What if someone approached me to ask what I’m reading? “The Bible,” I say. And in reply the person doesn’t display any preconceived notion about the Scripture. Instead he or she asks sincerely, “Oh? What’s it about?” Then what if responded with the following “pitch”?

It’s a series of narratives, histories, and other literature set in human history from (approximate date) B.C. to the latter first century A.D. The New Testament has all this theology, letters to churches, and especially the parables based on first-century life with spiritual application and even hints of fantasy. The Old Testament is also fantastic: It has kings, real battle accounts, miracles, assassinations, revolutions, an Exodus and exile, mythological(?) creatures such as in the book of Job, and donkeys.

What’s the problem with this approach?

It’s the same problem as when some fans describe a fantasy story. I first noticed this about prospective authors (including myself) at writers’ conferences, but the difficulty is deeper than a flawed aspiring-author pitch. Christian writers’ and readers’ pitches for their favorite fantastic or otherwise speculative stories are often doomed to resemble this:

It’s a [name of genre] set in [name of world] with [fantasy/paranormal/sci-fi elements such as dragons, zombies, or intergalactic portals] and plenty of [select one or more adjectives or genre modifier: action, adventure, grit, intrigue, mystery, romance, wholesome moral content] that is suitable for [insert reader group(s)].

I’ve come to conclude that this may be one of the singular worst ways to sell a story. And it’s especially ineffective when tried on someone who isn’t part of the semi-professional fantasy-promoters’ “club.”¹ Why is this method so mad?

1. The define-story-parts method resembles industry talk (but isn’t even that).

You’d think that “it’s a genre set in world with genre elements and adjectives suitable for readers” would be meant for editors or marketers. But surely that doesn’t even work for them. If they’re any good, even they want to hear something more interesting, fascinating yet familiar, and attention-grabbing. How much more will readers with even more basic interests want to hear about the story — not the story’s parts, but the human story itself?

2. This method is flat-out boring.

The “sell the parts over the story itself” approach reminds me of business, engineering, or even faux academia. It’s the surest way to put potential hearers right to sleep. Reject that stuff. Ask yourself: who or what sold you on the things you now love? Was it your hearing about the chemical makeup of the thing, or simply by taking a sip to sample it for yourself?

3. This method reinforces the worst sort of pragmatism.

Even if a friend asks and you “sell” a story you love by using the “define the parts” method, you’ve just accidentally reinforced one of the least beneficial motives for loving stories —the motive of “how can I use this for X alternative goal?” rather than “how can I receive this, rejoice in this, and in that joyous experience explore God’s beauty and truth in worship?”

Wrong pragmatism seeks to salvage a story for parts, “useful” for wrongfully self-interested goals such as entertainment, moral edification, or evangelism. Rightful pragmatism seeks to receive any good story on its own terms, for the better self-interested end of glorifying God.

Selling Scripture, selling stories

So how would I sell both these stories to those who ask sincerely, “What’s the story about?”

Scripture. It’s about a wonderful, infinite, perfect, holy, loving God Who created the entire universe, including man in His image to manage it on His behalf. But all went wrong when man rebelled. Through ages of humanity, God in His love chose a people and sought to reconcile them to Himself while preserving His own nature. How can a loving Creator show His holiness in not excusing evil, and His loving mercy to creation? The answer is stunning.

Another story. It’s about a person of fascinating yet familiar qualities, who might remind you of someone you know or someone you wish to be. There is nothing in his/her fantastic world she wants more than her goal, which should also be fascinating yet familiar. But all goes wrong when something happens. With her friends she must keep pursuing her goal — which may slowly change as she errs, learns, and grows. On that human journey she faces incredible odds and explores amazing places (fascinating yet familiar! and all described in functional yet beautiful language that gives pleasure and wonder to the whole experience).

How have you “sold” favorite stories? How have great stories been sold to you?

So I thought I’d take a break from whatever it was I was doing to talk fall TV. This week, a lot of my favorite shows have either returned or will return (such as How I Met Your Mother, Arrow, or Castle). And there are a few new shows that I’ve been salivating over for a while (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., anyone?). But there was one that I felt somewhat compelled to check out, and that was Sleepy Hollow.

I have no idea why, truth be told. I’m not normally a big fan of the horror genre. Well, unless it’s found footage movies. Or video games starring a certain Internet-spawned monster. Or old X-Files episodes. Okay, maybe I should have said I occasionally enjoy horror stories if they fall within certain parameters.

