All this talk of God’s glory, and enjoying fantastic stories for His glory. Yet what is His glory?

So far in this series we’ve overviewed idolatrous “worship” through reading, then begun exploring worship of God. Stories are more than “just stories,” and that does not detract from their worth, but adds to their wonder. Furthermore, all stories are based in Scripture.

Those last statements have brought some questions. All stories, really? Or do we suspect that only certain things, such as evangelical “devotionals,” glorify God more than others?

That made me realize something new. Until recently, I had been thinking of glory/worship as simple light vs. darkness. Yet it’s essential to see the Scriptural color spectrum that God uses to glorify Himself. That in turn informs how we worship Him through enjoying stories.

Seeing His glory

Scripture constantly compares God’s glory to light. John 1 says Christ was the light, evoking God’s first command in Genesis 1, and adds “we have seen His glory” (John 1:14). Look for photos online relating to “God’s glory”; you’ll find most reflect this comparison: pictures of sunrises, sunshine sparkling on the water. One ministry also uses seeing-related terms to explore His glory: shine, visible, radiance. In all the Story’s stories, God reveals His glory in light and means of light. A burning bush. A pillar of fire. Tongues of fire on people’s heads.

By contrast, literally, darkness is seen as a metaphor for God’s glory not being shown. By derivative, it is symbolic of evil. God called His people “out of darkness into his marvelous light” (1 Peter 2:9). Such symbols hold true all the way to the Story’s finale in Revelation.

These images also reflect in our fiction. I don’t know of a story in which light represents evil and dark represents goodness, do you? (Unless a villain is disguised as an “angel of light.”)

Yet I have recently wondered if “light versus darkness” tends to appear simplistically in our imaginations. I’m not referring here to postmodernism or relativism (much less anything “race”-related) when I say that too often we think of goodness and evil as black and white. Think of it: when goodness conquers evil, which colors do we see or imagine? Inevitably white light shines and splits apart the black shadow. Only primary colors: black and white.

More often, we need to think of worship and God’s glory in living color, just as He created it. And just as we are meant to reflect His glory in all that we do, including in our stories.

Shades of white or dazzling rainbows?

“You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.”

Matthew 5:14-16

What of our light, which reflects His Source? Do we often treat it as if we flip it “on” or “off” based on our heart motives or outward behavior? I doubt that, actually. Instead we may have in mind the image of a dimmer switch. His power flows through us, and though He is working in us, we also work to be like Him (Phil. 2: 12-13). Our worship brightens and dims. So does the light level of our creative pursuits, whether enjoying or creating stories.

Based on this view, we might ask about a story: is its glory-reflection high or low?

Consider Philip Pullman’s infamous His Dark Materials series. You could say its light is dim because of its author’s intent to slander God. But it’s not completely dark; after all, Pullman calls some things good and some bad, while using raw “materials” that God created.

Or consider a Christian author’s fantasy novel that’s written with skill in both theme and craft. Does such a story reflect God’s glory more brightly — a kind of “direct” glorification?

In either case, readers may be opening their eyes wider to see more of the story’s latent glory-reflections. Or they may be shutting their eyes to avoid seeing it (likely before going onto book-review websites to offer the indignant reaction: Eww, that was a Christian book).

The light shines, higher or lower, and may be unseen by perception. A dimmer switch.

Yet God made color. Especially this time of year, our eyes likely open wider to behold it! Whole sermons could be preached on the fact that God could have created trees so that in the fall their leaves would fade directly from greens to browns and grays. Those duller shades do come later, yet first comes the transformation: an absolutely breathtaking array of colors. Fiery reds, crisp oranges, golden yellows. Seeing these alone can be worship.

Thus in that sense, His glory-light is not simply white contrasted with a black background. It’s in color. A living, dazzling spectrum. Do rainbows come to mind? They came to His first:

“I have set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth.”

Genesis 9:13

Like the appearance of the bow that is in the cloud on the day of rain, so was the appearance of the brightness all around. Such was the appearance of the likeness of the glory of the Lord.

Ezekiel 1:28

At once I was in the Spirit, and behold, a throne stood in heaven, with one seated on the throne. And he who sat there had the appearance of jasper and carnelian, and around the throne was a rainbow that had the appearance of an emerald.

Revelation 4:2-3

Image from AnswersInGenesis.org.

God’s glory is a rainbow. A spectrum of color. And in some ways, this metaphor helps us much more when considering how we worship. We don’t simply raise or lower a single light-shade of glory, nor do we “worship” in ways that we define (which could include darkness). Rather, He has created the diverse array of colors we use to reflect His glory and thereby worship Him. We cannot create a new color that did not exist. Yet we can mix, raise or lower, or avert or open our eyes wider in response, to all these colors.

Next we’ll consider the similarly diverse array of artworks and stories that glorify Him — not simply by showing light and dark contrasted and light winning, but by showing colors.

What are your favorite glory “colors”? How do those affect your favorite arts and stories?

