Dumping the Tragedy Queen

I dragged myself out of bed. Every fiber in my body screamed for sleep. Every organ screamed for wakefulness.

The organs won the screaming match. Besides, I had to throw up. Again.

Going back to bed was out of the question. We had a schedule to follow, and about fifteen other people were waiting for me. I followed my parents and a solemn Craig out to the bus. The morning on the shores of the Sea of Galilee was glorious. Too glorious. I braced myself for the thirty-some eyeballs swivelling in my direction as I boarded. The night I had just undergone was too miserable to mention. I debated in my mind whether I would rather look very pale and old, like one who had undergone great suffering, or whether I would rather look brave and noble like one who had just battled through a frightful ordeal.

I did my best to look both. This entrance onto the bus was an important one for a just-turned-twelve-year-old. Especially since I was the youngest in my group, the only one enduring food poison in a foreign land. I felt satisfied with my weak yet stately entrance. Never mind that on everyone's exit they had to file past me as I vomited into a grocery bag.

I must have won their respect, I told myself. I was pathetically heroic. It wasn't until I heard that Craig referred to me as a "poor kid" in his written report that I started realizing that the impression I had made might have been different than I had supposed. There is nothing inspiring in being referred to as a "poor kid." It plunges one's ego to an all-time low.

I hope you find this as ludicrous as I do now. But the fact is, I realize that this love for the dramatic impression didn't die when I was twelve.

I was jerked awake as I watched a lecture on the works of my hero, C.S. Lewis. As I listened to an explanation of Perelandra, our professor announced that C.S. Lewis hated the "tragedy queen." This was a new term for me. I sat up straighter.

"The expression on her face, revealed in the sudden light, was one that he had not seen there before. Her eyes were not fixed on the narrator: as far as that went, her thoughts might have been a thousand miles away. Her lips were shut and a little pursed. Her eyebrows were slightly raised. He had not yet seen her look so like a woman of our own race; and yet her expression was one he had not very often met on earth - except, as he realised with a shock, on the stage. 'Like a tragedy queen' was the disgusting comparison that arose in his mind. Of course it was a gross exaggeration. It was an insult for which he could not forgive himself. And yet ... and yet

... the tableau revealed by the lightning had photographed itself on his brain. Do what he would, he found it impossible not to think of that new look in her face. A very good tragedy queen, no doubt. The heroine of a very great tragedy, very nobly played by an actress who was a good woman in real life. By earthly standards, an expression to be praised, even to be revered: but remembering all that he had read in her countenance before, the unselfconscious radiance, the frolic sanctity, the depth of stillness that reminded him sometimes of infancy and sometimes of extreme old age while the hard youth and valiancy of face and body denied both, he found this new expression horrifying. The fatal touch of invited grandeur, of enjoyed pathos - the assumption, however slight, of a roles - eemed a hateful vulgarity. Perhaps she was doing no more - he had good hope that she was doing no more than responding in a purely imaginative fashion to this new art of Story or Poetry. But by God she'd better not! And for the first time the thought 'This can't go on' formulated itself in his mind." ~C.S. Lewis, Perelandra

Oh dear. You see, I love to act. I love drama. I love books, music, art, movies, and plays. If something bad happens to me, it's easy to magnify the suffering and write about it as a noble struggle. Who knows? Maybe it is. And yet, it is no way to live.

The fact is, Jesus didn't die so that we could live a tragedy.

He died so that we could live a fairytale.

Yes, yes, you don't need to roll your eyes that vigorously. I almost did when this thought just came to me a minute ago. I'm sure many people think of fairy tales as unrealistic myths of princes, princesses, and predictable happily ever afters. But think about it. How many of those fluffy endings had fluffy beginnings? Cinderella had to face the dirt and grime of the daily grind. Snow White had to flee for her life. Belle endured ridicule and loneliness.

As for a predictable ending, think again! Don't we already know the end of our Story?

"Jesus wins."

Of course, I would much rather say that Jesus died so that we could live a tale with an epic battle in it. That might be partially true, but it wouldn't be the whole story. It's true that we all are part of a Great Battle, and we have reason for our souls to stir within us at the thought of having a role in it. However, Jesus didn't come so that we could fight. Jesus came so that we could have life, and have it abundantly. We may have to fight for others to have that life, but the fight isn't what we're to dwell on. The tragedies that we encounter aren't what we are to obsess over. The drama of each moment isn't what we're to revel in. It's the happy ending. Predictable, but sweet.

Jesus wins.

I want to dump the tragedy queen. Yes, things aren't always easy, and it's okay to be honest about it, but that doesn't mean we should go around living a tragedy. Let's live a fairytale, full of hardships, but also full of adventure, life, and joy. And, of course, a satisfactory ending.

Jesus wins.