With 2015 racing to a close, I’ve been thinking about time. Which brought to mind the use of time in speculative fiction. How important is it? How does it function?

Some might automatically think of time travel or time machines. Back To The Future is one of the best known time-travel, and time machine, movies and is getting a lot of attention because it’s celebrating its 30-year anniversary.

Of course, long before that popular movie were the stories by science fiction writers like H. G. Wells and Julian Huxley involving time travel and futuristic imaginings. However, science fiction does not have a monopoly on stories that manipulate time.

J.K. Rowling utilized a type of time travel, introduced in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. The mechanism is an Hour-Reversal Charm, encased in an hourglass and the incident of time travel was critical to the story, but didn’t make up the story in the same way that it did in Back To The Future.

In his recently concluded Bright Empires series, Stephen Lawhead utilized what he called ley lines to allow characters to move from one time period and place to another, though the idea was actually one of traveling from different dimensions rather than back into different times. The stories read much like time travel, though, and the characters could not travel into the future ahead of their own time—an odd sort of rule if the device in question created dimensional travel.

C. S. Lewis used time differently in his Narnia stories. Time was an indicator of the fantasy world he created and operated independently from time in the “real” world. Hence, his characters could experience hours, days, even years in Narnia but return to the real world at precisely the time they left. On the other hand, they could be gone from Narnia for a year, and return to a discover that hundreds of years had passed in the fantasy world.

Lewis never gave an explanation of this, as I recall, other than that time didn’t work the same way in the two worlds. That’s a very “fantasy-ish” device.

Science fiction involving space travel deals with the passing of time by creating ways characters can move from place to place over incredible distances. New fuels, for instance, allow ships to travel faster than the speed of light. Transporters move molecules from one place to the other in seconds.

These science devices seem to focused on location, but in fact they are solving the problem of time. Unless ships could go faster than the speed of light, for instance, no one would live long enough to move from one planet to another, let alone from one star system to another.

Many speculative stories seemingly ignore time. If they are set in a fantasy world, for instance, time may be significant only because of the history of the place or because of the change of seasons as it passes.

In horror stories, urban fantasy, and the like, time is likely no different than time in the here and now. There is no different history, no manipulation of time.

Steampunk, on the other hand, is tied to a different time:

Steampunk works are often set in an alternative history of the 19th century’s British Victorian era or American “Wild West,” in a post-apocalyptic future during which steam power has maintained mainstream usage, or in a fantasy world that similarly employs steam power. Steampunk may, therefore, be described as neo-Victorian. Steampunk perhaps most recognizably features anachronistic technologies or retro-futuristic inventions as people in the 19th century might have envisioned them (Wikipedia)

In thinking about time in speculative stories, you might also be interested in reading “About Time,” a post from our archives by former regular contributor Yvonne Anderson, that explores a motive behind some time travel stories.

What are some of the best stories that you’ve read (or written) which depend on the manipulation of time or on a certain time period? What device (literary or physical) creates this time bending? Why is altering time such an important element?

Over all what do you think about stories that manipulate time? Give your view in the poll below. You may answer as many of the choices as you want or create another option.

Image courtesy of christmas-clipart.com

The Spec Faith regular contributors want to wish you a blessed Christmas.

May you enjoy rich times with your family and wonderful worship of Christ, our Savior, Redeemer, and Lord.

The people who walk in darkness
Will see a great light;
Those who live in a dark land,
The light will shine on them.
You shall multiply the nation,
You shall increase their gladness;
They will be glad in Your presence
As with the gladness of harvest,
As men rejoice when they divide the spoil.
For You shall break the yoke of their burden and the staff on their shoulders,
The rod of their oppressor, as at the battle of Midian.
For every boot of the booted warrior in the battle tumult,
And cloak rolled in blood, will be for burning, fuel for the fire.
For a child will be born to us, a son will be given to us;
And the government will rest on His shoulders;
And His name will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Eternal Father, Prince of Peace.
There will be no end to the increase of His government or of peace,
On the throne of David and over his kingdom,
To establish it and to uphold it with justice and righteousness
From then on and forevermore.
The zeal of the LORD of hosts will accomplish this. (Isaiah 9:2-7; emphasis added)

In our culture of Christmas – patched together, hodge-podge, from centuries of celebration – A Christmas Carol holds an honored place, and it well deserves it. Few works of fiction have entered so exuberantly into the holiday, rejoicing in both its spirit and its pleasures. Charles Dickens saw, indeed, no conflict between the two, and as Scrooge’s cold greed and shut-up heart were expressed in his bleak Christmas Eve, so his reformation, the breaking open of his heart, overflowed into festivities on Christmas Day. The transformation of Ebenezer Scrooge is powerful and convincing, but so are Dickens’ descriptions of stuffed goose, pudding, and Norfolk apples.