So two weeks ago, I ruminated briefly about NBC’s new dystopian TV show Revolution, where I waxed a little philosophically about one of the background characters, a Stereotypical Street Preacher who claimed God caused the blackout as punishment for people’s sins. This time around, I thought we’d look at one of the more central characters, namely Captain Tom Neville.

Neville is one of the bad guys, a captain in the Monroe Republic militia. He’s a petty, evil man, one who is quick to violence for the sake of the cause. In the first few episodes, we watch as he slaughters a man in cold blood for hunting with a rifle and having an American flag. He’s ruthless, more than willing to beat up a helpless eighteen year old prisoner to establish his dominance. In short, he’s not a nice guy. Not nice at all. So what kind of man was he before the Blackout, before society completely collapsed? Well, we finally found out in the latest episode.

Dear Mr. Neville was an insurance salesman.

That’s right. He was a quiet, soft-spoken doormat. He’s lost his job, he can’t stand up to his thug of a neighbor, and the only way he deals with his repressed anger at life is by walloping a punching bag in his basement. But then, after the power goes off, Neville unleashes his rage when the aforementioned thug tries to kill him in front of his family. Neville snaps and becomes a monster. I suspect the writers want this to be a profound commentary on human nature, a way to hold up a mirror to ourselves and make us wonder, “Is there a Neville-like monster lurking inside me?”

For a Christian, the answer to that question is “Duh.”

Okay, maybe that’s a bit flippant. But from where this Lutheran is sitting, the real answer is, “Of course we all have a Neville-like monster lurking inside us, waiting to get out. Its name is sin.”

The problem here is one of competing viewpoints. For most people, the idea that a monster lurks within them is abhorrent because they assume that deep, deep down, they’re really a good person at heart. Oh, sure, they have their foibles and their occasional moral failings, but when push comes to shove, their hearts carry that little spark of goodness that somehow redeems them as a whole. They can’t possibly imagine that they could ever fall so low as a Tom Neville because they assume that nothing could corrupt their innate goodness.

But what does the Bible say about that attitude? I think the Psalmist says it best: “Surely I was sinful at birth, sinful from the time my mother conceived me.” (Psalm 51:5) The Bible teaches that each of us are sinful from day one. There’s no spark of goodness within us. We all have sin at the core and it’s waiting to drag us down in a heartbeat. The truly frightening thing is that the same is true for Christians. We Lutherans call it simul justus et peccator (saint and sinner at the same time). St. Paul describes the inner tension in Romans 7 when he talks about the struggle between his desire to do what is right and the clamoring of sin to do what is wrong. It’s the tug-of-war that each of us lives with in this life, one that we will be free of only in the life to come.

And it’s acknowledging this struggle that makes for great characters.

I’m not saying that Tom Neville is a good character. Truth be told, he’s a bit one-dimensional for me. But what makes a character fascinating is the understanding that a monster lurks within them, even inside the heroes. It makes them relate-able and all the more real.

And that’s a great thing in a story.

“I meant what I said, and I said what I meant…Cthulhu is evil, one-hundred percent.”

Today, I’d like to toss a recent article from Christianity Today onto the table for discussion. It deals with horror, a speculative genre we don’t frequently chat about here, though there are horror elements in a lot of the science fiction and fantasy stories we do talk about. Pay particular attention to the contrast between the worldviews of two paragons of classic horror, H.P. Lovecraft and Arthur Machen.

http://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2012/october-web-only/meaning-to-madness.html?start=1

I don’t read much horror. I have to be in a certain mood for it. I used to hold the opinion that Christian horror was a contradiction in terms, but as I began to consider it more carefully and read some scholarly analysis of the genre, I began to see some virtues in its basic principles that can line up with a Christian worldview, if the story’s handled properly.

Horror usually involves a direct, unambiguous confrontation between good and evil, which are clearly delineated. Evil is not some nebulous attribution of archaic social values, something that wouldn’t seem so bad if we only took the time to understand it better. Evil wants to kill you dead, dead, dead and then watch the world burn, burn, burn.

Most classic horror portrays good as superior to evil, though evil may win a few battles while good is getting its act together, and stories may end with a subtle, or not-so-subtle, reminder that vanquished evil will likely return to try again in another form or via another avenue of approach. There’s a trend in modern works of horror that springs from a more pessimistic view of the universe, and that’s covered at some length in the article. It’s also the crux of the contrast between Lovecraft and Machen. In Lovecraft’s stories, evil is overwhelmingly powerful and utterly alien—and its chief horror is our powerlessness to resist it. Machen’s view is that a confrontation with the reality of evil engenders a “holy terror” that inspires man to turn to God, the ultimate power and our only hope of rescue.

Siding with the forces of evil has consequences. Horrifying consequences. Horror is perhaps the most conventionally moral genre of all. Good is rewarded (if only with survival), and evil is punished (with a messy death, or a fate worse than death). That punishment is often the most frightening part of the story and a caution to the reader. “Be good, or the boogeyman will get you, no matter how old you are.”