Because of those parameters, I should be a huge fan of Sleepy Hollow. It sounded like my kind of show. Sort of an X-Files-without-the-aliens type of deal. So I recorded the premier and this past Monday’s episode and recently, I watched them back-to-back. Having seen two hours of it, I can now render my honest opinion.

Meh. Or, more specifically, meh with just a touch of eye rolling.

For those of you who didn’t catch it (and yes, there will be some minor spoilers here), the show is about Ichabod Crane, a professor/Revolutionary War soldier who beheads a British soldier. Predictably, this soldier turns out to be the Headless Horseman. In the fight, Crane is injured and he passes out. When he comes to, he’s in modern day Sleepy Hollow. Unfortunately, so is the Headless Horseman, who’s going around lopping off the noggins of various folk. A sheriff’s deputy (whose name I don’t remember even after watching two episodes of this show) winds up investigating the murders and teams up with Crane to stop the Horseman. It turns out that there are witches involved and apocalyptic stakes, because the Horseman, it turns out, is one of the…Four Horseman.

Oy.

I’ll come back to this in a bit. After watching those two episodes, I think I’m done. Part of the reason why is because of the uneven writing, especially when it comes to Ichabod Crane. This is a guy who “fell asleep” in the eighteenth century and woke up in the twenty-first. At times, he appeared to be completely lost in this strange world. At others, he blended in a little too well. For example, in the second episode, we see Crane wake up in a hotel room. He’s naturally quite confused about all the modern accoutrements. To help him, there are Post-It Notes on everything. A lamp has a helpful note reminding him how to turn it on and off. The shower has numerous instructions about how to start the water (in spite of which he still does a pratfall when the water actually hits him). There’s a big note on the coffee maker instructing him how to turn it on. And so on.

Then, later in the episode, he reveals that he has an eidetic memory. Sheriff-Lady asks, “A photographic memory?” And Crane simply nods. Which begs the question: how does he know what photographic means? More puzzling to me is why he’d need all the cheat sheets in his motel room if he truly can remember everything he’s seen. Clearly, his eidetic memory failed him.

And not just in how to use modern plumbing. Apparently he never paid close attention when he was reading his Bible before he got thrown into the future. At one point, he calls the Headless Horsemen one of the Four Horseman from the Book of “Revelations.”

Again, I say, “Oy!”

It’s actually a pet peeve of mine when people make the last book of the Bible plural. And this feeds into what really disappointed me about this show. It isn’t the silliness of the Headless Horseman striding through a graveyard using a pump-action shotgun. It isn’t the stereotypical “white vs. black magic” blather. It’s not even the fact that George Washington was apparently in some sort of shadow war to prevent the apocalypse. I mean, if Honest Abe used to stake vampires, who am I to deny our First President a more active role in the supernatural?

No, what bothered me about this was the ham-fisted way the writers tried to smear a patina of piety over the whole premise by making the Headless Horsemen the rider on the pale horse. Or the way that they strongly hinted that Ichabod Crane is one of the Two Witnesses from Revelation 11. Or the way that they’ll probably continue to create a Frankenstein-esque monstrosity by cherry-picking verses out of Revelation and giving them a slightly pagan twist. It’s almost like they’re trying to use this paper-thin “exegesis” as a smoke-screen against offended Christians. “Oh, it’s not as bad as all that! See? We’re using the Bible!”

Maybe I’m being too sensitive. Maybe this just isn’t the show for me. But this is where I disembark.

But I’m curious: What shows are you watching this fall? Which ones are your faves? Which ones have let you down?

It was at a “Mod Moot,” a gathering of forum moderators from NarniaWeb.com, that I first beheld this sight: grown adults, one younger, one older, twitching around in the backyard. One was manipulating water, the other earth, and both claimed they were “bending.” Like in the Nickelodeon animated series Avatar: The Last Airbender, they excitedly endorsed.

Some months later I had made it through all three seasons, knew exactly what they were talking about, and was an established fan also. Reluctantly I suggested my wife also see the first episodes — hey, it was still an animated program — and she also joined the fandom.

Avatar wrapped in 2008 with a spectacular four-part conclusion. But four years and one dismal M. Night Shyamalan-directed film franchise dead-starter later, the series creators returned. Their series could be titled Avatar: The Next Generation, but instead they called it The Legend of Korra, following the adventures of the next “avatar” in an Eastern-flavored fantasy world. Aang, the preteen hero of The Last Airbender had to master all four elements (regular folks can “bend” only one element apiece) to save the world dominated by the Fire Nation; his successor Korra has far more time and more-peaceful lands, but still problems.

