The Cosmic Trilogy: Lewis’ Vision of a Christ-Centered Cosmos

Every December, as the year winds down, I find myself reaching for books that feel like old friends—familiar, meaningful, and a bit wiser than I am. This time, though, I didn’t reach for Narnia or Tolkien (I had just gone through The Hobbit again with my fellow

Ringfolk

). Instead, I went further out—farther than the wardrobe, past the Shire, and into the vast, radiant cosmos of C.S. Lewis’ Space Trilogy.

Now, let me be honest right off the bat: the first time I tried to read these books, it was quite the journey to say the least. And not the sweeping, exhilarating kind. It felt more like trudging uphill through dense, alien terrain. I wasn’t ready for it. Lewis’ grand, sprawling vision of interplanetary spiritual warfare went straight over my head, and I put the trilogy aside with the feeling that I’d missed something important.

But this December, something nudged me to give it another go. Maybe I was ready this time. Maybe it was seeing all the awesome posts on Substack about it. Whatever the case, as I dove back into Out of the Silent Planet and continued into Perelandra, something clicked. Suddenly, I wasn’t just reading these books—I was being drawn into them. The worldbuilding, the characters, the cosmic stakes—it all came alive in a way it hadn’t before.

And here’s the kicker: I realized that Lewis wasn’t just telling a story. He was inviting me—and all of us—to see the universe differently. His cosmos isn’t just a backdrop for adventure. It’s a stage for the greatest drama of all: the story of Christ’s victory over sin and death, not just for humanity but for all of creation.

So, here I am, nearing the end of this trilogy for the second time, and I can’t help but wonder: Why did these books feel so much more alive to me now? What makes them such a profound and Christ-centered exploration of the cosmos? And why does Lewis’ vision still matter today, in a world that feels more fragmented and disconnected than ever?

Reflections on Each Book

1. Out of the Silent Planet

The first time I picked up Out of the Silent Planet, I expected something like Jules Verne in space—adventure, strange creatures, maybe some laser guns for good measure. What I found was far different, yet infinitely richer.

Malacandra, or Mars, isn’t just another alien planet—it’s a world teeming with life that reflects God’s goodness. The sorns, hrossa, and pfifltriggi each embody different facets of Malacandran culture, unified under the rule of Oyarsa, the planet’s angelic overseer. The way Lewis paints this unfallen world is breathtaking, almost like a symphony where every note sings of harmony.

What struck me most on this reread was Ransom’s transformation. At first, he’s terrified—of the planet, its creatures, and the unknown. But as he learns the language and begins to see the beauty of Malacandra, his fear gives way to wonder. Isn’t that how so many of us approach God’s creation? Fearful at first, but then awestruck as we begin to understand the greater story behind it all?

And, of course, there’s the chilling contrast between Malacandra and Earth. Malacandra is alive, vibrant, and unified. Thulcandra—our “silent planet”—is cut off, corrupted by the rebellion of its Oyarsa. Reading it now, I felt the weight of this contrast even more deeply. It’s a sobering reminder of the brokenness of our world, but also a hopeful whisper that harmony isn’t lost forever.

2. Perelandra

If Out of the Silent Planet felt like a song, Perelandra felt like a painting—lush, vivid, and dripping with meaning. This time, Lewis takes us to Venus, a world still in its Edenic state, untouched by sin. It’s a feast for the imagination, with floating islands, golden skies, and waters that seem almost alive.

But beneath the beauty is a cosmic battle, and this is where the story gripped me in a way it didn’t the first time. Ransom’s mission is clear: to stand in the gap, to resist evil, and to protect Perelandra’s Eve from succumbing to the same fate as ours.

The Un-Man, Lewis’ depiction of the devil’s servant, is absolutely chilling. His arguments are seductive, his persistence relentless. It made me think of how temptation often works—not with overt destruction, but with subtle suggestions that chip away at our trust in God.

The most powerful moment for me was when Ransom realizes that this battle isn’t just philosophical or spiritual—it’s physical. He has to act, to fight, to resist with everything he has. It’s a reminder that our faith isn’t just an internal thing—it demands real, tangible action.