Evil forces in horror are not always explicitly Satanic in nature, though that’s a popular option. Science run amok, amoral alien beings, madness, hubris, and even impersonal forces of nature often stand in (and having ridden out a couple of hurricanes in my time, I can affirm there are moments when it seems perfectly sane to think a particular storm is intelligent, malignant, and has it out for you personally). I’ve read conflicting opinions on this issue from Christian writers and readers—some enjoy the drama and satisfaction of vicariously slugging it out mano-a-mano with El Diablo, some see an opportunity to illustrate principles of spiritual warfare in concrete action, and some think it’s sinful to entertain fanciful thoughts of Satan and his works, however they’re depicted—the matter is simply too serious to permit idle speculation.

Horror takes the prevailing materialist view of the universe and gives it a good slapping around. This can be a mind-expanding tonic in a world where we lazily assume science has an answer for everything and truth is decided by preponderance of documentation. As the Bard observed, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” and some of them are very dangerous. A few are hiding under your bed right now. Horror reminds us that reality does not depend on our ability to see, comprehend, or believe.

Horror provides a controlled environment where we can grapple with our primal fears: Despite its association with splatter and grue, the best horror creates a slowly mounting sense of dread that draws its energy from those things we’ve been shivering about since we were kids: fear of the dark, fear of confined spaces, fear of death, fear of strangers, fear of heights, fear of dogs, fear of clowns, fear of the unknown, etc. In fiction, and perhaps less so in film, we have the opportunity to distance ourselves from those fears enough to think about why it is we’re afraid and how we might cope.

Of course, there’s also the danger that we might reinforce those fears or add new ones. Who’s stocking up for the zombie apocalypse? C’mon, ‘fess up.

Is fantasy “weird” and therefore a type of story only to be enjoyed by a niche group of readers? I, and others here at Spec Faith, have adamantly and repeatedly said no. (Most recently I did so in “Is Christian Speculative Fiction Weird?” at A Christian Worldview of Fiction.)

From time to time, I’ve justified my beliefs by pointing to the wide popularity of C. S. Lewis’s Narnia stories and, to a greater extent, J. R. R. Tolkien’s Middle Earth stories. How can we explain “non-fantasy” readers reading and loving these books? How can we explain their continued popularity more than fifty years after publication?

I think Professor Michael D.C. Drout, an instructor at Wheaton College, identifies what Tolkien accomplished and few others have duplicated:

Although he did not know it at the time, Tolkien’s famous first line [in The Hobbit], “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit,” began the development of the key concept that would cause the success of The Lord of the Rings: Tolkien had created a character who could mediate between the medieval stories he loved so much and the world of his twentieth-century, middle-class readers. (excerpt from EXPLORING FANTASY LITERATURE: Course Guide)

According to Dr. Drout, Tolkien, and I would argue Lewis, created a bridge for contemporary readers to step into the realm of the fantastic. These writers tied their magical, mystical worlds to the world readers knew and recognized.

Interestingly, they did so in vastly different ways. Lewis used the now familiar device of a portal from the known world into the magical world. Characters living in familiar settings and circumstances were transported to a land where animals talked and mythical beings existed,

Tolkien on the other hand, created a character who was so believably and recognizably a middle class westerner, that readers related, though he lived Elsewhere, and was himself unique. The genius of Tolkien was that Bilbo (and later Frodo and the other hobbits) was different from us in ways that reminded us of … us.

He lived in his comfy hole in the ground, in the Shire tucked away from the rest of the world. How easy, then, for him to involve himself with his own cares and ignore the dangers of the greater world. He also loved his ease. His excesses were no more than others of his kind–six meals and a good pipe. But they were of paramount concern to him and to forgo enjoying them required great sacrifice from his perspective.

Hobbits, then, especially those in the lead roles, were easy to underestimate because they were so ordinary–like so many readers who would like to believe they might rise to the occasion if the need occurred, but would much rather continue in as much comfort and self-concern as possible.

Regardless of the method, the result of Lewis and Tolkien’s mediation was to usher readers from one world to the other, as if they, too, were entering into the mystical and magical.

Why haven’t successive fantasies, which apparently attempt the same mediation between the now and the imagined, found the same acceptance by readers? I suggest two main reasons.

First, many of the later fantasy worlds feel warmed over. They are by now as familiar as the contemporary world, and entering them holds no surprises.

In converse, I think some writers try so hard to create a world that is wholly other, they abandon the attempt to mediate between the imagined world and the one in which their readers live. In other words, these writers are leaving their readers behind.

In some cases, if the reader is brave enough or trusting enough, he might forge ahead and discover a world as rich and enticing as Narnia or Middle Earth. But will large numbers of readers take that leap of faith? I don’t think so. Thus, a niche is born.

If fantasy is to engage the public at large, I believe writers need to discover ways to mediate between the real and the imagined. But isn’t that similar to what the Christian should be doing as part of his witness–to shine the light on truths about this world and that of the hereafter?

The presentation of an eternal future with God, as truthful as it is, is hard for a starving man to grasp or to care about. Believers, then, must show our culture that God is not far off or interested only in someday. We must show that He bridged the gap.