Korra’s second “book” or season began last week, and I’m glad to say the series appears to be continuing its success of weaving great people, efficient plotting, and beautiful visuals with in-depth themes of technology vs. spirituality, and family conflicts and forgiveness. Yes, the Avatarverse is definitely Eastern culture- and religion-flavored, with one titular mediation office-by-reincarnation and plenty of spirits, plus a natural-law magic system. Yet the worldview is of good versus evil, growth, and sin, repentance, and forgiveness.

The Legend of Korra airs Fridays at 7 p.m. Eastern (natch) on Nickelodeon. Episodes are also available on Amazon. But even better for folks without cable, Nick makes the most recent five Korra episodes available for free as soon as the following Saturday mornings.

Faith of S.H.I.E.L.D.?

Guess which one of these super-spies “died” in The Avengers (2012).

I’m not sure if episodes will be similarly free for the upcoming Whedon Bros.-produced program Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.¹ Fortunately, Amazon does list a subscription page. And despite the rather annoying nature of most new TV shows, particularly the ones geared for younger audiences — yes, I know I’m ranting — I’m currently gung-ho about Agents for several good reasons:

1. The Whedons. I’m not a raving Joss-is-boss fanboy, but the man and his showbiz family members can write. They understand not only archetypes but human nature. They do well subverting tropes, not just to be cute or ironic, but for deeper stories.
2. The program promises to share, overtly yet not dependently, the same universe as the Marvel Avengers films and future tie-ins (Iron Man, Thor, Captain America, etc.).
3. Agent Phil Coulson.
4. The trailers are fun. They even look surprisingly wholesome. Can kids watch this?
5. And you know that if there was any chance of seeing anyone in his but more likely her skivvies on the program even for an instant, they would show it in the trailers.
6. Producers Jed Whedon and Maurissa Tancharoen say they have great ideas in store.
7. Even grumpy TV critics are voicing their enjoyment of ABC’s soaring franchise pilot.

Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. launches said pilot tonight, Tuesday, Sept. 24, 8 p.m. Eastern.

Which television programs do you enjoy and why? Do you lean toward newer or older? Fantasy/sci-fi or other genres? Still loving cable/satellite, and or Amazon/Hulu/Netflix?

I’m a big believer in the Bible and in the idea that Christian storytellers have a huge opportunity to speak truth into the lives of people in such a way that they are more inclined to listen. I am coming to understand, however, that what I see as truth, others interpret as fairy tales.

From Jill Carattini of the Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in her article “To Hear the Horns of Elfland”:

Of the many objections to Christianity, it is this one that stands out in my mind as troubling: that to be Christian is to withdraw from the world of reality, to follow fairy tales with wishful hearts and myths that insist we stop thinking and believe all will be right in the end because God says so.

The thing is, all will be right in the end, because God says so. So I agree with Ms. Carattini: the objection is troublesome because it points a finger at Christianity and says “reality” doesn’t verify belief in the “fairy tale” ending.

In some small part, I think Christian writers have the responsibility to dispel this objection, to demonstrate the way the world really works.

C. S. Lewis did that for me. When I was young, I was deathly afraid of dying. I remember driving past a burned home and thinking of people dying in the fire. I remember hearing ambulance sirens and imagining the people whose lives might be hanging in the balance.

Primarily, I didn’t want to die, and told my mother so when I was about five. All during childhood I had false ideas about dying. For some time I thought it meant I would come to an end–simply cease to be. Then I thought it meant I would become one with a great consciousness (I don’t know where I got that notion), and finally that I would be in some sort of angelic state where I would sit around on clouds playing a harp.

As I grew older, I tried not to think about dying. Then I read Lewis’s The Great Divorce.

That book simply revolutionized my understanding. Life after life is what’s real, what’s solid, and it is the temporal life we now experience that is wispy and ephemeral. Imagine my surprise to learn that Lewis’s view was also Scriptural. (“Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away” James 4:14).

The thing is, C. S. Lewis didn’t correct my thinking by giving me a theological treatise on the after life. Rather, he showed, from his imagination, the reality of life beyond this life. No, I’m not suggesting that Lewis had some vision of heaven and that he gave an account of what we can expect to which I must cling as if it is Scripture itself.