It is interesting to me that this story – the most classic of all classic Christmas tales – is also a ghost story. The full title is A Christmas Carol In Prose, Being A Ghost Story of Christmas. I would like to examine this element of A Christmas Carol, neatly summed up in that incongruous phrase A Ghost Story of Christmas.

It is important to note, at the outset, that the only real ghost in A Christmas Carol is Jacob Marley. In our day, ‘ghost’ has been narrowed to mean the spirits of dead people that linger in our world, instead of moving on to the next one. In Dickens’ day, ‘ghost’ still had a general meaning of ‘spirit’, and the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future are just that: spirits. Supernatural, certainly, and alarming perhaps, but not dead.

Jacob Marley was dead – a fact that the story begins with, and emphasizes through four paragraphs. “This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.” Marley was a ghost, but a very particular kind of ghost – even an unusual kind.

A spiritual lawlessness prevails in the idea of ghosts – as if these souls have somehow evaded, or never had, an eternal destiny under the hand of God, as if they have managed to linger on in this world instead of going on to the next one. It is very interesting, then, that Marley’s Ghost clearly gives the impression that he (it?) is under law – a strict law, perhaps, but not a cruel or even unintelligible one.

“It is required of every man,” Marley tells Scrooge, “that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellowmen, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death.” Marley’s ghostly wanderings, far from being anarchic, are a judgment, the fulfillment of a law, and are obviously governed. “Nor can I tell you what I would,” he says to Scrooge. “A very little more, is all permitted to me.”

There are other glimpses, aside from this unseen power that requires and condemns and permits, of a larger, ordered spiritual world. When Scrooge pleads for comfort, Marley sadly rebuffs him: “I have none to give. It comes from other regions, Ebenezer Scrooge, and is conveyed by other ministers, to other kinds of men.”

Besides this sense of a justly ruled spiritual realm, in which ghosts like Marley wander in penance rather than rebellion, this ghost story is unusual in that it is not really about ghosts. The visit from Marley is absolutely crucial, and Dickens knows how to work it for thrills and chills: the foreshadowing of the door knocker and the hearse, which Scrooge can just manage to ignore; the inexplicably clanging bells, all through the empty house, and the dragging chains, beginning down in the cellar; the ghost’s “death-cold eyes”, and the awful detail of it removing the bandage around its jaw.

Yet the brief haunting that Scrooge suffers – and he does, indeed, suffer it – is a mercy, and ends with Marley declaring that Scrooge will not see him again. A Christmas Carol is about Ebenezer Scrooge’s salvation – his reclamation, the Ghost of Christmas Past calls it – and Marley’s Ghost simply has the task of getting his attention. The ghostly element of A Christmas Carol is deftly and powerfully used for the story’s real purpose, centered on something infinitely more important and interesting than any ghost – the soul of a living man.

Conflict is the backbone of any story.

Sometimes it involves a desperate quest to save the world. Other times it dives into the murky waters of relationship problems. Even if a story doesn’t contain explosions, high-speed chases, epic battles, or other obvious displays of conflict, it still exhibits conflict on some level.

In fact, the more I read and pay attention to my reactions at certain parts, the more I’ve realized the quieter conflict is actually more compelling. Not the ADD scene where the superhero is simultaneously fighting off a dozen baddies, but the tense pause before you find out someone the hero trusts is actually a spy.

Without conflict, a story is bland, uninspiring, boring. Why is that? Furthermore, what’s the purpose behind the endless highway of problems down which the characters travel?

Stories are supposed to reflect real life. We identify with the characters, we picture the setting, we understand the situation even if we’ve never experienced it ourselves. On the other hand, writers know well that people love to read about things they would hate to endure in real life.

Enter the strife.

