Move over young wizarding students, talking majestic messianic lions, sparkling heartthrob vampires, and even archery-skilled dystopian gladiators and rebels. The hobbits are back.

This week the classic fantasy The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien, British professor of languages and literature, turns exactly 75 years old. It was published Sept. 21, 1937, a day before what would turn out to be the in-story birthday of two famous hobbits, Bilbo Baggins and his nephew, Frodo. That has led this week to become an even more-significant “Hobbit Week” than usual, with Tolkien fans enjoying their favorite fantasy, cooking hobbit-y food, and (if my own impulses are any indication!) re-viewing multiple times the second trailer for the forthcoming film trilogy, a prequel to the 2001 – 2003 epic The Lord of the Rings.

As faithful as The Lord of the Rings was to the source (with exceptions, perhaps most notably the change in the character of Faramir), readers are both excited and nervous about the first Hobbit film.

The new series will adapt not only The Hobbit, but material from The Lord of the Rings appendices. It will also fill in with new concepts — such as the wizard Radagast riding a sled pulled by rabbits, or an elf-maiden named Tauriel assisting Bilbo in his rescue of the captive Dwarves. However, each film should follow the original story, perhaps starting more like a fairy tale and shifting tone (as the book arguably does) to be more like The Lord of the Rings near the end. The films will be titled The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey, to be released Friday, Dec. 14; The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, on Friday, Dec. 13, 2013; and The Hobbit: There and Back Again, breaking the year-end rhythm by releasing July 18, 2014.

Whether The Hobbit films are absolute wins, woeful disasters, or (more likely) wonderful with a few troublesome spots, you can’t go wrong reading the book again.

The Hobbit, published Sept. 21, 1937, is (currently) the oldest Christian fantasy listed in the Speculative Faith Library.

Tolkien likely began this story much like he wrote his other short stories, such as Farmer Giles of Ham and Leaf By Niggle — that is, independent of his massive, years-long effort to form a new mythology in another world to support his invented languages, such as Elvish. Only later did Tolkien discover that hobbits, the wizard Gandalf, and the dwarves’ quest to fight the dragon Smaug and reclaim their homeland fit perfectly with his existing legends.

Therefore, it would be a mistake to conclude that The Lord of the Rings is epic and excellent fantasy, while The Hobbit is only for children. It would also be a mistake to conclude that The Hobbit, unlike The Lord of the Rings, is somehow not as “spiritual” as the more-epic tale that includes strong good-vs.-evil themes, messianic motifs, and self-sacrifice.

Rather, The Hobbit, as a literary masterpiece that began all modern fantasy explorations, is worthy of Christians’ respect and exploration, and to be experienced as worship of our ultimate Author. Its truths and beauties reflect those of God, His world, and His people.

Of course, one great way to explore The Hobbit is by reading it yourself. Yet what do we know Biblically about worship? It is best done together, in the context of a local church. Verses such as Col. 3:16 specifically reference worshiping together in the forms of “psalms and hymns and spiritual songs,” yet one verse later we read, “whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him” (Col. 3:17). This includes story-enjoyment, for all reading is worship. So, another great way to enjoy and worship with The Hobbit may well be reading it with other believers.

Global release date: Friday, Dec. 14, 2012. (Click to read more details on the film series.)

Last summer I was blessed to host a reading group at my church for C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Now we are doing the same for The Hobbit. And we would love for you to join us on this quest, to read and discuss “Christianly” about one chapter a week.

At this pace, following with study notes posted weekly on Speculative Faith, we will have easily reviewed the book by the time the first film releases on Dec. 14.

Comfort in a cozy hobbit-hole has its place. Yet so does coming on this adventure with us!