What stayed with me long after reading was the triumph of obedience. Perelandra doesn’t fall. The possibilities of a world that chooses God’s way are dazzling, and they filled me with a sense of hope that’s hard to put into words.

3. That Hideous Strength

When I first read That Hideous Strength, I’ll admit I found it overwhelming. It’s a sprawling story that feels more grounded in reality than the other two books, but that’s exactly what makes it so unsettling.

Set on Earth, this final installment focuses on the sinister ambitions of the N.I.C.E. (National Institute for Coordinated Experiments), a shadowy organization bent on reshaping humanity in the name of progress. It’s a dystopian nightmare, but one that feels unnervingly relevant.

This time around, I couldn’t stop seeing the parallels to modern culture—our obsession with technology, the dehumanization of individuals in the name of efficiency, and the growing tendency to treat morality as a flexible, negotiable concept. Lewis didn’t just write a story; he wrote a warning.

But even in the darkness, there’s light. The small community at St. Anne’s represents everything the N.I.C.E. seeks to destroy—faith, humility, and a connection to something greater than ourselves. The scenes of fellowship and quiet strength at St. Anne’s reminded me that true power doesn’t come from control or manipulation. It comes from submission to God’s will.

And then there’s the climax—a dramatic showdown where divine intervention reasserts God’s sovereignty over a world teetering on the brink of chaos. It’s a powerful reminder that, no matter how dark things get, Christ’s victory is certain.

A Deeper Appreciation

Having traveled through Malacandra’s harmony, Perelandra’s vivid Eden, and Earth’s chilling dystopia in That Hideous Strength, the sheer scope of Lewis’ vision begins to sink in. This isn’t just a trilogy of stories; it’s a tapestry of theology, philosophy, and imagination woven together with extraordinary purpose. But that is Lewis for you.

Lewis takes what feels abstract—the spiritual battle, the redemption of creation, and the sovereignty of Christ—and makes it startlingly real. You can’t read Out of the Silent Planet without sensing the awe of a cosmos where every star and planet sings its unique hymn to the Creator. You can’t wade through the lush waters of Perelandra without feeling the aching possibility of what a world might be if it never fell. And you can’t watch the horrors of That Hideous Strength unfold without realizing just how easily humanity twists progress into rebellion.

The brilliance of Lewis’ world lies in its depth. These aren’t shallow allegories or thinly veiled moral lessons. They’re living, breathing worlds that hum with the weight of glory. In Malacandra, he shows us harmony—what creation looks like when it remains in joyful submission to God. In Perelandra, he shows us obedience—the possibility of choosing God’s way, even in the face of relentless temptation. And in Earth, he shows us rebellion—the devastating cost of severing ourselves from our Creator.

But there’s hope threaded through all of it. Even in the darkest moments of That Hideous Strength, when it feels like the darkness might win, Lewis reminds us that God’s light is never extinguished. His worlds aren’t just reflections of what is; they’re glimpses of what could be—and what will be, under Christ’s reign.

One of the most profound takeaways from this trilogy is the reminder that the spiritual battle we face isn’t confined to our hearts or our world. It’s cosmic. In every corner of creation, there is conflict between the forces of light and darkness.

This is where the eldila, Lewis’ angelic beings, play such a critical role. They’re not just characters; they’re representations of a spiritual reality that feels both otherworldly and deeply familiar. Their actions, their guidance, and even their silence echo the spiritual truths we encounter in Scripture—that there are things at work far beyond what we can see or comprehend.

But Lewis doesn’t stop at painting a grand, otherworldly war. He roots it in our everyday lives. The trilogy makes it clear that the choices we make, the truths we stand for, and the battles we fight on Earth are part of a much larger story. Our lives, like Ransom’s, are caught up in the cosmic drama of redemption.

Christ at the Center

What holds all of this together is Lewis’ unwavering vision of Christ as the center—not just of Earth, but of the entire cosmos. The Incarnation is the heart of the trilogy. It’s the hinge upon which all of creation turns.

