorably describes an evaluation of a leader who has not accepted wisdom. This example is not self-evaluation, but the evaluation of a leader by a more powerful being, where Weston is evaluated by the Oyarsa of Malacandra. “Let me see if there is anything in your mind besides fear and death and desire,” says the Oyarsa (Lewis, 1938/1965a, p. 134). With those words, Lewis announces the examination of Weston by the Oyarsa of Mars, its spirit guardian. Weston is Lewis’ critique of one kind of modern human: human beings have elements of courage and ambition, yet are violent and foolish. While the basic desire for riches is captured by Devine (later Feverstone in That Hideous Strength), Weston’s fear, and death, and desire are marked by domination to secure expanded knowledge and survival of humankind (Lewis, 1946/1965b). Further fleshed out in Perelandra, Weston (and Weston’s ideology) is willing to destroy and maim—not even for the sake of knowledge (Lewis, 1944/2003). There, Weston wrecks froglike creatures simply for the sake of wreckage, for the sake of evil. It was a kind of evil that expressed a welcome into “a world of its own pleasures” (Lewis, 1944/2003, p. 95). While the Oyarsa of Malacandra had told Weston that he would “unbody” him because of the violence Weston had committed (Lewis, 1938/1965a, p. 134), Lewis describes the Weston in Perelandra as being merely bodied. That is, the former Weston has gone and some other spirit or force is animating his body (Lewis, 1944/2003, p. 95). The end of a person marked only by fear, death, and desire is a kind of demonic embodiment. Fear, death, and desire form a dark trinity in contrast to the theological virtues of faith, hope, and love. Fear replaces faith; death replaces hope;

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and desire replaces love. This is why Weston, unbodied and animated by a force that is not Weston, is the Unman. But Weston, the Unman, is not a new imagination for Lewis. As seen in his Preface to Paradise Lost, Lewis (1942/2005) argued that the evil character is almost always the most “successful” one. Why? Because the devil inside is often clear to the writer. Without measures of control, this devil emerges whether furtively or overtly. Evil does not need to be conjured up out of thin air. No, instead the imagination needs only let loose the inclinations that, in real life, “[strain] at the leash” (p.  96). This is why even characters of pure evil, with little to no complexity remaining (if initially present) are not radically different from the reader. Leaders who would exhibit dark traits and take dark leadership actions may do so without mixed motive; they may do so simply for malice, spite, and violence. But they do not do so as characters of a different kind than other leaders; they do so as characters formed in that dark capacity. Leaders must attend to their words, deeds, and character humbly.

Conclusion In this chapter, we have explored dark leadership as a construct from charismatic leadership, pseudo-transformational leadership, and as a collection of traits. Lewis provided some illustrations of dark leadership that ultimately encouraged us to be self-evaluating and humble in self-assessment. Any one of us may become dark leaders. But it truly is the potential of the human being to be great that makes the risk so severe. As Lewis (1946/1996) writes, “And the higher and mightier in the natural order, the more demoniac it will be if it rebels” (p. 96).

References Bass, B. M., & Steidlmeier, P. (1999). Ethics, character, and authentic transformational leadership behavior. Leadership Quarterly, 10(2), 181–217. https://doi. org/10.1016/S1048-9843(99)00016-8 Conger, J. A., & Kanungo, R. N. (1998). Charismatic leadership in organizations. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications. Hodgkinson, C. (1983). The philosophy of leadership. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Judge, T. A., Piccolo, R. F., & Kosalka, T. (2009). The bright and dark sides of leader traits: A review and theoretical extension of the leader trait program. The Leadership Quarterly, 20, 855–875.

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Lewis, C.  S. (1962). Prince Caspian. Harmondsworth, UK: Puffin Books. (Original work published in 1951). Lewis, C.  S. (1965a). Out of the silent planet. New  York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1938). Lewis, C. S. (1965b). That hideous strength. New York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1946). Lewis, C. S. (1970). The silver chair. New York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1953). Lewis, C.  S. (1980a). The lion, the witch and the wardrobe. London: Lions. (Original work published 1950). Lewis, C. S. (1980b). The horse and his boy. London: Lions. (Original work published 1954). Lewis, C. S. (1980c). The Magician’s nephew. London: Lions. (Original work published 1955). Lewis, C.  S. (1980d). The last battle. London: Lions. (Original work published 1956). Lewis, C. S. (1994). The voyage of the Dawn Treader. New York: Harper Collins. (Original work published 1952). Lewis, C.  S. (1996). The great divorce. New  York: Touchstone. (Original work published 1946). Lewis, C.S. (2001). The weight of glory and other addresses. New York: HarperOne. (Original work published in 1949). Lewis, C.S. (2003). Perelandra. New  York: Scribner. (Original worked published in 1944). Lewis, C. S. (2005). A preface to paradise lost. Delhi, India: Atlantic Publishers & Distributors. (Original work published 1942). Lewis, C.S. (2017). Surprised by joy: The Shape of my early life. New  York: HarperOne. (Original work published in 1955). Paulhus, D.  L., & Williams, K.  M. (2002). The Dark Triad of personality: Narcissism, Machiavellianism, and psychopathy. Journal of Research in Personality, 36, 556–563. https://doi.org/10.1016/S0092-6566(02)00505-6 Rauthmann, J.  F., & Kolar, G.  P. (2012). How ‘dark’ are the dark triad traits? Examining the perceived darkness of narcissism, Machiavellianism, and psychopathy. Personality and Individual Differences, 53, 884–889. https://doi. org/10.1016/j.paid.2012.06.020 Ward, M. (2008). Planet Narnia: The seven heavens in the imagination of C.S. Lewis. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Yukl, G. (2013). Leadership in organizations (8th ed.). Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall.