Chapter 1: An Unexpected Party

1. What sort of story is this? Our last story, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, was a story much like a fairy tale, though extended with more characters. (C. S. Lewis wrote it at first based on images, and then as a “supposal” of Christ working in a fantasy world.) Is The Hobbit a fairy tale? A novel? Do you think it’s intended for children or adults?
2. Read the “Tolkien’s Work” section, starting page 4 of War of the Fantasy Worlds: C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien on Art and Imagination, on why he wrote The Hobbit.
3. How have you thought about The Hobbit? Why should a Christian read it? Spoilers: unlike a story such as LWW, The Hobbit has no Christlike death or overt Gospel overtones! So how might a Christian enjoy this story to the glory of God?
4. Read chapter 1, pages 1 to 13 (after Bilbo thinks he escaped adventures!).
5. How about Mr. Baggins? After that first conversation with Gandalf, what do we know about this hobbit? What about Gandalf himself? How are they alike and different?
6. What makes the idea and personality of a hobbit so appealing? How does Bilbo remind us of ourselves? (Hint: he likes his comfort, his routines, and traditions, and doesn’t like having such things interrupted!) How may we share his views toward adventure?
7. The Hobbit, as with The Lord of the Rings, is filled with interjections for several songs and poems. Why do you think Tolkien included them? Do you enjoy them, or skip them?
8. In this fantastic world, Tolkien uses humor to connect with our world. How does he do this? With so many different things, how does he make this world very much like ours? With that in mind, can we really call this “fantasy” when it reflects so much of reality?
9. In one chapter, Tolkien introduces not only Bilbo, an entire culture of hobbits, the wizard Gandalf, but thirteen dwarves. Why so many dwarves? Do you notice anything different about them, or do they seem more like a crowd of “extras”? Which dwarves stand out to you? (Hint: what do you think of Thorin, the Very Important Dwarf?
10. Read chapter 1, pages 15 to 17 (“… as fierce as a dragon in a pinch”).
11. After the Dwarves’ song, how does Bilbo feel? If you read the song, how might it make you feel? How may this emotion honor God, and secondly, make us want to read more?
12. What conflicting desires are in Bilbo? How may this reflect our own conflicting desires?
13. One Dwarf takes central prominence. What do you think of Thorin Oakenshield?
14. Read chapter 1, pages 17 (If you have ever seen a dragon in a pinch …) to 22 (“… am I going to come back alive?”).
15. How is Bilbo so unlike the Dwarves? What do they think of him, and he of them?
16. Does Gandalf say why he was so intent on choosing Bilbo for this quest?
17. Later, Thorin tells more of the story of the Lonely Mountain and how Smaug the Dragon invaded the Dwarves’ home, stole their goods, and sent them fleeing. How may this help us understand why the Dwarves are going on this quest, even if we don’t know all yet?
18. Read The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, Appendix A, section III, “Durin’s Folk,” pp. 1046 to 1048 (the account of Smaug invading Erebor, then Azog’s murder of the dwarf Thrór at the gate of Moria). Then read page 1051 (about Thrain’s capture and death, and Thorin’s reaction).
19. Did you know of this material that provides more “backstory” for The Hobbit? Why do you think Tolkien wrote The Hobbit in a child-friendly way, yet LotR more for adults?
20. While The Hobbit is written in a much simpler way, how does this additional writing of Tolkien’s (years after The Hobbit’s publication) help fill in the story? What do you think of Thorin now? How does this deepen his pain and his character? What does he want?

(This follows my Dec. 29, 2011 update . The Reading Is Worship series will return next week.)

“We’re going to need a trailer for the trailer!”

— Nicky Collini (Desi “Ricky Ricardo” Arnaz), in The Long, Long Trailer (1953)

Seen it yet? Of course I refer to the second trailer for The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey, and of course you have seen it. As I write this, I actually haven’t seen it myself! So if I make any sight-unseen predictions for the film(s), they may also apply to the trailer.

Some has changed since my last The Hobbit update after the teaser released in December:

• The films will now number three instead of two; this is a whole new trilogy, based not only on The Hobbit but Tolkien’s own supplementary details in The Appendices of The Return of the King. Example: read Appendix A, section III, for more details on Durin’s Folk, the Dwarves, and particularly what motivated Thorin Oakenshield.Of note: the films will not include details from The Silmarillion. The filmmakers retain rights only to The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings; the J.R.R. Tolkien estate is keeping a firm grip on all other materials by the famous professor.
• Now the films are titled The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey, global release on Friday, Dec. 14; The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, Friday, Dec. 13, 2013; and The Hobbit: There and Back Again, breaking the year-end rhythm by releasing July 18, 2014.
• Viewing options should include faster — potentially lusher, more “realistic” — frame rates, 48 frames per second, and 3D, versus a more traditional 2D version. (I haven’t read whether you will be able to see four permutations of those two factors: 3D and original frame rate, 3D and faster frame rate, or 2D of each frame rate.)