Christ Himself, of course, is the perfect Mediator, between God and Man. His incarnation is the perfect example of ushering mankind–readers, if you will–into the transcendent world. He did so by modeling both Tolkien and Lewis’s methods. In a reverse of the typical portal story, He arrived from Heaven into this world, but He did so as a perfectly relatable Person, much like Tolkien’s characters.

In conclusion, we fantasy writers today need to discover how to mediate between our unique mystical, magical worlds and twenty-first century readers. Can we adapt Tolkien’s method or Lewis’s? Of course. In doing so we are simply following Christ’s true-to-life model. But here’s the key: the more successful we are, the less weird our stories will seem.

Who are other writers that you believe have successfully mediated between readers and their imagined world? How did they pull it off? Have they broken out of the niche of “weird” as a result?

(In Speculative Politics 1, author Kerry Nietz shared his views on politics in reality, storytelling, and novelists’ profiles. In Speculative Politics 2, author Marc Schooley agreed with politics in fiction, yet not as much in reality — at least not for Christians. Here Nietz offers his rebuttal. Part 4 by Schooley arrives Sunday, Oct. 28, four days before Election Day in the U.S.)

“Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends than that good men should look on and do nothing.”

John Stuart Mill, in an address at the University of St. Andrews in 1867

How should politics inform reality, stories, and authors’ profiles?

Let me start my rebuttal with a caveat:  I agree that the primary work of the universal Church is to win others to Christ. I furthermore agree that the primary calling of individual Christians, is to bring others into a closer relationship with God through his Son Jesus Christ, and to do so through the power of His Holy Spirit. There is no more effective way to change the world, then by spreading the Gospel. And that includes through the stories we write!

That said, I’m unsettled by some of what Marc has written. He seems to have taken the backdrop of human history, found the terrible spots that might be in some way be attributed to the Christian church, or Christians, and used them as justification — I guess — as to why individual Christians shouldn’t vote. In America!

I’m sorry; I just can’t find the logic in that.

In fact, there were enough generalities, and tangential conclusion jumping in his post, that I’m unsure where the best place to start is. So, I guess I’ll start with scripture first.

A Biblical rebuttal

Regarding Romans 13:1-4, yes, the Bible states that authorities are established by God, and that God will use them to our good. It is a stretch to use those verses to advocate being disengaged from the process entirely, though.

Why?

Because the first rule of Bible study is to measure every scripture, particularly the difficult ones, in the context of the whole of scripture.

For instance, Jesus said, “Do not be worried about your life, as to what you will eat or what you will drink; nor for your body, as to what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?”

Taking that verse at face value, one might assume that a Christian could forgo all pursuit of anything, entirely. That he might forgo work, forgo preparing meals, forgo shopping or sewing … in fact, he might as well pick a spot on the ground somewhere and wait for God to drop food and apparel from the sky. No worries, no responsibilities. Have faith! God is taking care of it!

In the context of the whole of scripture, though, we know that such behavior is unwise. The Christian ground-sitter has to rectify his life with Paul’s later admonition, “If anyone is not willing to work, then he is not to eat, either.”

So how does this apply to Marc’s point about Christians and politics?

Well, his argument isn’t that different from the one used to support the idea that a Christian shouldn’t serve in the military. The easiest way to dispel that argument is to look at the life of Christ on Earth. The Gospels tell us that Christ met men in the military (centurions, captains, etc.) on more than one occasion. Yet we have no evidence that any of those soldiers left their professions, nor did Jesus ever command them to do so. In fact, He commended one soldier for having more faith than all of Israel (Matthew 8: 5-10).

So, did Jesus ever meet any politicians?

Of course he did. He met the worst kind of government officials, in fact — the dreaded tax collector. First, we have the record of Zaccheus, who after meeting Christ, vowed to change his life. Zaccheus’s attitudes, his behaviors, all radically transformed.

The one thing he didn’t change? His job.

We have the parable of the publican and the Pharisee. The Pharisee arrogantly praying while the publican prayed soberly in the corner (Luke 18:9-14).

Which did Jesus lift up as an example? The publican!

In fact, Jesus had many political associations, and whether they were Christ-followers or not, he never beat them up for being involved in governance. He never once encouraged them to change their level of involvement.  Never cited political service as anything other than honorable and necessary.

Given all that, the presumption that Christians shouldn’t be involved in politics, following Biblical precepts, is incorrect.

A Logical rebuttal

It is foolish to think you can escape politics. The effects of governance are everywhere. Whether it is how pothole-free your local road is, or the price you pay at the gas pump, you cannot avoid the effects of governance. Fail to pay attention, fail to contribute, and before you know it your employing agency is no longer exploring space — it is doing outreach to the Muslim community. (That change might validate the premise of my books, but it certainly isn’t going to help science-fiction writers in general. 🙂 )

Marc advises that every moment spent in politics by a Christian is a moment lost to spreading the Gospel. That may be, but taken to its logical conclusion it would tend to suggest that any moment not actively spent spreading the Gospel is a moment wasted. If that were true, then no ancillary activities for a Christian should be allowed. Not working in a secular job, not recreating with friends. No moment outside Gospel-spreading activity. Ever.