CHAPTER 8

A Lewisian Way of Leading

Philosophy wasn’t a subject to Plato; it was a way. Lewis had frivolously called philosophy a subject and was chided by his friend Owen Barfield. Lewis places the brief account just before his conversion. The Christian faith was not a subject to be considered; it needed to become a way. Lewis was nearing a point of decision where virtue would need a good faith attempt: “It was about time that something should be done” (Lewis, 1955/2017, p. 275). In a similar way, leadership is not a subject; it is a way. Of course, just like Christian faith could be considered as a series of doctrines and convictions and creeds, so may leadership be considered and analyzed strictly objectively. But as noted earlier, a philosophy of leadership is about an action-logic for leaders. We have dealt with a philosophy of leadership as a subject by drawing together possible wisdom from Lewis in order to contribute to the way of leadership. Breaking down a philosophy of leadership into the three topics of ontology, epistemology, and axiology has been to help us to become better leaders. Just like the point of analyzing chili cooking technique and ingredients is not an end in itself, but the route to being a better chili cook and producing better chili, so is a philosophy of leadership about a better action-logic—a better way of leading; being a better leader. So, to wrap up this study, I will offer some concluding thoughts from each category that can then be drawn together in a final section that will hopefully enrich leaders and the way of leadership. © The Author(s) 2020 A. Perry, Leadership Philosophy in the Fiction of C.S. Lewis, Christian Faith Perspectives in Leadership and Business, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-41508-2_8

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The Battleground of Beauty Leaders find themselves immersed in a leadership context. It is simply the nature of reality. There are not only smaller contexts to be formed and influenced, but a larger context of authority to be admitted and recognized. Leadership is an ontological reality. For Lewis, this leads to a value of proper appreciation and ultimately worship. This nature of things takes on several forms in Lewis. First, those who accurately perceive reality would truly appreciate the  earliest human being, what Lewis calls the “Paradisal man.” “Only one or two, and those the holiest among us, would glance a second time at the naked, shaggy-bearded, slow-spoken creature: but they, after a few minutes, would fall at his feet” (Lewis, 1940/2001a, pp. 74–75). This appreciation is for the entire good context that is given. Lewis (1960) writes, This judgment that the object is very good, this attention (almost homage) offered to it as a kind of debt, that wish that it should be and should continue being what it is even if we were never to enjoy it, can go out not only to things but to persons. When it is offered to a woman, we call it admiration; when to a man, hero-worship; when to God, simply worship. (pp. 16–17)

This reality can take three forms in leadership. First, there is a dignifying philosophy of leadership that we have been trying to articulate and will try to finalize in this chapter. Second, there is a demeaning prostration: making into gods those who are part of this reality. Third, there is a dominating pride: becoming a god of this reality and exploiting it for one’s purpose. The first error, demeaning prostration, is making the leader into a god. Lewis (1960) rephrases M. Denis de Rougement when he writes, “love begins to be a demon the moment he begins to be a god” (p. 6). When we make leaders into gods, it is from the natural impulse to acknowledge greatness and, ultimately, to worship. But leaders are not to be worshiped, placed beyond critique. The problem with idolatry is that real gods cannot be created. The Bible’s warning against idolatry is not that the true God is insecure and prone to jealousy, but that idol-makers make jealous gods. Leaders made into gods are jealous leaders. The second error, dominating pride, is making oneself into a god. This leads to permission to exploit the leadership context. If the context in which the leader finds oneself is good and the leader is not a god, then the leader cannot take too strong a utilitarian approach to the resources of the context, and certainly not toward people. This forms a leadership ethic

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based simply on something’s very being, which is good and at which the leader should wonder. Yet this ethic is often inhibiting. I shall not experience many mountaintops, but it is good they exist and, as a default, ought to continue existing. Likewise, I shall not know every human being, but it is good they exist and ought to be loved and, as a default, afforded rights and given appropriate responsibility. The leader as dominator can take a kind of false  heroic form. First, there is the nihilist hero, the person who faces a bleak reality to enjoy it as much as possible, though it’s all, finally, meaningless. Consider Lewis’ description of heroic nihilism from Pilgrim’s Regress: If all men who try to build are but polishing the brasses on a sinking ship, then your pale friends [Humanists] are the supreme fools who polish with the rest though they know and admit that the ship is sinking…. The rot in the world is too deep and the leak in the world is too wide. They may patch and tinker as they please, they will not save it. Better give in. Better cut the wood with the grain. If I am to live in a world of destruction let me be its agent and not its patient. (Lewis, 1933/2014, p. 116)

The nihilist is brave, facing grim reality, but at least with a smile on the face. Second, the dominating leader can be the tragic hero. The tragic hero was the vision that the Unman presented to the Lady of Perelandra: that there was some great risk for the Lady to take and some great deed to be performed for her husband or her future children that would result in a kind of heroic martyrdom (Lewis, 1944/2003, p. 112). The domination of the tragic hero is subtle. When the one with some kind of power in a relationship, whether the politician or the family patriarch, aspires to being the tragic hero, they must simultaneously insist there is or there is about to be injustice (the tragedy) while at the same time showing how they are using their power, at their own expense, to right the injustice (the heroic). The result is that the powerful may continue to right injustices that, for their aspirations to be the tragic hero to come to be, must always continue. Because these injustices supposedly continue, they must become increasingly powerful, but since they are increasingly sacrificial, they are increasingly heroic. There is a leadership context that cannot be ignored. Reality followed imperfectly is still better than reality disregarded. When speaking about the Chief Dufflepud making all the other Dufflepuds conceited, Coriakin puts it like this:

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Yes—we’d get on better without him, in a way. Of course I could turn him into something else, or even put a spell on him which would make them not believe a word he said. But I don’t like to do that. It’s better for them to admire him than to admire nobody. (Lewis, 1952/1994, p. 164, italics mine)