Conflict, Conflict Everywhere

With some stories, the string of struggles is as long as a dragon’s tail. Will it never end for the poor characters?

The thing is, this problem manifests in real life, too. Because we live in a world stained by sin, we’ll never fully escape the consequences. Some days, we feel like Draco Malfoy is torturing us or that life resembles the battle at Helm’s Deep—in all the worst ways.

Preparing for battle

The conflict we read about mirrors the conflict assailing us.

And like the characters in the story, we long for peace. Why? Because we sense the broken nature of the world. We hear about terrorists shooting innocent people or go through a nasty breakup with someone we considered a friend. A corner of us recoils. Everything about the situation feels wrong. Intuitively, we seek peace, veiled though it is by a world of strife.

That’s where the truth of stories rings most potently. At the end of the day, every tale involves a pursuit of peace.

• Saving Middle-earth from Sauron
• Destroying the tyranny of the Capital
• Restoring Narnia from the grasp of the White Witch

All the battles—physical, mental, and emotional—drive toward a single goal. The light at the end of the tunnel. The achievement of peace, however fragile or fleeting. I submit that stories do this because it reflects the eternal truth of our story, of history.

As Jill says in The Last Battle:

“Oh, this is nice. Just walking along like this. I wish there could be more of this sort of adventure. It’s a pity there’s always so much happening in Narnia.”

To which Jewel replies with tales of peaceful times. The picture he paints causes Jill to exclaim:

“Oh, I do hope we can soon settle the Ape and get back to those good, ordinary times. And then I hope they’ll go on forever and ever and ever.”

Books begin with something wrong in need of fixing. Sometimes it’s an internal struggle, sometimes an external conflict. Typically, it’s both. As the story progresses, the characters come closer to overcoming the problem and bringing life into a state of peace.

Many variations exist, but generally speaking, the story concludes with a satisfying resolution. Using Lord of the Rings as an example, Frodo completes the quest, the enemy is vanquished, the hobbits save the Shire, and a time of peace begins.

Conflict may be the fuel in a story’s engine, but the destination is one where the characters have managed to find at least a glimpse of peace in a world of strife.

The True Story of Peace

With Christmas near, we’re more inclined to turn our attention to this stark contrast presented by our world. After all, what represents the core of this peace-amid-strife concept more than God’s intervention in our strife-filled lives to breathe a Word of peace?

The Birth of Christ

The lines from I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day offer a poignant reminder:

And in despair I bowed my head;

“There is no peace on earth,” I said:

“For hate is strong,

And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

“God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!

The Wrong shall fail,

The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men!”

This Christmas, instead of dwelling on the external lack of peace surrounding us—terrorist attacks, hospitalized loved ones, the Syrian refugee crisis—we can rest in the peace God grants.

Won for us by the Prince of Peace, who was born in a stable two millennia ago. Whose coming signaled the truth: one day, the strife will end, and there will be peace.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

With the newest Star Wars movie just out, many fans of speculative fiction are squeezing in the movie, despite the busy Christmas season. As fun as it is, and as filled with non-Christian (Buddhist?) religious overtones, it’s still speculative. Imaginary creatures and worlds and wars and weapons make for a lot of entertainment.

But it is Christmas, or nearly so, and naturally my focus turns to the Christmas story. The true, Biblical story. I understand that many people in the world look at the accounts recorded in Luke 1 and 2 and Matthew 1 and 2 as myth. And with good reason. Those passages read like speculative fiction.

I suppose a good number of other passages in the Bible also read like speculative literature, but the Christmas story seems to have compacted a number of speculative tropes. There are several angelic visitations, for example. Joseph had a conversation with an angel, and so did Mary. But before them was Zacharias, John the Baptist’s dad, and his encounter with the angel of God in the temple. Most dramatic, and perhaps most well know, was the visitation of the shepherds, first by a single angel, then by “a multitude of the heavenly host.”

Dreams come into play in the Christmas story as well. Joseph’s encounter with the angel was apparently in a dream, but there was a second dream that apparently saved Jesus’s life. When the wisemen snubbed Herod and didn’t return to Jerusalem to tell him where the Christ child was, he sent a military force to kill all the babies, two years old and younger, in the environs of Bethlehem. Jesus would have been swept up in that infanticide, but for Joseph’s dream that he should take his little family and escape to Egypt.