What Lewis did was alter my understanding by giving his own imaginative version that contradicted everything I’d thought before. He showed eternal life to be the true reality, not the vaporous wisp I’d imagined it to be. He showed heavenly riches to be far surpassing anything of earthly substance. He portrayed heaven to be rich with certainty and joy, and hell to be isolating and filled with selfishness.

A fairy tale? Indeed. Lewis made up his Gray Town and his Ghosts and Solid People, but in so doing, he showed me, at least, that life after life is what matters most, that this prologue we’re in is critical but not complete in and of itself, that its meaning is in relation to the whole story.

In the same way, I think Christian speculative writers can counter the objections Ms. Carattini finds troubling. We can show that Christianity is not withdrawal, that having God’s word to verify a thing is the best evidence of all, and that fairy tale endings aren’t happily ever after for people like the wicked witch or the Big Bad Wolf.

As she noted in her article

Christianity is . . . far from an invitation to live blind and unconcerned with the world of suffering around us, intent to tell feel-good stories or to withdraw from the harder scenes of life with fearful wishes.

In the same way that George MacDonald opened C. S. Lewis’s understanding of spiritual things, and Lewis opened mine and a host of other writers’, I think it’s natural that we pay forward what we received. We have the opportunity to do what he did in our stories. As biographer Alan Jacobs put it, “[Lewis’s] real power was not proof; it was depiction” (The Narnian: The Life and Imagination of C.S. Lewis p. 312).

By emulating Lewis’s purpose to show truth in concrete terms, we can dispense with the notion that what God says is merely a fairy tale. In other words, we can use “fairy tales” to kill the notion that God’s work and word is a fairy tale. Ironic, isn’t it!

Comic book stories are rarely faith-affirming. Christians are often portrayed as psychopaths, con men, or as wildly intolerant. For example, a group of Christian-like characters are portrayed as crazy fanatics jumping off a building so Superman will save them, in the recent story arc “Saved” from Adventures of Superman #19 and #20.

This is what makes Marvel’s “Angels Unaware” story arch from the anthology series Daredevil Dark Nights Issues 1-3 so stunning. It was a well-told, evocative comic book tale that powerfully portrayed/proclaimed the truth of the Gospel.

“Angels Unaware” is written and drawn by Lee Weeks, best know for his artwork on the main Daredevil title in the 1990s. While Marvel is known is for overblown epics, Weeks opts for a much simpler set up. New York City is hit with a monster blizzard. Blind lawyer Matt Murdoch takes a blow to the head when battling some ruffians that leaves him with a temporary case of amnesia and lands him in the hospital with no identification. At the same time, a tragic car accident gives a young girl a chance at a new heart, but the helicopter transporting the organ is brought down in the storm.

Two members of the hospital staff discovered the injured blind man is Daredevil and it’s a good thing. Daredevil, with his powerful senses and radar vision, is their only hope of getting the heart from the crashed helicopter before it’s too late.

Because the story isn’t too bloated, Weeks is able to make it work on so many levels. The heart is a ticking time bomb that drives the story as Daredevil battles both man and nature to make it through the storm. At the same time, the story is able to look at what makes Matt Murdoch and what makes a hero. It also focuses on the decisions a hero has to make. En route to get the heart, Daredevil has to choose to ignore some cries for help and answer others. He has to make judgments and at least one of them turns out to be wrong.

Many comics can only be understood if you have a good grasp of fifty years of back story. However, “Angels Unaware” can be read by readers who are unaware of all the ins and outs of Daredevil’s long history.

The faith element is huge throughout the book. Of course, the entire series title references Hebrews 13:2 (KJV), “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

As Issue 1 opens, Matt Murdoch is reading the Bible. Throughout the first issue, we see quite a few scripture quotations often used to dramatic effect particularly on the last page,  as well as a 21st Century version of the “Good Samaritan” when Matt is knocked out, his wallet stolen, and he is left by the side of the road as the snow comes down. Issue 2 sticks to just one scripture quote but it sets up the rest of the story. Issue 3 makes this story arc stand out from other comic books that have appropriated scriptural references.

It begins with an unconscious Daredevil reflecting on his life and his failures and the hope that somehow saving a girl in need of a heart can atone for his failures. As with the rest of the book, Weeks keeps things simple and doesn’t subject us to all the backstory.