Indeed, it may not even be possible to ignore this reality. It may not be possible for there to be no Chief Duffer to admire. Elsewhere Lewis writes, “Where men are forbidden to honour a king they honour millionaires, athletes, or film-stars instead: even famous prostitutes or gangsters. For spiritual nature, like bodily nature, will be served; deny it good and it will gobble poison” (Lewis 1996b, p. 30). So, what is to be done? Beauty First, leaders can see the beauty of the overall context and their smaller contexts. Even while leaders engage in criticism of stories, worldviews, opinions, and other contexts, Lewis forms in the leader a conviction that there is beauty that is deeply embedded in the leader’s contexts or a potential for beauty’s bloom. Leaders can develop a sense of wonder. Lewis’ frequent detailed landscapes implore the reader to be an observer of what is beautiful around them. While it might take going back to rework one's views afresh (Lewis, 1946/1996a, p. 10), beauty is possible. Appreciating the beauty of smaller contexts and the larger context is not about being naïve to the brokenness and bentness of the world and its creatures, but a conviction of its latent beauty. By having a conviction of beauty, leaders can have humble postures toward the world. Part of the leader’s vocation is to see what is latently beautiful, what potential lies in the nature of a company, follower, fellow leader, family, and so on. This seeing is only possible by the properly formed and desiring imagination. The beautiful imagination will properly discern beauty. Battle Second, leaders must humbly accept the smaller and wider contexts as battlefields. Because there is beauty, there is also its twistedness. Contexts can be twisted and leaders can be twisted. The battlefield is not simply around the leader, but within the leader. Perhaps it is best to say that contexts can be twisted because leaders can be twisted. Those with the ability to influence are those with the potential to be influenced: leaders can be

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enriched or demonized, made into heroes and hellions; leaders can develop others and leaders can dominate. Weston’s willingness to mutilate creatures on Perelandra for utterly no purpose captures the phenomenon. The goodness of the creature and its mutilation renders an abomination on Perelandra, striking Ransom that it would be better for the universe not to exist than for this to take place (Lewis, 1944/2003, p. 94). In That Hideous Strength, Lewis’ consistent portrayal of Earth is as a battlefield. In fact, both sides—both Ransom and the N.I.C.E.—agree that it is a battle. Ransom recognizes there are sides (Lewis, 1946/1965b, p.  184) and Feverstone says that it’s a “real war with real casualties” (p. 41). Lewis portrays the battleground not simply as that of the fallen world, but as that of the fallen home, as well. Jane and Mark are consistently quarreling, posturing against one another. Mark is drawn to the pseudo “male energy” of the N.I.C.E. (p. 49), whereas it is the company of Ransom where men and women serve one another (though none are “servants”), even if they may perform their duties in different ways and sometimes do not work alongside each other (p. 167). There is a kind of disharmony between men and women for Lewis. In Till We Have Faces, Orual, in the context of informing the reader that the future high priest is not a eunuch, says he is a “weaponed man” (Lewis, 1956/1978, p. 195). Yet in the midst of his grief over the death of his wife, Joy, Lewis (1961) writes, “There is, hidden or flaunted, a sword between the sexes till an entire marriage reconciles them” (p. 40). The battle may be present in the home, but may also be undone in the home. The context of battle is as wide as the planet and as close as the home. The battle of the leader is grounded in an ontology of beauty or misery, good or evil. Leaders are not predestined to take certain steps, but paths are predestined either to beauty or its opposite. And though there seemed to be, and indeed were, a thousand roads by which a man could walk through the world, there was not a single one which did not lead sooner or later either to the Beatific or the Miserific Vision. (Lewis, 1944/2003, p. 96)

What would it mean for the leader to see their context as a battleground of beauty? How have contexts been twisted from original beauty? What latent beauty remains to be developed or discovered? How can the leader facilitate this discovery?

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Lewisian Leadership The above is a very brief description of the context of leadership from a Lewisian perspective that draws on the previous chapters. Reality is a context of leadership and Lewis warns against demeaning prostration and dominating pride. How might we form a philosophy of leadership that fits that context? We saw that a philosophy of leadership can coalesce around the subjects of axiology, ontology, and epistemology, but rather than break down a philosophy of leadership around these subjects, I want to stay faithful to the form of narrative. Narrative can be analyzed from all these angles, of course, but it also brings them together in the coherent action of characters within a setting and plot. Narrative is the coalescence. Narrative acts like a reverse prism: whereas sending light through a prism breaks light into its spectral colors, the reverse prism brings the spectrum together. Narrative brings together concerns of value, reality, and knowledge to form an action-logic around four themes: courage, communication, comedy, and company. Courage A philosophy of leadership from Lewis is marked by courage. Courage is connected to virtue. Leaders will not be those who discard the pursuit of truth through reason for pleasure and comfort (Lewis, 1933/2014, p.  89). Instead, wisdom and knowledge take courage and courage is achieved by simple faithfulness. Several dark leaders lack courage, which results in a lack of knowledge and wisdom. This is not to say these leaders are cowards, but that such characters act mainly within contexts where they have power. For example, Queen Jadis is courageous in London, but not in the presence of Aslan. In London, she tears iron bars from streetlamps and handles horses while striding atop carriages. But in Narnia, she shrieks and flees when she sees Aslan is not easily subdued. The result is her downfall. She does not know the Deeper Magic that honors an innocent life willingly given in place of a guilty life (1950/1980a, p.  148). Likewise, Rabadash has a measure of courage to engage in battle, but also a measure of vicious, cowardly treachery. Lewis says of Rabadash that it is “very easy to frighten people who know you can have them boiled alive the moment you gave the word” (1954/1980b, p. 170). Rabadash’s folly is seen because while Rabadash is a pawn of his father’s (p.  97), he insists his father will avenge his life

