I’ve been reading Mere Christianity with a particular question in the back of my mind. Not just what did Lewis say, but what would he say now?
Lewis wrote his radio talks in 1941. Britain was at war. The bombs were real. Death wasn’t an abstract threat. It was something people heard about from friends, lived near, prepared for. The context shaped everything about how he wrote. He treated his audience as intelligent adults who might not survive to reconsider the question. There was an urgency to it.
That kind of pressure isn’t really present for most people in my context. War exists, climate anxiety is real, the future feels uncertain in large ways. But those things tend to stay at a distance, a background hum rather than something that interrupts a Tuesday morning.
What we have instead is something harder to name. It’s quieter, and more constant.
Questions of identity and belonging sit at the centre of everyday life now in a way they didn’t used to. Not because they’re new questions, but because the machinery around them has changed. Social media means you’re performing a version of yourself more or less continuously. There’s an expectation of keeping up, staying relevant, presenting your best self. And because it’s all so smooth and normal-looking, it doesn’t always feel like pressure. It just feels like… life. But underneath it, something is being formed. Who you are, what you value, how you see yourself, is being shaped by a constant stream of comparison and feedback. That process is largely invisible. It doesn’t announce itself as a threat. In many ways it looks positive… like self-improvement, like ambition, like staying connected.
Even now I catch myself doing this in small ways. Someone asks what I’m doing this weekend. I’m heading to a Christian conference in Birmingham, speaking about youth work. But that’s not what I say. I keep it general… “I’m off to Birmingham for a conference.” I leave it there. Sometimes I even feel a quiet sense of relief if there’s no follow-up question. It’s not a big moment. Nothing dramatic. But something has shifted. I’ve edited it… just enough to make it easier to say.
I think what’s going on underneath that is the label. The judgement. Being seen as a bit… uncool. Which is strange, because at a deeper level I don’t actually believe that. I think following Jesus is supremely… eternally… cool. But in that moment, that’s not the version of myself I lead with.
Over time, that kind of thing doesn’t make my faith smaller. But it does leave a trace… like I’m wearing a mask. Not fully being who I am. And the strange thing is, I know it would be fine. People I work with know I’m a committed Christian. It wouldn’t come as a surprise. Which means this isn’t really about them. Our company talks a lot about authenticity and diversity. This sits somewhere else… a discomfort in me. A blurring of the line between the “business me” and the real me.
It all adds up. Going with the flow shapes you… pushing against it takes effort, and usually a bit of discomfort. And I’m not even sure it’s just about being seen as uncool. There’s something else underneath it. A reluctance to look like I’m performing… like I’m saying, “look at me… look what I’m doing… haven’t I got this worked out.” And then there’s the other side of it. If I say that’s who I am… what happens when I don’t live up to it? If my life’s a bit of a mess… what does that say? It’s almost like I’m pre-empting the judgement.
He’s meant to be a Christian… and he did that?
I don’t want to hear it from him.
None of those voices are real. They’re imagined. But they still shape what I say… and what I hold back.
I think Lewis would recognise this straight away… but describe it differently. Not as social pressure, or identity formation in the modern sense… but something older. The concern with how we’re seen. Not just whether something is true, but what it makes us look like. And that cuts both ways. Part of me doesn’t want to look uncool. Another part doesn’t want to look like I’m performing… like I’ve got it all worked out. Different directions… same instinct. I think he’d probably call it a form of pride. Not the obvious kind… more the inner, constant awareness of where I stand in relation to other people. Adjusting slightly, depending on the audience.
And when I hold that up against what Jesus actually says… it’s quite a contrast. Love God. Love your neighbour. There’s nothing in there about managing how I come across. Nothing about presenting the right version of myself. Which makes me wonder how much of my energy goes into something that was never really the point.
I don’t think this means forcing it… suddenly becoming someone who says everything, all the time, just to prove a point. But it probably does mean pushing through the discomfort a bit more. Noticing it… and not always letting it decide for me. There’s something in that tension. It keeps me honest. It makes me more intentional about what I share, and why I share it. Maybe the point isn’t to get rid of the discomfort… but to recognise it for what it is. Not something to quietly obey, but something to pay attention to. Because left alone, it shapes me. But pushed against, even slightly… it might start to shape me in a different direction.