But perhaps Marc is merely suggesting that politics — this one sphere of human endeavor among millions — is something Christians should stay out of.

Under what grounds?

Not from Biblical admonition, certainly. So what makes politics, even the simple act of voting, less admirable than flying a kite or walking a dog?

Our God is bigger than that. He dwells inside of us through his Spirit, so we can safely take Him, and glorify Him—even witness for Him—in whatever sphere of human activity we engage ourselves in. And we should be proud to do so!

A Historical rebuttal

“First they came for the Communists, but I was not a Communist so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Socialists and the Trade Unionists, but I was neither, so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Jews, but I was not a Jew so I did not speak out. And when they came for me, there was no one left to speak out for me.”

Dietrich Bonhoeffer

What amazes me most, though, is that someone who wrote a brilliant novel about the Nazis (König’s Fire) somehow missed the one event in modern history where Christian inaction led to absolute tragedy. I’m speaking, of course, of the Holocaust.

As the quote by Bonhoeffer suggests, during the meteoric rise of Nazis to power, the Church and Christians did stay out of politics, to world’s detriment. That lack of involvement not only led to the death of six million Jews, but millions more were lost in attempting to stop Hitler’s Germany.

So my question for Marc is this: Is there ever a point where Christian involvement in politics becomes necessary? Is it when I see the government taking some personal freedoms away? Or is it only when the gestapo comes to take my neighbors away …

Or do I wait for them to take my family away?

You see, there’s the rub. Political activism isn’t just about me. It shouldn’t ever be about me. It is about others. (Remember Paul protesting his treatment as a Roman citizen? What was the point in all that? A loss of his rights? Absolutely not. It was the loss of everyone’s rights, and the forfeiture of civic law.)

It is a good thing the founders of this country didn’t share Marc’s sentiments. It is good the America of Hitler’s time didn’t as well.

Conclusion

I fear Marc is playing the part of the Amish (or possibly the Hobbits of the Shire). Attempting to live in a world of their own that is wholly made possible by the world they’ve excluded themselves from. Other people (Christians and non-Christians alike) have spent time crafting the laws that govern the land; others have researched and solved problems that they (Amish or Hobbit) take advantage of. Other people have sent their sons and daughters to die in protecting their freedom.

Service to God comes in many forms.

And sometimes, like it or not, that involves politics.

On Monday Rebecca LuElla Miller discussed what pulls us into great stories. Wednesday brought my poll about negative reviews — would “anonymizing” reviews add benefit?

Now for a question to tie these all together (in lieu of a guest author who needed to re-schedule). What makes novels mediocre? What makes reading them a duty rather than a delight — or even makes you put down the book and refuse to read further?

I’m finally drawing near to the end of a certain Christian-speculative book, and I’m very glad my e-reader shows 97 percent done. Reading this book was certainly more a duty than a delight. And ordinarily I would not have finished it, following a rule of “if by 50 pages you are not satisfied, stop reading.” But I chose to finish it, so I could complain here about it.

We likely know that yes, people wrongly stereotype “Christian fiction” as being worse than “secular fiction.” Yes, we are pioneers in many ways (as in fantasy and even post-dystopian quasi-sci-fi). And yes, it’s silly to suggest all Christian fiction is averse to nastiness, when Frank Peretti’s characters in The Oath say “oh my god,” and a Stephen Lawhead Song of Albion demonic creature is bloated with filthy genitals before it gets worshiped to death.

Yet mediocre novels persist.

Why are these stories mediocre, especially ones by Christians? Athol Dickson wisely spies the main fault line as not in marketing, publishers, or writing skills, but in sin itself:

As creatures made in the Creator’s image, we were designed to use our gifts to their utmost, and to savor excellence in our neighbor’s use of their gifts. It’s impossible to imagine the words “good enough” being spoken in the Garden before the Fall. But we did fall, and one of the things we lost was our ability to throw ourselves into living with complete abandon. “Good is the enemy of great,” as Jim Collins wrote (paraphrasing Voltaire). Thus, in settling for good enough, we have rampant mediocrity in the world.

Another thing we abandoned in the Fall was our ability to perceive the true extent of what we’ve lost. So when expediency and ego dilute the full potential of even our best writers and artists, the audience, being also lost, doesn’t know enough to care. Therefore they applaud what little they can get, and their applause rewards mediocrity. This in turn inspires the production of more mediocrity, and the cycle builds more and more support for itself until mediocrity seems normal, or even (God forbid) good, and because that lie has become pervasive, the truth is difficult for even Christians to remember. Thus we have rampant mediocrity even in the church.

