Like most millennials, I used to have a blog in high school, and I made the juvenile mistake of thinking that nobody read it. I really started to put my efforts into it during my senior year of high school – while my life was silently falling apart because my dad was addicted to heroin.
After graduating, things got worse fast, and my mom, brother, and I were virtually homeless in a strange town, all sleeping on air mattresses in my grandpa’s spare bedroom. It was around this time that I was invited on a road trip with my friends – all of whom had settled into college – for a weekend up in Monterey, CA. I’d have taken just about any opportunity to escape the hell I was living in; and also, I had a constant FOMO complex before FOMO was a thing. So I packed a bag, and my friends made a stop in Bakersfield to collect me on their way up north.
I only remember snapshots of that weekend: 10 or so of us crammed in sleeping bags on the floor of my friend’s living room; walking down the wharf and me scraping enough money together to buy half a cup of clam chowder; looking through the clothing racks at the thrift store; and then a strange detour to the grocery store on our way down to the beach that evening.
Guys, I was so oblivious at 18. Intentionally so. While my friends were getting into normal types of trouble (sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll), I was living out my late teens in a serious but unhealthy long-term relationship, spending my evenings in the wild jungle of mid-2000’s American Evangelical youth group culture (if you know, you know). My life at home was falling apart, and I clung to Jesus and the culture which appeared to prioritise him. I don’t regret my choice, but it brought its own set of emotional baggage. Anyway, I digress.
The fact is, I innocently thought that we were spending our last night on the beach making s’mores, and my friends, knowing that I wouldn’t approve, sneakily hid the bottles of alcohol that they somehow managed to purchase despite being underage (also, I live in England now, and I think that the American 21-year-old drinking age law in itself is stupid, but again, I digress).
While I spent the evening walking up and down the beach agonising over whether I could stand to break up with my increasingly estranged boyfriend (who was the last remaining sense of stability in my life, no matter how toxic the relationship may have been), my friends were all having fun and getting drunk.
As soon as I realised what was happening, I felt a wave of emotions: betrayed, patronised, disrespected, grieved, and most of all, angry. Because from where I was sitting, I couldn’t get away from substance abuse, even when I tried to escape my broken life by going hundreds of miles up the California coast.
So what did I do? I went back to my grandpa’s house, and I wrote about it. I wrote about my grief. I wrote about my anger. I wrote about my disappointment that everyone around me seemed to care more about drowning their sorrows with substances than looking to Jesus. From my high horse, I wrote a beautifully-worded, sincere, but horribly contemptuous and compassionless piece. Because I didn’t think anyone who knew me would read it.
But they did.
The words “ignorant” and “judgmental” were used as I sat alone on an air mattress in Bakersfield and watched my peers ridicule me on Facebook without openly naming me. Texts started flying in. And I started to panic.
I did what I could to repair the damage. I approached people individually and explained that my words were being written from the house of a grandfather I barely knew because substance abuse had rendered my family homeless. That blog post was emotionally charged, and I was truly sorry I’d hurt them. Some of my friends were gracious. Some weren’t.
Make no mistake, I don’t see myself as the victim in this story. Were my friends being idiots that night by not only hiding their alcohol from me but also attempting to drive home without a designated driver? Sure thing. Did I have a right to be pissed? I mean, yeah.
But I offered none of them the benefit of the doubt. I was so wrapped up in my own story that I didn’t stop for a moment to consider what my friends were going through at that time (as it happens, they were going through quite a lot). I also didn’t consider what a single one of them would feel if they read my blog. I felt so justified in my anger that I was certain my “righteousness” would speak for itself. But nothing I wrote was dripping with love. I was not righteous but self-righteous. I lacked insight, wisdom, or grace. Their behaviour didn’t excuse mine. I chose to be around these people. I loved these people. And their decisions did not justify my wretched pride.
Screwtape’s 10th letter is all about the perils of friendship: namely, being passive in both who we choose to be around and how we choose to behave around them. You’ll hear, in this episode, that my first reaction to this letter had a little bit of “ick.” It sounded as though Lewis was implying that we shouldn’t be friends with non-Christians. But I don’t think that’s what he’s saying at all. I think he’s saying that WHOEVER we choose to be around, we need to be intentional rather than passive about those relationships. We need to CARE about the friendships in our life that are developing, and what’s more, we need to care about the people WE choose to be within (and sometimes as a result of) those friendships. And as always, Lewis subtly warns us against the tiny steps we take towards indulging our own pride.
In this episode, we look at questions like…
What is “superficial intellectualism” and why might we be drawn to it?
What are some of the “fashionable philosophies” that our friends might present to us in today’s society?
How do we determine whether our friends’ beliefs are influencing us in negative or positive ways?
What is our “bench mark” for assessing whether those beliefs are true?
How can we be honest with ourselves about what motivates us to choose certain people as friends and not others?
And if you’re a paid member of the Magic Like This Book Club, the extended episode looks at…
How we love others while remaining true to our own beliefs.
What Matthew 28 can teach us about speaking the truth in joy.
Some of the sneakiest ways that pride can poison our spirit and our friendships.
And how the horcruxes from Harry Potter are a perfect illustration of what Satan, given the chance, will do to our souls.
I’m so excited to be back with you, friends. Buckle up for a new episode of Magic Like This.
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