Truth is, there are few superheroes who’ve sunk to lower depths than Daredevil. Frank Miller began the process of making Daredevil on the cutting edge of the darker heroes in the  1980s. However, in Daredevil’s second volume from 1998-2010, writers such as Brian Michael Bendis, Ed Brubaker, and Andy Diggle put Daredevil through the most hopeless and depressing stories any superhero has experienced. A series of broken relationships, deaths, and misery saw him become the new Kingpin and get possessed by a demon while leading a band of ninjas to establish his own order on New York’s streets. He even considered killing his best friend, Foggy Nelson, at the end of the second volume.

This traumatic decade plus of suffering and sin was addressed briefly in a backup story in the first issue of Daredevil’s third volume written by Mark Waid. It found Murdoch unusually chipper and in good spirits and acting much more like the swashbuckling hero Stan Lee created in 1964 than the darker character of recent memory. Regarding the last few “miserable years,” Murdoch explains to Foggy Nelson, “Every time I thought I’d finally hit bottom, God somehow found a bigger shovel. All of this pain and loss, I just can’t bear the weight of it and stay sane.”

For this reason, he’s decided to fundamentally become a more positive, upbeat person.  He gives Foggy (and by extension the readers) the option of viewing him as “being in denial” and “not dealing.” Of course, it’s obvious that’s exactly what he’s doing.

Waid uses this to brilliant effect to create a great series that has readers wondering when Murdoch is going to snap. Weeks’ Daredevil is a bit more realistic and in touch with himself. Like so many heroes, he’s seeking redemption from sins of ages past. This sort of guilt also keeps heroes like Batman and Spider-Man doing their thing.

The ultimate tragedy is that they’re doomed to never actually find the redemption they want. No matter how many criminals Batman gets off the street, he will never be rid of the false guilt of his parents’ deaths when he was a child, and Peter will never escape the tragic consequences of Uncle Ben’s death. At the characters’ darkest moments, you can’t help but wish that someone somehow would communicate the truth of the gospel to them.

What made “Angels Unaware” so unique is that someone did. Even better, Issue 3 does it in a way that’s not only not hokey; it is poignant, powerful, and straightforward. When I reached the end, I was stunned at what I’d just read: a Christian superhero story with great theology published by Marvel comics.

Adam Graham

It’s a story I never would have imagined could be published. Not only is the message of the book of commendable, the story’s quality is superb. It represents what comic books can be at their best: thought-provoking and moving, while containing its fair share of excitement and drama, and comic book art worthy of the name “art.”

This story arc does have some scenes that may not be appropriate for pre-teen and younger readers. For everyone else, I can’t recommend it more highly.

Daredevil Dark Nights Issues 1-3 contain the Angels Unaware story arch and is available wherever comic books are sold. A digital version is available for computer or mobile devoices through comixology.com.

Break this (gritty) chain.

It’s not only fiction legalism putting walls around the world of fantastic Christian stories.

Several factors end up being so limiting. Just this week Rebecca Miller touched on two of those: too-small expectations (an issue closely related to niche-ification) and unnecessary separation. Underlying these are other deeper difficulties.

Enslaving expectations

1. ‘Christian stories must reach the lost at all cost.’

Evangelical fiction often targets — or feigns to target? — non-Christian readers. Following megachurch “seeker-friendly” notions in reality, this supports common story tropes such as cheesy conversion scenes, those wholesome professional non-Christian characters who only need Jesus to heal their hurts, and lack of potentially offensive material such as those swear words (because, you see, our fiction needs to be markedly different from the world).

But it’s taken me a while to conclude this: critics of these tropes base their criticism on the very same assumption: that the chief end of Christian fiction is to reach non-Christians, even to “evangelize” them. Such critics merely say, “Evangelical fiction publishers, you’re merely doing it wrong. Non-Christian readers don’t want ABC! They want XYZ — with Grit^®.”

This expectation can enslave Christian fiction, making authors, publishers, and especially readers wrongly beholden all over again to non-Christian readers (or feigned readers).

Yes, non-Christians should feel free to read Christian novels and find them just as truthful, beautiful, and good as anything else, if not better. But the “reach the lost at all cost” notion, whether from current evangelical publishers or the “grit it up, make it real, anything to impress” Christian fiction criticism lobby, only iconizes and patronizes secular readers.

Worse, the reach-the-lost notion gives no ultimate reason for reaching the lost. Like many revivalist strains of Christianity, it treats the faith mainly as an enslaving pyramid scheme. “People, you must be saved.” Okay, then what comes next? “Get other people saved!”

2. ‘Christian stories must be Gritty.’

Christian fiction should be far grittier than John Wayne(?).