This sinful decline from God-created potential to mediocre expectations in turn makes Christian novels mediocre in many ways. Here I am limiting my observations to Christian fiction, and also flagrantly generalizing beyond the particular book I have been reading:

• Emotional over-analyzing. Especially within point-of-view style, no one pauses and thinks to himself about the two different emotions colliding within. Authors should speak that way to describe machinery cogs meshing together, not feelings.
• A “what if” question too far. Asking, What if God created another world, and it looked like this is a standard what-if question, yet with endless exploration potential. But asking, What if God really did create that rock that’s too big for Him to lift — and it’s been secretly hidden in Forest City, Arkansas! comes off as just plain strange.
• Christians From Another Planet! Why don’t Christian characters act like real Christians? One could think an author must downplay the Bible-quoting, church-attendance, and even sinful behaviors of actual Christians, and add alternative sentiments to appeal to non-Christian readers. But then those actual readers write reviews and say this (actual sentence): “The constant ‘God loves you so much’, and ‘God believes in you’ [slogans] began turning me off early on.” Ah. So it wasn’t just me worsening the problem by also making up Theoretical Non-Christian Readers.

I’m still pondering this alternate-universe “Christianity,” but I believe I can safely say this: It’s not as much a fruit of bad writing but of shallow internalized beliefs.

Here’s an example, paraphrasing a novel’s non-Christian character’s line of thought:

He wondered if it could be true. If there really could be a God who loved him.

Authors: non-Christians don’t think this way as often as Christians would wish. Rather, such responses usually come from “seeker-sensitive” “nonfiction” and anecdotes.

I suggest that if we pay more attention to God’s Story, which reminds us that people do benefit from “common grace” and want God but are also spiritually dead, then our stories and authenticity will improve. Moreover, we’ll truly reach out better to all kinds of readers.

For you, what pushes books into the realm of can’t-read-much-longer mediocre?

Five years have passed since that Washington Post article, and I’m still incensed about it. Revealed within are myths about fantastic stories — myths we ourselves often repeat. Especially when we try to argue, rightfully, that we read and write stories to glorify God.

Let’s review the article’s opening so you may also be vexed, and ask: what did this writer ignore?

As the days tick down until Saturday, when a breathless world learns the fate of the teenage wizard, a new breed of fantasy fiction, with Potter-style stories, is emerging.

Like the Potter series, it has mystical creatures, macabre events, epic battles and heroic young protagonists.

But, unlike the Potter books, this genre has overt Christian tones: messiah-like kings who return from the dead, fallen satanic characters and young heroes who undergo profound conversions. What you won’t generally find: humans waving wands and performing spells.

Where to begin?

1. Harry Potter already has such redemptive themes to be classified as “Christian.” (To be fair, this was shown more clearly in the final volume, released after this piece.)
2. Harry Potter builds upon preexisting Christian and redemptive works of fantasy, such as those by J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, with messiahs returning from the dead, evil villains, and young heroes who are converted. Had this author not read the Harry Potter series to see the evil villains and young heroes converted, just like in previous novels by Christians? (The piece mentions only Lewis once in passing.)
3. In this area, as I argued in a July 2007 column for Old Speculative Faith, Christ-followers had fantasy fiction first. We can also lay claim to post-apocalyptic fiction, medieval paintings, classical music, and science. We didn’t rip those off.

Epic Story

I could go on, debunking this exhibition of the apparent media template of “those oddball Christians just keep ripping off brand-new and original things made in the Real World.” But all those rebuttals would be secondary to this point: Christians had fantasy stories first because Scripture itself is a “fantasy” epic, the Epic Story, that is also perfectly true.

As I wrote in 2007 (with some edits made here):

Even Lewis and Tolkien themselves were inspired by a previous Source for epic fantasy fiction. That Source is revealed in the very comments of dozens of “Jesus-haters” (as Wayne Thomas Batson referred to them) following the Washington Post article. Nearly every one of those critics repeated a canard like this: “Ha! Ha! Why do you need fantasy? You stupid Bible-Belters already have the Old and New Testaments, ha! ha!” Then they laughed at themselves over such cleverness.

My reaction is more positive than they could have imagined: “Yes, that’s right, thou cleverest of secularist sneerers. The Bible is a fantasy, it is mythology. True mythology, that is. You’ve merely proven the point this article avoided: that the Bible is the archetype of all fantasy literature and good-versus-evil thrillers.”

After all, what do we find in Scripture? Ancient civilizations. A dark menace from a distant past. Warriors, kings, prophets, workers of miracles. Stunning displays of supernatural power. Crowd scenes, epic quests, and wars between true Good and Evil. Am I now referring to Israel B.C. or to Middle-earth?

Scripture is the source of all stories — the story of reality, the smaller “stories” of us as real people, and the stories we real people subcreate.

We must recall that truth when we’re discussing how our stories may glorify God.

After part 7 last week, Kessie’s comment set me to considering this:

So, any book that has some kind of a positive theme you can pull out of it, and is moderately well-written, can be used to glorify God.

Why didn’t you just SAY so?

While these issues may be difficult to communicate, here is one reason I didn’t just say so:

If I simply stated it like that, it’s nothing more than my paltry opinion.

Rather, I hope to base any truth about how Reading Is Worship on Scripture’s truth.

The first, best, and truest “fantasy” epic.