In Perelandra, this becomes especially clear. Ransom’s mission to defend the unfallen planet is a reflection of Christ’s own mission to enter our broken world and reclaim it for God’s glory. And yet, Lewis shows us something remarkable: the Incarnation isn’t just for Earth. The Word who became flesh to save humanity is also the Lord of the stars and the ruler of the heavens. His redemption extends to every corner of creation.

This perspective is breathtaking. It challenges our tendency to think of salvation as something small, something limited to our personal struggles. Lewis reminds us that Christ’s victory is cosmic in scope. It’s about reconciling all things to Himself—whether things on Earth or in the heavens (Colossians 1:20).

At its core, the Space Trilogy isn’t just a story about distant planets or epic battles. It’s a call to wonder. It’s an invitation to look at the cosmos—not as a cold, empty expanse, but as a theater of God’s glory.

Lewis takes us beyond the boundaries of Earth, not to escape, but to expand our understanding of what it means to live in a Christ-centered universe. His worlds are rich with meaning because they’re grounded in the greatest story ever told: the story of a Creator who entered His creation to redeem it, restore it, and reconcile it to Himself.

And isn’t that the greatest wonder of all? That the God who hung the stars, who crafted Malacandra and Perelandra and Earth, would step into our broken world to save us? The Space Trilogy leaves us with a vision of the cosmos that’s as humbling as it is hopeful—a vision where every star, every planet, every soul reflects the glory of its Maker.

Drawn In and Drawn Up

As I near the end of this journey through Lewis’ Space Trilogy, I’m struck by how much this second reading has changed me. The first time, I wrestled with the trilogy—its density, its strangeness, its refusal to fit neatly into any category I’d known. But now, it feels like I’ve stepped into a grand cathedral. The ceilings soar higher than I can see, and every corner hums with the echoes of something vast and holy.

Lewis didn’t just write stories; he created windows. Through them, we glimpse not only the grandeur of his imagination but also the immensity of God’s truth. The trilogy invites us to marvel at the cosmos—not as an impersonal expanse, but as a creation teeming with meaning, with glory, and with the undeniable imprint of its Maker.

And isn’t that what great stories do? They draw us in so that we might be drawn up. They start with a humble professor stumbling into a cosmic battle or a quiet philologist landing on an alien world, but they don’t stop there. They pull our gaze higher—to spiritual realities, to unseen battles, and ultimately to Christ, who holds it all together.

As I’ve journeyed with Ransom through Malacandra’s harmony, Perelandra’s beauty, and Earth’s rebellion, I’ve been reminded of my own place in this story. Like Ransom, I’m part of a larger drama. Like Thulcandra, I live in a world marred by rebellion but not beyond hope. And like all creation, I’m waiting for the final victory of Christ—the day when the silence is broken, and all things are made new.

Lewis leaves us with a vision of hope that feels more needed now than ever. In a world often consumed by despair, where we’re tempted to see life as random and fragmented, the Space Trilogy stands as a reminder that there is order, there is purpose, and there is a Savior who reigns over it all.

So, as I turn the last page, I don’t just feel like I’ve finished a story. I feel like I’ve been part of something greater—something that doesn’t end with the book, or even with this life. Because the same God who whispered to Ransom on Malacandra, who walked through the waters of Perelandra, and who thwarted rebellion on Earth, is the One who invites us to take part in His grand, cosmic story.

And the wonder of it all is this: no matter how small and silent our lives may feel, we are not forgotten. We are seen, loved, and called by the Author of the cosmos Himself. That is the truth Lewis points us to—the truth that changes everything.

So, here’s my invitation to you: step into this trilogy. Let yourself be drawn in by the beauty of Lewis’ worlds, the weight of his themes, and the call of his Christ-centered cosmos. And when you’ve turned the last page, don’t stop there. Look up. The story isn’t over. The same God who reigns over the heavens reigns in your life, and His victory is already won.

What could be more beautiful than that?