Really, I grow weary of this charge, and not because I disagree with it. Instead I find it’s so often waged with exactly the same evangelical and dare I say legalistic vigor as the opposite “Christian stories must be Wholesome” crusade. If we build a case against Wholesomeness not on clear Biblical rationale but instead rants about sentimentality, bad Thomas Kinkade paintings, and (once again) saying “non-Christian readers don’t like it,” how is this different from building a case against Gritty fiction by appealing to sins of impure unholy thoughts? “Sentimentality is wicked” can become just as legalistic as “it’s wrong to read bad words.”

This expectation also often gives no ultimate reason for making our fiction Gritty.

3. ‘Christian stories must rival the best secular fiction.’

Again, I agree with this principle. God’s people should read and write only the best. What Christian reader wouldn’t agree? But when people say this without an ultimate reason — a reason why our stories should outshine the others, rather than only being placeholders for any of our free time until Christ returns — this also becomes an enslaving expectation.

Fiction freedom

From ChristianStatements.com.

The solution to fiction legalism isn’t more rules for or against certain content, genres, or improved craft. The cure isn’t planning harder to target non-Christian readers, or dumping buckets of blood and intestines and four-letter words onto our pages or tablets.

As with any problem, the solution is Christ. The Word of Christ. The worship of Christ.

I’ve often said this and I’ll always repeat it: the chief end of fiction is not to edify with morals, to evangelize non-Christian readers, or to entertain us. These goals do matter, and a good story includes them. But the better stories do these on the way to a higher purpose.

That purpose, that chief end of story, is to glorify God and help us enjoy Him forever.

Of course, this sounds very spiritual.¹ Yet all this presumes is that 1) humans personally exist to glorify and enjoy God, and redeemed saints are made free to do this; 2) for Christians, glorifying God equals the worship of God; 3) we find joy in glorifying/worshiping God in all we do, not only in “religious” activities; 4) if enjoying stories (or writing stories) is not against God’s revealed Word, then this is a task we can enjoy even more only when we intentionally make it part of pursuing His worship.

I’m convinced that exploring, articulating, preaching, and acting according to this truth about God’s glory and worship is the sole solution to finding fiction freedom.

Surely this will help guide our discussions about questionable content, improving craft, reaching readers, and outshining the best that non-Christian fiction has to offer. We’re not as enslaved to legalistic expectations or fears of sin. Instead we’re set free to glorify Christ.

Wikipedia is a handy resource, but it has its limitations. Take, for instance, its description of Christianity as being “a monotheistic, Abrahamic religion based on the life and teachings of Jesus Christ as presented in the New Testament.” Close, but no cigar.

I realize not everyone will agree, but I have to take issue with the definition for two reasons. 1) Though it’s a cliché, it’s a fact that Christianity isn’t a religion, it’s a relationship.  2) Christianity is not based on the life of Jesus; rather, it’s Jesus’s life being manifested in another person (Galatians 2:20).

Rather than being adherents to a theology, Christians are individuals who have been supernaturally and eternally transformed by the same power that raised Jesus from the grave. (Notice that Paul’s explanation of this in Ephesians 1:19 – 2:6 speaks in past tense: not that we will be raised from the dead, but that we have been).

We’re talking some weird stuff here; no wonder the unbelieving the world doesn’t get it. What’s sad is that many Christians don’t get it either. And it doesn’t help when titles on the Christian bookshelf support the misconceptions.

I recently read a book billed as Christian and recommended by a friend. I found it well written and professionally produced. It mentioned God, yes, and it quoted a couple of Bible verses, interpreting them with contextual integrity, as far as it went. But you don’t have to be a Christ-follower to believe in God or to agree with those Bible passages. I read that book from the dedication to the discussion questions and every word in between, and found nothing that had anything to do with the unique nature of Christianity. How, then, is it classified as a Christian novel?

Yes, I know; technically, Christian novel is an impossible term because a novel is inanimate and cannot be a Christian. But even using the phrase as it’s generally understood, I don’t see how the book qualifies. In my opinion (and no, my opinion doesn’t mean much), that sort of novel should be called inspirational, not Christian.

There’s nothing the matter with inspirational stories, and I’m certainly not the type who says Christians should only read Christian literature; quite the opposite. I just think we need to be a little more careful about how we portray Christianity.

The best way to get God’s definition of a term is to see how it’s defined the first time it appears in the Scriptures. (Some Bible students call this the “Law of First Mention.”) Not surprisingly, a great number of these words are first found in Genesis, the book of beginnings. But because “Christian” is a thoroughly New Testament concept, its first mention is in the first thoroughly New Testament book, the Acts of the Apostles (Acts 11:26).