Let’s say I’m loving a book, and I know that technically my love for this book should glorify God. I might grab for some truths — even individual Biblical truths — as justification. After all, I know that God gets glory from all things, so naturally He is getting glory from this book enjoyment, right? Even if I’m sinning, He’s still getting glory somehow, right?

But here’s the problem: I’ve started with the wrong basis. I’ve started with: The stories I enjoy must be what God also enjoys. I haven’t started with His Story — which tells me more than I could know (or regrettably, often more than I’d like to know!) of what glorifies Him.

How would the wrong view work among human relationships?

ESB: Happy birthday, honey! Here is your gift.

LRB: Oh, thank you. It’s … it’s … (Opens the package) “Green Lantern: The Animated Series,” season 1, part 1?

ESB: (Beaming like a galactic Guardian battery) Wonderful, isn’t it?

LRB: .

ESB: Let’s watch it tonight! And how about I pick up dinner from Taco Bell?

His desires and His Story come first. His Word not only forms the pattern for all our stories, but reveals how He wants us to worship Him.

Without that Story, I can have all the great skills in a world, but I will surely fail to see the brightest reflections of His Story in other stories. And without that Story, I can have great motives to write well or share the Gospel or explore people and the world in fiction — but all my efforts to glorify or worship God will only do so “incidentally,” not as directly.

God decides how He gets glory. When we know more of that, we don’t feel slavish to overt spiritual appeals or duties. Rather, our joy is enhanced. So is our reading!

What Scriptures discuss how we glorify God? How might we miss those in our fiction-reading justifications?

Next week: More specifics about Scripture, God’s Story, and the “color spectrum” of His glory.

This week I’ve been working my way through a Christian speculative (sort of) novel. It’s hard enough to finish it; even more, I can’t imagine giving it an honest review.

You can guess the reasons why.

No, I won’t name the title, not yet. It’s simply not very good. Clichés abound, often getting into verbal dogfights with pop-culture and trendy technology references. Point-of-view is strict, yet the author doesn’t deploy its full range of powers. Oh, and Christians simply are not behaving like Christians, but like shallow folk-theologian evangelicals.

Somewhat frustrating.

Perhaps you’ve had similar frustrations. And you may want to hear the truth spoken in love in a novel review, or write the same. But you keep finding — let’s just come out and say I — more-genteel reviews whose writers seem so impressed with the concept of a (gasp!) Christian fantasy/sci-fi/whatever novel that they don’t evaluate it well.

Briefly: What’s causing those reviews? It may be that we’re simply too small a “circle,” at least online, to be too distant from the author. Or perhaps some readers don’t know how to review — or some authors can’t take it. Someone reviewed a Christian novel as requested by its author, who sent an advanced-review copy. The reviewer was kind yet unavoidably negative, and the author was outraged. By private correspondence he demeaned the reviewer, who obviously, the author said, knew nothing about great stories and writing.

But then there’s the converse side. Someone set free to “review” a novel, even a very badly written one (in this case) spews out a nasty — even if amusing — non-review like this:

Oh my, this was horrible.

Wow, powerfully bad.

I’ve never read such an awful regurtitation [sic] of poorly-contrived bilgewater. This was foul in the way a ruptured sewer main is, fetid in the way of a swamp full of rotting skunk cabbage, horrifying as you would be if you watched an entire graveyard of mouldering corpses was suddenly burped up from the ground.

I wouldn’t recommend this, even as a way to inflict an agonizing, craze-enducing [sic] execution.

So here is my question — two of them, actually, asked via these two polls.
[poll id=”4″]
[poll id=”5″]
How did you vote? What good and bad reviews, or good or bad novels, have you read? Why might anonymous reviews, even assuming an editorial process to prevent vague nastiness like the above, be helpful? Or would they not help readers?

From the Travel Guide: See and hear the Merry Old Land at its very best in our carefree Musical Tour of Oz! Young and old alike will revel in a colorful roller-coaster ride of sight and sound. Our most distinguished citizens are waiting to welcome you and even offer a few surprises! You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll gasp in wonder and shiver in terror, but by tour’s end, you’ll feel warm and tingly all over, ready to visit again and again! This is our most popular tour, so get your tickets now for the experience of a lifetime!

We’ve spent much time here at SF debating how well some of our favorite stories have fared in translation from book to movie. Though there’s usually an overarching respect for the source material, some scenes and dialogue of greater or lesser importance may be adjusted or omitted for the sake of dramatic effect or other demands of the new medium. Some of these changes may bring the original to more vivid life or introduce new ideas that harmonize with the author’s vision. Other innovations, like green fog, or a certain boy king smooching a certain girl queen, are perhaps best forgotten. Ahem.

The Broadway stage musical is an odd bird and a distinctively American species. The medium frequently becomes the message, and a beloved work of fiction or film may find itself contorted beyond all recognition to yield not a faithful adaptation or affectionate tribute, but a story that fits the Broadway formula—big, bold, brassy, and loud, the story “as it should have been told.”