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(p.  169) and when his attack on Archenland fails, he should have built ladders, but instead built a ram (p. 148). Lacking courage is connected to lacking wisdom and knowledge. Courage is connected to one’s willingness to sacrifice because wisdom requires a kind of self-sacrifice. While the notion that Uncle Andrew should act courageously is ridiculous to him, he does say it well: “No great wisdom can be reached without sacrifice” (Lewis, 1955/1980c, p.  27). Yet both Jadis and Rabadash are willing to sacrifice others for their own good. Likewise, Uncle Andrew “knows nothing” about the wood between the worlds because “[h]e never had the pluck to go [there] himself” (p. 36). On the other hand, Digory and Polly both begin to know of other worlds because of their courage (pp. 36–38), specifically Digory’s willingness to risk his own safety for Polly’s safe return. Uncle Andrew is unable to achieve wisdom and knowledge because of his cowardice and folly. Andrew lusts for power (though he is pathetic and fears power in others), yearns for riches (though he squanders money), and manipulates to achieve his ends (though he is manipulable). From Andrew’s example comes the warning: “For what you see and hear depends a good deal on where you are standing: it also depends on what sort of person you are” (Lewis, 1955/1980c, p. 116). Lewis follows up with one of his biting lines: “Now the trouble about trying to make yourself stupider than you really are is that you very often succeed” (p. 117). Being stupid, in Andrew’s case, has been about giving himself to bad character and thereby being unable to see the world rightly. Andrew tries to put the world under his dominion, but ends up under the reign of talking animals whom he cannot understand and whom he fears. He lacks courage and so lacks wisdom. But what is needed to develop courage? Simple faithfulness. Here are three examples. In contrast to Andrew, Lucy becomes a lioness when she faces her own failures and is determined to follow Aslan even without her peers (Lewis, 1951/1962, p. 126). Second, Puddleglum, the Marshwiggle, is a character marked by a kind of pseudo-pessimism, but it does not overcome his faithfulness to his friends or to Aslan. Puddleglum’s pinnacle achievement in the book is stamping on an enchanted fire. Though it would hurt him severely, it would not harm him quite as much as a human foot because his own foot is webbed, like a duck’s (Lewis, 1953/1970, p. 158). Puddleglum’s faithfulness leads to him being described as “brave as—as a lion” (p. 206). The comparison makes sense as Aslan, the Great Lion, will give his own foot, his paw, to a “foot long” thorn (p. 212) to

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raise Caspian from the dead. Finally, King Frank, formerly the Cabby, is given the charge of leadership: “You shall rule and name all these creatures, and do justice among them, and protect them from their enemies when enemies arise” (Lewis, 1955/1980c, p. 129) and to be “first in the charge and last in the retreat” (p. 130). When the Cabby is unsure of his abilities because of being untested and uneducated, Aslan asks if he will cultivate and work the ground and train his children. If the Cabby will do his bit, then he “will have done all that a King should do” (p. 130). Simple faithfulness is courageous and leads to greater courage. The effect of courage is seen most clearly in the character of Reepicheep. When facing the Dark Island, Caspian, Drinian, and all other human beings on board want to turn back. But for the courage and honor of Reepicheep, they would have done so. He reminds the crew that they are seeking “honor and adventure” (Lewis, 1952/1994, p. 152). It is noteworthy that even the lioness Lucy would “very much rather not” go forward into the darkness, though she is the first to follow Reepicheep’s lead (p. 180). The result is the rescue of the Lord Rhoop. Without delving into the darkness, Rhoop would have been lost. While Rhoop's name was forgotten by Caspian (p.  21), his life is found because of Reepicheep’s character. Narratively speaking, a character was saved by another’s inner character. What leadership actions might follow? First, take and encourage small acts of faithfulness to build courage and to  develop wisdom. Lewis (1955/1997), in Mere Christianity, validates the power of small choices and their impact on one’s character: “I would much rather say that every time you make a choice you are turning the central part of you, the part of you that chooses, into something a little different from what it was before” (p. 76). Power is not a sign of courage and its relative lack is not a sign of cowardice. Small acts of courage form character and wisdom. Second, consider courage as a kind of mask put over fear. Leaders want to wear masks that facilitate the proper choices of their followers. Lucy offered an example, noted above, by supporting Reepicheep while feeling something rather different. King Tirian acts similarly. When his followers face almost certain death, he does not allow them to see his hopelessness. Lewis (1956/1980d) writes, “You would not have known from Tirian’s face that he had now given up all hope” (p. 116). By combining these actions—small acts of faithfulness and courage as a kind of mask—we see how narrative can help illuminate reality. As Lucy makes the courageous choice to follow Aslan, she become a lioness. She remains the character “Lucy,” but she is not the same “Lucy” as just a few

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pages prior. The reader’s expectations of Lucy change. Further, the reader’s expectation of the story is changing as its characters develop. Likewise in one’s own life, small acts of faithfulness change one’s character so that the very self is transformed. Further, one’s expectations of their story may change as they are changed as one of its characters. As characters change, the story is not what it otherwise would have been. As one’s actions are more and more aligned with desired predispositions, there is a deeper and deeper connection of “doing” and “being” or between one’s natural actions and one’s very self. In these cases, like that of Reepicheep with Rhoop, leaders influence out of their very selves that have been formed by small, but consistent choices. Communication A philosophy of leadership from Lewis is marked by honest, clear, and humble communication. Let me take these in reverse order. First, communication must be humble because one’s knowledge is perspectival. In addition to the warning connected with Uncle Andrew, Lewis says the following through Ransom: “the account a man gives of the universe, or of any other building, depends very much on where he is standing” (Lewis, 1944/2003, p. 144). If one does not communicate from a perspective, one simply does not communicate. But the point of communicating is not only to share one’s perspective, but also to receive another’s perspective. Humble communication multiplies communication. Second, communication should be clear. Clarity is a bridge between humility and honesty. I already noted Ransom’s frustration that language is, at times, too vague (Lewis, 1944/2003, p.  30). The humble leader aims at clarity because language does not always bend to the leader’s wishes. Arrogant leadership thinks it can use communication for its purposes by being unclear. Consider the N.I.C.E., which thrives on misleading through vagueness and lies. To counteract ambiguity, communication should aim at clarity. One way that leaders can aim at clarity is to avoid using single words or brief phrases as codes for entire worldviews. The more that words are used to control a listener’s response by misdirecting just enough without outright misleading, then the more words don't mean anything. The less that words carry meaning, the more they will only signal safety or danger and the more that we signal only safety or danger with words, the more we become like animals and less like human beings. In an attempt to master