“What about the gospels?” you may ask.  “They’re in the New Testament before Acts, you know.” True; but when speaking of dispensations, the New Testament age began at Calvary, not Bethlehem. This is because, according to long-standing secular legal practices as well as Hebrews 9:15-16, a testament doesn’t go into effect until after the death of the testator. If this intrigues you, go ahead and read all of Hebrews 9—better yet, chapters 8 through 10. It’s worth your time, because understanding this simple concept helps us keep our bearings as we study the Bible.

But back to those folks in Antioch who were first called Christians. I’ve been told, though this isn’t mentioned in the passage, that it was a term of derision meaning “little Christ,” but these early Christ-followers liked it and used it themselves.  I won’t take that anecdote to the bank, but it’s interesting.

But who were these people? For them, Christianity wasn’t a nice thing; it wasn’t something they did because their parents did. It wasn’t socially acceptable. It wasn’t something they could do casually. At that time, to be associated with the name of Christ was to put your life on the line. There have always been pretenders, of course. But the description we read of these early Christ-followers is of a people willing to give up everything—family, career, reputation, possessions—to obey His calling.

Nowadays, though, “Christian” is used to describe a whole variety of people and philosophies and behaviors and objects that weren’t originally included under the designation.

Like “Christian” fiction.

Don’t get me wrong; a story doesn’t need to be about Jesus for me to enjoy it. In fact, I love to read things written from different viewpoints, as it gives me a better understanding of other people, religions, cultures, and philosophies—and sometimes, it helps me understand my own faith better. No, my complaint isn’t that everything isn’t Christian; my problem is with labeling.

Suppose a person who doesn’t know what Christianity is all about chooses a book from the Christian shelf, thinking it might help him understand it better. Let’s say he reads about people who, in the midst of some interesting adventures, learn about doing good. Or forgiving those who have wronged them. Or having faith. That’s nice, but where’s the “Christ” part? Where’s the God-powered transference of the soul out of the devil’s kingdom to sit in heavenly places with our Savior? The reader may enjoy the book, even find it uplifting; but he’s no closer to understanding the gospel of salvation than he was before.

Genre designations are more for the purpose of bookselling than for any other purpose. Writers need to know where to focus their marketing efforts, and readers need to know where to look for the sort of thing they like. Okay, so toward that end, how about employing a system that’s a little more accurate?

If a Christian reader likes romance (though I’ve never been able to figure out why anyone would) but prefers to avoid the steamy stuff, she’d have no difficulty finding something suitable if the Romance category were subdivided into something like Squeaky-Clean, Titillating, and Torrid. Mystery and Suspense might have designations like Detective, Sexy, International Intrigue, and perhaps Gory. Speculative fiction could branch out into Scientific, Light Sci-Fi, Paranormal, High Fantasy, etc. Tweak the subfolders all you like, but I think this makes more sense than calling something Christian that has little to do with Christ.

It doesn’t take much review-reading on Amazon to find there’s a segment of the reading populace that objects to anything “religious.” Funny, though, how they like to review Christian fiction, which they lambast as being too Christian. These tortured souls, so delighted to spread their pain to others, would be able to get their nasty fix even with these proposed labeling changes. Taking note of a book’s publisher is a good starting place, and reading the blurb should confirm where the story fits into the scheme of things. Under this labeling method, anyone who enjoys writing a scathing review would have no trouble finding books to attack.

Maybe I’m wrong about all this. The current system, especially with the gazillion tags and designations on Amazon, might be the most workable way after all. But it bothers me to read something that’s filed under the Christian heading but fails to portray the vital essence and uniqueness of Christianity.

Maybe I’m the only one who thinks Christians who love speculative fiction, working together to promote the genre and other writers, other groups, is a good thing and will benefit all of us–readers, certainly, but also writers of all stripes, published in whatever venue. Or maybe there’s a weariness for this topic. Or maybe the “how to” seems daunting.

I thought it would be worth finding out what visitors here at Spec Faith are thinking about this topic. Please take a moment and answer this poll question with as many of the choices as apply to you.

Also feel free to elaborate on your answers in the comments.

Thanks for taking part.

I have a theory, which by definition means it’s an idea that quite possibly could be wrong. But like all theories, it’s build on some solid facts.