Full disclosure time: I’ve not seen the musical in its entirety. My comments here are based on the soundtrack, a plot synopsis, and video clips of the major production numbers, and I’ll try to avoid drawing unreasonable conclusions beyond my source material. Further illumination from anyone who has seen the whole thing is welcome. I recommend reviewing my post from last week as a point of reference for discussing this version.

Where Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West is content to explain Elphaba’s tortured life and tragic end, Wicked the Musical is more about rehabilitating her image. She wasn’t really wicked. She was a misunderstood champion of the oppressed who refused to bow to injustice—the misfit girl who dared to fly! There’s an element of this idea in Gregory Maguire’s book, and a brief moment when it’s actually true, but that’s swallowed up in the descent into suicidal self-loathing that consumes the final third of the novel.

The musical’s focus is the odd-couple college roomie friendship arc of Elphaba and Glinda, the future Witches of the West and North, from mutual dislike, to BFFs, to tearful parting of the ways driven by forces beyond their control. Anyone who’s ever had a roommate, college or otherwise, will understand. As a lighthearted piece of fluff, I think it works quite well, but it’s not the story Maguire told. This is a small slice of his novel that’s been inflated into a two-hour-plus Broadway spectacle of music and pageantry. The result is, by all accounts, very entertaining and emotionally moving, thus the critical acclaim, Tony awards, extended run, global tour, etc. Maguire’s personal feelings about this re-visioning are unclear, but he doesn’t seem to be complaining:

It seems to make perfect sense to me that I should now stand out of the way and let the story even my story go on and develop some grandchildren. I feel like I stand in an avuncular, grandfatherly relation to the Broadway play. It does do some things to the story that I wouldn’t have done myself, and that I didn’t do myself — that I actually considered and rejected — but that’s not to say that I disapprove of them. I recognize that it’s another generation, and in the next generation down there will be new characteristics. It’s not a clone; it’s something else.

Most of the grit has been swept from the source material, which makes it more family-friendly and perhaps in that respect brings it back in line with the intent of L. Frank Baum’s original, but there’s also no serious examination of the nature of evil or the power of good over evil. There’s some expansion of the relationship between Elphaba and her sister, Nessarose (who is crippled and unable to walk, rather than armless), and more conflict between them, mostly Nessarose’s fault. A couple of love triangles are added, which cause their own complications, but also provide some explanation for a few loose ends the novel leaves untied.

The primary evil remaining in Oz is prejudice, fomented by the Wizard and his hangers-on. Thus, “wicked” is a label bad people stick on people who are different from themselves. “Good” is a label bad people stick on themselves to cover their hypocrisy. This isn’t to say that some things aren’t genuinely good, like making friends and being kind to animals, and a sub-theme of this story is the characters’ struggle to be good, even in the midst of their confusion about what that really means. As for power, the persistent, if unoriginal, message is that it’s the power inside each of us that matters. One determined person can do anything.

Here’s a quick dash through some of Wicked’s high points, via YouTube. It’s certainly not fair to judge the merits or demerits of the entire product via a series of clips taken out of context, but I think a conversation about this sort of entertainment has to include a look at how story, actors, music, lyrics, costume, and set design merge into a single multimedia voice.

No One Mourns the Wicked. As the curtain opens, the denizens of Oz are celebrating the Witch’s demise and giving testimony to her wickedness. Then we’re hurled into a flashback…flashback…flashback to witness how all this came about.

Popular. The whole annoying-college-roommate thing blossoming into friendship is fun. It’s one reason I originally bought the book for my wife before I was aware that the novel and the musical bore little similarity. Ouch. I’m glad I read the book before she did. She has some wonderful, funny, and horrifying roommate stories from her own college days that probably deserve a book of their own.

I’m Not That Girl. I read somewhere that most Broadway musicals include a solo number near the beginning in which the heroine/hero bares their soul to the audience, with the intent of inspiring us to fall in love with them. It can make or break the entire production. You probably remember songs like “Tomorrow,” from Annie, or “The Impossible Dream,” from Man of La Mancha, or “My Favorite Things,” from The Sound of Music. Here’s Elphaba’s. This video offers a montage of images from the play.

Defying Gravity. And sticking it to ‘the man.’ This is Wicked’s anthem, and it’s powerful, if a bit reminiscent of Invictus (the poem, not the movie). Any audience that isn’t moved to respond with a standing ovation at its end is advised to inquire of the Wizard about a heart.

For Good. Elphaba and Glinda part ways while affirming the value of their friendship, even if it must come to an end. A box of tissues is recommended.

The Spoiler to End All Spoilers. People planning to see the musical for the first time and those of delicate constitution should avert their eyes now and scroll below the second ‘zilla if they wish to not have the finale ruined for them.

Enter Spoiler Zone

No, on second thought, I don’t think I’ll spill it. If you can’t bear the suspense, the answer’s here.

Exit Spoiler Zone

Thus ends our tour of Oz, Four Ways. I hope you found one or more of our customized travel plans appealing and helpful. Tipping your tour guide to acknowledge excellent service is always appreciated.