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words to conceal as much as to convey meaning, leaders will have attempted to become the god  Mercury, but will have become mercenaries. In an attempt to build towers out of words, leaders will be left babbling amidst the rubble. Third, communication must be honest. Honesty and clarity can appear in tension if a communication has any depth. Clarity does not mean superficiality. A poem can be clear and honest, though not as clear as prose and prose can be clear and honest at multiple levels. For example, Michael Ward’s (2008) thesis that Lewis has embedded in The Chronicles of Narnia seven planetary themes as a hidden mystery to be found is, in my opinion, proven, not in spite of Lewis’ lack of clarity, but by Lewis’ clarity at a certain depth. It is not that Lewis is being dishonest or unclear by embedding the theme deep in the prose, but that he is being honest and clear at a deeper level. The reader is not misled though he may miss a deeper meaning. Lest it be too obvious, story is not a direct form of communication. Lewis is not dishonest or inconsistent in writing stories with deep or secret messages (Ward, p. 21); Lewis is brilliantly clear at multiple levels. Honest communication is simple: Leaders don’t lie. Screwtape says it is the “novice who exaggerates” (Lewis, 1942/1982, p.  111). Ransom notes the profundity of the lie after misleading the Lady of Perelandra: “It was a small lie; but there [in Perelandra] it would not do. It tore him as he uttered it, like a vomit. It became of infinite importance. The silver meadow and the golden sky seemed to fling it back at him” (Lewis, 1944/2003, p. 61). Lies tear at the fabric of reality. Lewis uses vomit language when Weston is finally transformed into the Unman. Weston claims to be the uniting of God and the Devil and when he does so Ransom observes a “spasm like that preceding a deadly vomit twisted Weston’s face out of recognition” (p.  82). As we saw above in authenticity, the face stands in for a character’s deep identity. By giving himself to a lie that there is a shared identity for God and the Devil, between truth and the lie, Weston has become different. The lie that Ransom had uttered was against reality, against his very self, so not only does the scene “fling it back at him,” but he himself is torn. Weston’s lie is so deep, that his very self is twisted out of recognition. Leaders don’t lie. Another tension is between courage and communication. Is Lucy lying when she puts on a courageous face? Is Tirian lying when he hides his hopelessness? Harter (2002) writes explicitly, “Honesty…is often not the best policy if it does not contain the elements of truth-telling that will facilitate rather than jeopardize, relationships” (p. 391). We might say that axiology (honesty) is at odds with ontology (relationship) and it could even

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be put the other way: axiology (relationship) is at odds with ontology (honesty/truth). Ransom’s lie, cited above, emerged from his own misunderstanding of Perelandrian reality: he did not know how happiness could exist outside a fulfilled desire. But Lewis does not simply ignore the tension of the lie that is meant to protect or hide. In this conversation with Ransom, the Perelandrian Lady “was already dimly forecasting the problems that might arise when she had children of her own” (Lewis, 1944/2003, p. 61). Could she be absolutely honest to those under her protection? So, how does a refusal to lie interact with the leader’s wearing of a mask? The line between dangerous lies and sensible leadership is very fine, indeed. It cannot be parsed without the depth of the narrative that is one’s own life and its complexity. Lewis might offer a final bit of wisdom here: The leader should try writing the complex situation out. As we saw in the chapter on a philosophy of leadership, writing can provide a significant help in forming one’s own philosophy of leadership. So, I suggest seeking out the experience of Orual, the character whose writing helped to parse right action in her own leadership. In Till We Have Faces, Lewis’ (1956/1978) book which presents the face and mask at its deepest level, Orual says, “[The gods] used my own pen to probe my wound” (p. 263, italics mine). Leaders will be wise to navigate the tension between honesty and service to followers not by simple, silent deliberation, but through forms of written communication that may be offered to people with secure identities for feedback. Perhaps the leader will write only for their own honest self-reflection. One benefit of writing is mulling. If a word isn’t quite right, it can be erased and another used to capture the emotion, experience, and tension the leader is facing. Words take thoughts captive, pinning them to the page with clarity. Comedy A philosophy of leadership from Lewis is marked by comedy. I am using this word in two ways. First, leaders should appreciate a sense of laughter and enjoyment. Multiple leaders are commended to be joyful and to lead in laughter. • The King and Queen of Perelandra are told to “[s]trengthen the feebler, lighten the darker, love all. Hail and be glad, oh man and woman.” (Lewis, 1944/2003, p. 177) • King Lune teaches Shasta, now Cor: “For this is what it means to be a king: to be first in every desperate attack and last in every desperate

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retreat, and when there’s hunger in the land (as must be now and then in bad years) to wear finer clothes and laugh louder over a scantier meal than any man in your land.” (Lewis, 1954/1980b, p. 174) • Aslan describes the nature of reality and speech, saying, “Jokes as well as justice come in with speech” (Lewis, 1955/1980c, p. 110). He then models humor by jesting with the Jackdaw and enabling all to have a good laugh. MacDonald (1994) commended humor, along with truth and empathy, as the central component to a story (p.  133; Ward, 2008, pp.  66–67). Leaders are laughers. Second, leaders should have a conviction that a good ending is possible and that just actions will contribute to it. Consistently, Lewis’ narratives end with just and glorious endings. The Great Divorce presents numerous individual leaders with almost unending hope that those with whom they interact will choose joy. Yet, even if joy is not chosen  by an individual, joy for the rest will prevail because if joy does not prevail then “misery can destroy in others the happiness they reject for themselves” (Lewis, 1946/1996a, p. 118). The end of joy’s rejection is, as we might come to expect, a kind of nothingness, a destination thinner than a crack in the ground pointed out with a blade of grass (p. 118). Both of Lewis’ series, The Chronicles of Narnia and the Cosmic Trilogy, have comedic endings. The Chronicles of Narnia series ends with reunion, redemption, and recreation and the Cosmic Trilogy ends with another kind of consummation, specifically the reconciliation of Mark and Jane Studdock and, presumably, the children who will come from this consummation. The range of just, joyful endings inspires leaders to have similar mindsets: individuals receive glory, marriages are renewed, and entire narrative universes are transformed. Leaders believe in good endings. Company A philosophy of leadership from Lewis is marked by company. This is not a company that is a kind of superior “inner ring” to which one belongs at the sinister, secret exclusion of others (Lewis, 1942/1982, p. 113). Rather this is company formed by humility, camaraderie, and mutuality. Leaders are not isolated individuals, even though they take personal responsibility and their individual actions are important. Lewis warns against the human domination of other humans. It is the leaders of the