For one, God is great. Whether people believe in Him or not, He rules over all. See, for example, 1 Chronicles 29:11-12:

Yours, O LORD, is the greatness and the power and the glory and the victory and the majesty, indeed everything that is in the heavens and the earth; Yours is the dominion, O LORD, and You exalt Yourself as head over all. Both riches and honor come from You, and You rule over all, and in Your hand is power and might; and it lies in Your hand to make great and to strengthen everyone.

Another fact is that speculative stories have captured the imagination of western culture. See, for example, TV programs like Under The Dome, Once Upon A Time, and the new spin-off, Once Upon A Time In Wonderland. Or look at the plethora of speculative movies (e. g. Star Trek, Man In The Iron Mask, Elysium, Percy Jackson: Sea of Monsters, Gravity, Divergent) or blockbuster book series (e. g. Harry Potter, Twilight, Hunger Games).

So, what’s my theory based on these facts? Not only can God use speculative stories to make Himself known, which we’ve discussed frequently here at Spec Faith, but He can do so on a Grand Scale.

He is not a tiny God struggling for recognition. He isn’t about to settle for a small contingent of humanity recognizing His sovereignty and calling Him Lord. In Philippians Paul says that

at the name of Jesus every knee will bow, of those who are in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and that every tongue will confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. (2:10-11)

I understand universal acknowledgment of His greatness will come about when Jesus returns, but I infer from Paul’s declaration that God desires this response from His creation, not only at the end of time, but even now, while we’re in the struggle against sin and Satan.

So why don’t we see every knee bowing to Jesus, every tongue confessing Him as Lord, instead of a growing hostility to His name? Why is there an increase in interest in pantheism, Buddhism, paganism, Hinduism, and even Islam? In other parts of the world, the reverse seems to be true, but in western society, people who follow Jesus Christ are being marginalized at an increasing rate.

Could it be that we, his followers, have been content to stand our ground?

After all, evangelism is offensive to so many, so let’s not make our neighbors and coworkers uncomfortable by actually telling them they are sinners in need of a Savior. And the culture is straying from the truth, so ought we not build a hedge around us and our children, to keep error at bay?

I think most of us can see that standing pat is actually a scheme for losing ground. Not to mention the fact that God gave His people the task of reproducing spiritually, just as surely as He commanded Adam and Eve to be fruitful and multiply.

Trying to hold ground rather than advance, then, seems like disobedience to me.

Which brings me back to my theory. When we Christians who love speculative fiction in the same way the rest of society does, fail to advance the cause of Christ through these stories, aren’t we missing a God-given opportunity for spiritual reproduction?

How are we failing “to advance the cause of Christ through these stories”? I can think of a few ways:

• writing stories without developing themes that are consistent with God’s call on our lives

• failing to support and encourage and promote writers and books that advance the cause of Christ

• standing pat in our “weird niche”

It’s this latter point that I think we need to address, that we can change. Not only do many who love speculative fiction think of themselves as “weird,” they believe they have a special brand of weirdness, whether it is cyperpunk weirdness or space opera weirdness or epic fantasy weirdness or superhero weirdness or fairytale weirdness–we have our specialty, our closed set.

Sadly, this sense of niche-ness has extended to how we produce our stories. There are those who pursue traditional publishing in the Christian market and those who do so in the general market. There are those who self-publish using print-on-demand companies and those who self-publish ebooks. There are those who publish through any of the growing number of small, independent presses.

I don’t understand, to be honest, why there have to be lines between the groups, why we haven’t figured out how to cross promote, why we seem to have so many Lone Rangers.

Let’s face it, as much as I love the whole secret identity thing, the mystery and mystic behind his persona (the original version), and no matter how much I agree with his love of honesty and justice, his willingness to fight for the least and the less fortunate, the Lone Ranger was too limited. He couldn’t be everywhere, all the time.

In reality, there’s strength in numbers. We accomplish more together than we do apart. Solomon talks about this very fact:

Two are better than one because they have a good return for their labor. For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to the one who falls when there is not another to lift him up. Furthermore, if two lie down together they keep warm, but how can one be warm alone? And if one can overpower him who is alone, two can resist him. A cord of three strands is not quickly torn apart. (Ecc. 4:9-12)

I’m thinking we need to pull our strands together into a strong cord. Or, we can stay in our individual niches, doing our individual things with the few who have circled the wagons with us. I guess it all depends on how small we decide we want to be.

So what do you think? How can Christians who love speculative fiction draw together?