Speaking of wisemen, their part in the Christmas story is also mysteriously speculative. Wisemen is probably a more palatable term than magicians in this day and age, but they were magi—people schooled in reading the heavens as if the story of humankind has been written in the stars. Hence, afar off in their eastern home, they looked into the night sky and saw a star that told them a king was born in Judea.

Again, undoubtedly by way of erasing some of mysterious from the story, songs and paintings and retellings portray this star as particularly bright. But nowhere in Scripture is such an idea presented. In fact, if the star had been bright, it seems likely that many more people, not just the magi, would have found Jesus.

But there’s more amazing things about this star. First, the wisemen didn’t follow it to Jerusalem where they encountered King Herod. They simply saw the star and proceeded to the most logical place where a king would be born—the seat of power of that country. But not finding him there, they left and the star appeared again. Just appeared. One night it wasn’t there, the next it was. And this time it moved at a perceptible rate so they could follow it. And then it stopped. Right over the house where, by this time, Jesus was.

Mysterious? Magical? Miraculous? Whatever you want to call it, it has the ring of speculative fiction.

But that’s not the half of it. Remember those wisemen? When they, in bafflement, prodded King Herod about the newborn king they expected to find in his palace, he turned to the chief priests and scribes who in turn went to Scripture. They quoted to Herod a version of Micah 5:2.

But as for you, Bethlehem Ephrathah,
Too little to be among the clans of Judah,
From you One will go forth for Me to be ruler in Israel.
His goings forth are from long ago,
From the days of eternity.”

Prophecy, then, also played a part in the Christmas story. Specifically the angel who appeared to the nameless shepherds predicted where they could find the Christ Child—in Bethlehem—and under what conditions they’d find him—wrapped in cloths and lying in a feeding trough. As odd as it sounded, those men acted on what they’d been told and went to Bethlehem where they found Jesus just as the angel had said.

Of course, the bulk of prophecy connected to the Christmas story comes from the Old Testament, not the least of which is Isaiah 7:14:

Therefore the Lord Himself will give you a sign: Behold, a virgin will be with child and bear a son, and she will call His name Immanuel.

Virgin. A woman who had not had sex. And she was pregnant.

Of course Zacharias’s wife Elizabeth was barren and she was also pregnant—with John the Baptist, as it turned out.

This impossible pregnancy was the announcement the angel had given Zacharias in the temple—the announcement he didn’t really believe. Consequently the angel gave him a sign, too, to convince him this birth was a miraculous movement of God. Zacharias would not be able to speak until John was born.

Sure enough, when he came out of the temple, he was unable to tell anyone about the message he had received from the angel. But nine months later, when he wrote that his newborn son’s name was John, his tongue was loosed and he could speak again.

A barren woman, pregnant. A virgin, pregnant. A healthy man, mute. These physical impossibilities were perhaps the greatest elements that seemed speculative in the entire story. But there were neighbors and family members and town gossips who witnessed each one.

Undoubtedly a number of people thought Mary was simply a sinner who had engaged in premarital sex, possibly with Joseph, but perhaps with some mysterious lover they didn’t know about. So they could explain away the impossibility of Jesus’s conception by their own imagination and suspicions.

But what were they to do about Elizabeth? Or Zacharias? How many years had they lived as a childless couple? Long enough to provoke his own doubt. And there was no hiding Zacharias’s inability to speak. As the priest he was to come out of the temple and bless the people. But he couldn’t do it. His public incapacity to speak was not something he could hide. Nor was the immediate restoration of his speech.

There’s more: Simeon, speaking prophecy over baby Jesus when his parents brought Him to be circumcised. John the Baptist, yet unnamed, jumping in his mother’s womb at the sound of the just-pregnant Mary’s voice. Elizabeth, blessing Mary because she “believed that there would be a fulfillment of what had been spoken to her by the Lord,” though apparently Mary had yet to tell Elizabeth about the angel and his message.

Yep, speculative fiction, for sure. Except for one key point which has to do with God and His nature. The angel said it to Mary:

For nothing will be impossible with God. (Luke 1:37)

If nothing is impossible with God, then all the mysterious, “magical,” miraculous events were His doing, and they really happened. The story might read like speculative fiction, but it is far better because it is true.

Wishing you all a Merry Christmas!