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N.I.C.E. who think that “Man has got to take charge of Man” (Lewis, 1946/1965b, p. 42) and who affirm the notion that “Man’s power over Nature means the power of some men over other men with Nature as the instrument” (p. 178). The Malacandrians are astonished at Earth’s “war, slavery, and prostitution” (Lewis, 1938/1965a, p.  102). They naturally assumed free mutuality of hnau (rational creatures) under the leadership of the eldila (intelligent spiritual guides) and their Oyarsa (supreme eldil). Several of Malacandra's intelligent creatures, called sorns, discuss Earth’s broken state: “It is because they have no Oyarsa,” said one of the pupils. “It is because every one of them wants to be a little Oyarsa himself,” said Augray. “They cannot help it,” said the old sorn. “There must be rule, yet how can creatures rule themselves? Beasts must be ruled by hnau and hnau by eldila and eldila by Maleldil. These creatures have no eldila. They are like one trying to lift himself up by his own hair—or one trying to see over a whole country when he is on a level with it.” (Lewis, 1938/1965a, p. 102)

One cannot rule oneself in a way that isolates and creates domination. If Out of the Silent Planet paints this picture in grand ways, the Big Ghost from The Great Divorce illustrates it more particularly by his consistent insistence, “I’ve got to have my rights” (Lewis, 1946/1996a, p. 34). This Ghost refuses to follow the one sent to lead him into heaven, showing what happens when there is no sense of company in the phenomenon of leadership. Arrogance keeps one from being led, keeps one from the value of company in leadership. By contrast, the leader should look out for the glory of the neighbor, which is “a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken” (Lewis, 1949/2001b, p. 45). Thus, leadership as company means valuing empathy and truly knowing another. Bill Hingest, who was murdered when he tried to leave the N.I.C.E., voiced this same value: “I happen to believe that you can’t study men; you can only get to know them, which is quite a different thing” (p. 71). People are not understood only by the group to which they belong; they are individuals to be known personally. Ransom’s willingness to empathize with Weston emphasizes the point. Ransom’s pack, first mentioned in an uncomfortable position on his shoulders at the very start of Out of the Silent Planet (Lewis, 1938/1965a, p. 7), is a hindrance to him engaging the adventure before him (p.  10). The pack must be thrown aside for

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Ransom to rescue the young man being abducted (p. 11). But it is also a source of comfort to him. When Ransom tries to escape from Weston and Devine, he sees the “reassuring stars” and “even his own pack” (p. 20) but then is knocked out. The irony is that the stars will become what truly is reassuring to him, while his pack will be a source of shame. When Ransom becomes all-too-aware of the state of his planet Earth, Lewis communicates that Ransom is aware of his own complicit participation as he imagines his own pack lying left behind on the porch of his abductors: “It was the bleakest moment in all [Ransom’s] travels” (p. 96). Yet this moment of self-awareness is not lost on Ransom. Lewis picks up the theme of the pack in Perelandra: Ransom noticed the exact make and pattern of [Weston’s] pack. It must have been from the same shop in London where he had bought his own: and that little fact, suddenly reminding him that Weston had once been a man, that he too had once had pleasures and pains and a human mind, almost brought the tears into his eyes. (Lewis, 1944/2003, p. 116)

Ransom’s pack, which had been uncomfortable and needed to be thrown aside and was ultimately his shame was the very same kind as Weston’s. Ransom could empathize even with the one who would become a completely broken human—even a nonhuman. Leadership as company means inviting the contributions of others, developing and valuing the ability of others to influence well. Contrary to the N.I.C.E.’s murder of Hingest, MacPhee’s skepticism is valued by Ransom and his company. In fact, MacPhee is commended as being particularly valuable if his side starts to lose (Lewis, 1946/1965b, p. 184). Further, Lewis describes the skills and callings of various creatures: Badgers remember (Lewis, 1951/1962, p.  72), centaurs are prophets (Lewis, 1954/1980b, p.  161) and watchers (Lewis, 1951/1962, p.  72), the Séroni are intellectual and logical, the Hrossa are courageous and poetic, the Pfifltriggi are crafters. Multi-faceted leadership happens when these groups interact collegially. There is a value for company and differences within company. That others are gifted and skilled in unique ways is precisely what makes differences between persons valuable. Lewis often has the differences between men and women as a theme, but both serve as leaders. While it is typically men at the head of leadership structures and organizations (Orual being a notable exception), Jane is particularly important in That Hideous Strength and Lucy is often the first to see Aslan and knows him better than

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the rest. The benefit of such differences may be differences of imagination, coming not only through different forms of life (Dyck, 2012), but to whatever extent women and men are different. Lewis (1961) notes that men and women are to work together and that marriage is a sign of this mutuality (p. 41). As a result, leadership should value empathy with others, the experiences of others, and the opportunity to follow and be influenced by others. The word “‘human' refers to something more than the bodily form or even to the rational mind. It refers also to that community of blood and experience which unites all men and women on the Earth” (Lewis, 1944/2003, p. 49). Leadership as company makes up for deficiencies within the leader(s). The Voyage of the Dawn Treader provides a stirring example. As the crew of the Dawn Treader faces the dark island, they are nearly cowed but for Reepicheep’s courage. The nature of the island is that one’s worst fears are brought to life in its darkness. The entire crew is afraid—even Lucy. As Caspian says, “There are some things no man can face.” But notice Reepicheep’s reply: “It is, then, my good fortune not to be a man” (Lewis, 1952/1994, p. 184). The men are afraid; the mouse is courageous. Once Rhoop is rescued, he praises the people for saving him and destroying the darkness, but Lucy knows it was not them but Aslan in the form of an albatross (pp.  188–89). They were afraid; Aslan was the light. Finally, recall Coriakin had reminded Caspian of Rhoop’s name and had also provided maps of the crew’s journey to that point. The reader and characters all come to find out that Coriakin is a star (p. 209). Just as stars have been guiding points elsewhere in the Chronicles, now a personified star ­(re-) orients the crew to its mandate to rescue, among others, Rhoop, and to its location with maps. The company of human beings has been marked by fear and forgetfulness, but Reepicheep provided courage, Coriakin provided a map, and Aslan provided a light. Lewis has personified help from above (Aslan and Coriakin) and below (Reepicheep) by personifying the star and the mouse. A philosophy of leadership must learn to appreciate the wider company that is available to help.

