Hemingway longed for the Gospel?

“I thought I saw how stories of this kind could steal past a certain inhibition which had paralysed much of my own religion in childhood. Why did one find it so hard to feel as one was told one ought to feel about God or the sufferings of Christ? I thought the chief reason was that one was told one ought to. An obligation to feel can freeze feelings. And reverence itself did harm. The whole subject was associated with lowered voices; almost as if it were something medical. But supposing that by casting all these things into an imaginary world, stripping them of their stained-glass and Sunday School associations, one could make them for the first time appear in their real potency? Could one not thus steal past those watchful dragons? I thought one could.”

―C.S. Lewis

It is true—we all have watchful dragons, hidden within our presuppositions and foundational beliefs. The moment an idea approaches that resembles a monster, the dragons growl and likely chase it away. But stories—stories get a free pass for some reason.

Fiction is often dismissed as mere escapism, while non-fiction is seen as the path to edification. At least, that’s the implication. But this is far from the truth. Non-fiction teaches a truth; fiction forces you to feel it. And I will die on the hill that this is far greater.

Which leads me to my title: “Hemingway Longed for the Gospel?” Provocative, sure—especially since the brilliant writer was a known atheist, wrestling with life and depression until, tragically, it consumed him. He rejected religion, embraced a materialistic search, and yet… I believe those watchful dragons were lulled to sleep by his own stories.

One of his greatest is The Old Man and the Sea—a quick read, its title summarizing the entire plot. It is no grand adventure filled with wars, dragons, and magic. It is still. It is slow. It is beautiful.

A key moment in the novel is when Santiago catches a great fish—and refuses to let go. He is old, tired, broken even, but he refuses to let go. It is a story of suffering, a story of existentialism. As if this is life: we are the old man, clinging to a fish that may very well kill us. For what end? To eat it? To live? To sell it—just to do it all again tomorrow?

This outlook is heart-wrenching, but without God, it is true. If life is mere matter and heat, then these ideas I write, the ideas you read, are nothing more than bubbles of chemicals, sound, and noise. It is near impossible to argue otherwise. And that is a hard thing to believe. Not just because it is bleak—plenty of true things are—but because it doesn’t make sense.

This isn’t an apologetic argument between Christianity and materialism. Not in the slightest. I’m merely putting a magnifying glass on this story Hemingway wrote—one that, I believe, longs for something deeper.

It’s unsurprising that readers see themselves as the Old Man. I believe Hemingway likely saw himself that way too. But I propose to you that Jesus is the Old Man—and we are the fish.

Western culture has been infected with individualism for some time now. With the blending of religions, the lack of theological education among Christian leaders, and the obsession with attendance, growth, and church marketing, Christianity has lost its shine. Despite most Americans knowing the gist of who Jesus was, few truly understand what separates historic Christianity from other beliefs.

It’s grace.

There is no self-saving in the Gospel. There is only Him. Too often, we grip the line, holding fast to whatever it is we desire to catch. And we bleed. And we cut. And we hurt. And we cry. And we curse. But we never catch it. We never return. Unlike Santiago, we are forever lost to our own ambitions.

But what if our God is one of pursuit—not apathetic patience?

What if He is not a king waiting for you to arrive, wondering why you are taking so, so, so long? What if He is the ship that carries you? The armor-bearer who readies you? The wisdom that guides you? The courage that anchors you?

I understand that many who read this might think, That is not my experience with Christianity at all. And I grieve for you. But I challenge you—what defines Christianity? The people? Or the person? Because, friends, if it’s the people, we are damned. Greatly so.

The Bible is not the book many of us were taught it to be. Not a manual of instructions. Not a collection of principles. Not a net full of little fish we need to catch in order to make it past the pearly gates.

No—it is a story. A great story.

A story not unlike The Old Man and the Sea.

And in it, Jesus is the Old Man.

God’s pursuit of His people can almost seem foolish. Again and again, He rescues them, they love Him, then they hate Him. Then bad things happen, and He rescues them again. They love Him, then hate Him, then love Him, then hate Him—until, at last, He takes on flesh.

He hooks us, friends, and we resist. We flee. We swim. We thrash, trying desperately to shake the line. But Jesus is steadfast. He breaks. He bleeds. All to gather us into the boat, to gut us, and to turn us into something new.

I encourage you—read this book. Feel the longing.

I believe Hemingway longed for someone else to be the Old Man. For him to be the one pursued.

And yes, I understand—the analogy breaks down at a point. The fish doesn’t want to be caught. It doesn’t want to die.

But then again… I find it still holds.

There are moments when I hate Christ. When the last thing I want is to be butchered, to be changed, to be transformed. I want my sin. I love my sin. I adore it. I don’t want a new nature. I don’t want a new existence.

But still—He holds on.

Even when I hate Him.

He holds on. He cuts. He bleeds.

And I love Him for it

1 John 4:19 "We love because he first loved us."