Conclusion A philosophy of leadership from Lewis is marked by courage, communication, comedy, and company. Leaders value courage for wisdom; they communicate humbly, clearly, honestly, and personally; they have a conviction for justice and optimism at good endings; and they value company in

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leadership. This set of values leads to a posture of gratitude. Both the King of Perelandra and High King Peter describe the position and responsibility of leader as a gift (Lewis, 1944/2003, p.  180; 1951/1962, p.  151). Leadership is not a gift to be grasped and hoarded and exploited, like Shift, the Ape, had so done with Puzzle and other Narnians. Instead, it is a gift to be received from the entire context in which the person has been placed. And it is then to be shared. How leaders know and what leaders learn (epistemology), what leaders rightly value (axiology), and the total context in which leaders are found, including themselves (ontology): All is gift and to be shared. In the many forms that leadership takes, may this be our philosophy of leadership, the logic that influences all our actions.

References Dyck, S. (2012). Leadership: A calling of courage and imagination. Journal of Religious Leadership, 11(1), 113–138. Harter, S. (2002). Authenticity. In C. R. Snyder & S. J. Lopez (Eds.), Handbook of positive psychology (pp. 382–394). Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Lewis, C. S. (1960). The Four loves. New York: Harcourt Brace. Lewis, C. S. (1961). A Grief observed. London: Faber. Lewis, C.  S. (1962). Prince Caspian. Harmondsworth, UK: Puffin Books. (Original work published in 1951) Lewis, C.  S. (1965a). Out of the silent planet. New  York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1938). Lewis, C. S. (1965b). That hideous strength. New York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1946). Lewis, C. S. (1970). The silver chair. New York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1953). Lewis, C. S. (1978). Till we have faces. Glasgow, Scotland: Fount. (Original work published 1956) Lewis, C.  S. (1980a). The lion, the witch and the wardrobe. London: Lions. (Original work published 1950). Lewis, C. S. (1980b). The horse and his boy. London: Lions. (Original work published 1954). Lewis, C. S. (1980c). The magician’s nephew. London: Lions. (Original work published 1955). Lewis, C.  S. (1980d). The last battle. London: Lions. (Original work published 1956). Lewis, C. S. (1982). The Screwtape letters. New York: Macmillan. (Original work published 1942).

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Lewis, C. S. (1994). The voyage of the Dawn Treader. New York: HarperCollins. (Original work published 1952). Lewis, C. S. (1996a). The great divorce. New York: Touchstone. (Original work published 1946). Lewis, C. S. (1996b). Compelling reason. London: Fount. Lewis, C.S. (1997). Mere Christianity. London: Fount. (Original work published in 1952). Lewis, C.  S. (2001a). The problem of pain. New  York: HarperCollins. (Original work published 1940). Lewis, C. S. (2001b). The weight of glory and other addresses. New York: HarperOne. (Original work published in 1949). Lewis, C.S. (2003). Perelandra. New  York: Scribner. (Original worked published in 1944). Lewis, C. S. (2014). The Pilgrim’s regress. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. (Original work published in 1933). Lewis, C.  S. (2017). Surprised by joy: The Shape of my early life. New  York: HarperOne. (Original work published in 1955). MacDonald, G. (1994). An expression of character: The letters of George MacDonald. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Ward, M. (2008). Planet Narnia: The seven heavens in the imagination of C.S. Lewis. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press.

Index

A The Abolition of Man, 27, 52 Action-logic, 18, 22–25, 27, 28, 41, 143, 148 Agency, 13, 36, 37, 53, 69–92 Agency Theory, 13, 69–92 Aravis, 130, 131 Aslan, 36, 60, 84, 85, 89, 99, 102, 104–108, 114, 126–128, 130–133, 137, 138, 148–150, 154, 156, 157 Authenticity, 96–98, 102, 111, 152 Axiology, 8, 13, 24, 25, 27, 28, 143, 148, 152, 153, 158

C Caspian, 60, 86, 102–107, 124, 125, 131–135, 150, 157 Charismatic, 120–122, 130, 141 Chesterton, G.K., 5, 6, 31, 35 Communication, 9, 41, 54, 62, 63, 148, 151–153, 157 Company, 25, 80, 83, 91, 125, 128, 146–148, 154–157 Conflict, 12, 82, 83, 87, 89–92, 121, 133 Cor, 153

B Beauty, 5, 7, 50–53, 90, 106, 110, 132, 144–147 Books, 1–11, 13, 17, 31–42, 47, 52, 55–57, 59, 62, 65, 71, 79, 83, 99, 101, 104, 108–110, 132, 133, 149, 153 Bree, 108, 130, 131

D Dark leadership, 13, 119–141 Devine/Feverstone, 26, 27, 35, 64, 129, 140, 147, 156 Digory, 85, 86, 103, 105, 111, 112, 124, 125, 127, 134, 135, 138, 149 Dragon(s), 31–42, 104, 134

© The Author(s) 2020 A. Perry, Leadership Philosophy in the Fiction of C.S. Lewis, Christian Faith Perspectives in Leadership and Business, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-41508-2

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E Earth, 49, 60, 64, 134, 147, 155–157 Edmund, 38, 56, 57, 102, 104–107, 111, 126–128, 130, 132, 134, 137 Epistemology, 8, 11, 13, 19, 24, 25, 27, 28, 143, 148, 158 Eustace, 31, 32, 38, 41, 56–58, 86, 104, 126, 130, 131, 136 F Face/faces, 1, 18, 36, 45, 70, 95–117, 125, 145 Fiction, 2, 4, 5, 8, 13, 17, 18, 32, 33, 37–39, 46, 49, 50, 62, 92, 96, 98–100, 119, 124, 129 The Four Loves, 37 Frank, 108, 150 Frost, 27, 77–81, 83, 86 G Gift, 88, 120–123, 135, 158 Grace, 120 The Great Divorce, 13, 154, 155 H Helen, 108 Honesty, 35, 36, 151–153 The Horse and His Boy, 84, 103, 108, 127, 131, 133 Hrossa, 65, 91, 156 I Imagination, 1, 31, 33, 39, 45–66, 80, 99, 126, 146 Influence, 2, 7, 19, 23, 27, 41, 42, 56, 58, 60, 66, 96, 104–107, 109, 111–112, 122, 146, 151, 156, 158

J Jadis, 17–29, 105, 108, 109, 111, 112, 124, 125, 127, 133, 134, 138, 139, 148, 149 Jane, 28, 75, 79, 147, 154, 156 Jill, 86, 126, 130, 131, 136 L Lady of Perelandra, 52, 145, 152 The Last Battle, 1, 35, 36, 99, 103, 133, 134, 136, 138 Leadership, 1–4, 6–13, 17–29, 31–42, 45–66, 70, 73, 74, 80, 89, 90, 92, 95–117, 119–141, 143–145, 148–158 Lewis, C.S., 1, 3, 17, 25–28, 31, 32, 34, 38, 41, 46–50, 61, 70, 73–92, 96, 98–109, 111, 116, 117, 119, 123–137, 143 Lies, 49, 59, 72, 76, 90, 97, 99, 139, 146, 151–153 The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, 3, 106, 108, 128, 133, 134, 139 Love, 4, 11, 37, 49, 50, 53, 57, 70, 82, 99, 108, 126, 140, 141, 144, 153 Lucy, 56, 57, 81, 82, 84, 86, 105–107, 127, 130, 132, 149–152, 156, 157 Lune, 85, 103, 153 M The Magician’s Nephew, 103, 105, 108, 133, 134, 137 Malacandra, 64, 65, 81, 91, 140 Mark, 75–79, 82, 83, 87, 147, 154 Mask/masks, 5, 28, 98–102, 109–117, 150, 153 Mere Christianity, 150 Mr. Beaver, 86, 106, 126, 127, 133, 139

 INDEX 

Mr. Bultitude, 79–81, 83 Mrs. Beaver, 86, 126, 127, 139 N Narnia, 31, 35, 56, 57, 60, 82, 85, 86, 89, 102–108, 127, 130–137, 139, 148 Narrative, 1, 4, 11, 13, 25, 28, 29, 31–42, 45, 46, 48, 50, 54, 55, 58, 62, 134, 148, 150, 153, 154 O On Stories, 49, 52 Ontology, 8, 13, 19, 24, 27, 28, 139, 143, 147, 148, 152, 153, 158 Orual, 89, 90, 99, 100, 109–115, 147, 153, 156 Out of the Silent Planet, 10, 25, 35, 51, 64, 81, 91, 155 Oyarsa, 81, 91, 140, 155 P Pack, 23, 75, 155, 156 Perelandra, 2, 10, 38, 52, 65, 66, 81, 82, 86, 87, 91, 124, 140, 145, 152, 153, 156, 158 Peter, 2, 86, 89, 102, 103, 105–107, 125, 127, 130, 133, 158 Pfifltriggi, 65, 156 Philosophy of leadership, 2, 3, 6, 9, 13, 17–29, 41, 69, 70, 92, 111–116, 143, 144, 148, 151, 153, 154, 157, 158 The Pilgrim’s Regress, 13, 48, 55, 63, 98, 99, 113, 145 Polly, 85, 86, 103, 105, 124, 127, 135, 138, 149 A Preface to Paradise Lost, 139, 141 Prince Caspian, 3, 60, 81, 89, 102, 105, 106, 125

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Puddleglum, 2, 86, 126, 130, 131, 136, 149 Puzzle, 65, 126, 127, 137, 158 R Ransom, 2, 10, 11, 25–28, 38, 39, 51, 53, 64–66, 79–83, 85–91, 147, 151–153, 155, 156 Rilian, 103, 107, 124, 126, 130, 131, 133, 134, 136 S Science fiction, 39, 50 The Screwtape Letters, 4, 13, 47, 48, 74, 75 Self-disclose, self-disclosure, 95–117 Self-reflection, 153 Seroni, 65, 156 Shasta, 84, 85, 103, 107, 108, 126, 130, 131, 153 Shift, 1, 9, 18, 23, 38–40, 113, 126–128, 136, 137, 158 The Silver Chair, 86, 103, 107, 133, 136 Story/stories, 1, 6, 8–12, 20, 31–41, 45, 64, 78, 99, 126, 146 Straik, 77, 80, 81 Surprised by Joy, 78, 100, 136 Susan, 81, 86, 89, 103, 105–107, 127, 130 T That Hideous Strength, 27, 28, 35, 75, 79, 129, 140, 147, 156 Till We Have Faces, 13, 89, 98, 109, 147, 153

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Tirian, 103, 104, 127, 128, 131, 133, 150, 152 Transformational leadership, 3, 122 U Unman, 81, 82, 87, 89, 90, 124, 141, 145, 152 V The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, 31, 41, 84, 103–105, 157

W Ward, Michael, 54, 104, 138, 152, 154 The Weight of Glory, 51 Weston, 26, 27, 34, 35, 52, 53, 58, 59, 64–66, 81, 82, 86, 87, 89, 90, 124, 140, 141, 147, 152, 155, 156 White Witch, 38, 89, 103, 108, 111, 124, 126, 128–130, 134, 137–139 Wilson, A.N., 3–5, 10, 48, 51, 52, 79 Wither, 77, 78, 80–83