For reference, here is the second and likely final trailer, in all its fantastic glory:

This also leads to a Speculative Faith announcement: that beginning this afternoon, we will publish the first of a new SF Reading Group series, based on The Hobbit. Already for two weeks I’ve been facilitating this group at my church, after a successful reading group for The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. By contrast, The Hobbit will be much longer and more complex. We’re even bringing in details from The Appendices, to begin exploring Tolkien’s languages, worlds, cultures, and quests in-depth. All questions will be available here on Speculative Faith, thanks to featured articles published about every week.

Re-reading The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring simultaneously, I’m finding much more that I had forgotten since the last time I enjoyed these classics. Yes, I’m a relative late-comer to Middle-earth; you Elves have been here a long time, but I only just arrived, a mortal Man (though I hope you Elves never leave!). So this time I’m blessed to experience the joy of wondering which parts will be adapted for the films, and just a little bit of dread, which true fans had before 2001, of favorite parts the films may alter or ignore.

This leads me to a few predictions, some based on reliable web-rumors, some based on intuition. After all, much of Tolkien’s work is already cinematic enough without change:

So Thorin Oakenshield became the Heir or Durin, but an heir without hope. […] The years lengthened. The embers in the heart of Thorin grew hot again, as he brooded on the wrongs of his House and the vengeance upon the Dragon that he had inherited. He thought of weapons and armies and alliances, as his great hammer rang in his forge; but the armies were dispersed and the alliances broken and the axes of his people were few; and a great anger without hope burned him as he smote the red iron on the anvil.

— from The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, Appendix A, section III (page 1051)

Prediction 1: We’ll see that cinematic visual adapted verbatim in a flashback sequence.

Prediction 2: Peter Jackson will almost certainly show the Goblin King Azog’s murder of the dwarf Thrór at the gates of Moria, after which the goblins tear the victim’s body apart.

Click to expand.

Prediction 3: Based on this amazing photo, The Hobbit, at least the first part, will not be devoid of the singing, raucous, fun-loving nature of the Dwarves. In the first trailer, we heard their somber “Misty Mountains Cold” song, adapted from Tolkien’s original. In this photo (and likely in the second trailer) we see them clearly singing the “crack the plates!” song as good-natured mockery of Bilbo, as they kindly help with dinner cleanup.

Prediction 4: Thorin, as the “very important Dwarf,” won’t be entirely above this Dwarvish fun, but won’t like it very much. Either when he’s pinned beneath fallen Dwarves at Bilbo’s hobbit-hole door, and/or at some other time, we will see him give at least one hilarious and over-brooding eye-roll. (Actor Richard Armitage is very good at over-brooding eye-rolls.)

Prediction 5: Based on the first version of the “film scroll” (as of July 9) and the updated version, film 1 originally ended with the Dwarves escaping Mirkwood in their barrels. The film now ends with the group escaping Orcs and Wargs in the forest, inaugurating the war.

Prediction 6: Only a little of the Necromancer’s (Sauron’s) potential menace will be seen and discussed in film 1. We will also see only some of the White Council’s work, maybe in flashback, in film 1, as Gandalf will not have left the Dwarves and Bilbo until the start of film 2. The Dark Lord’s renewed threat will grow in film 2, which will focus on the battle against Smaug, and culminate in the Battle of Five Armies in film 3. That enables the story to focus first on Smaug (such as with Saruman in The Two Towers), then on the greater war.

Prediction 7: These films will break records.

What are your hopes and predictions for The Hobbit film series?

Clearly showrunner Steven Moffat, scriptwriter Toby Whithouse, and the gang have been reading Speculative Faith and are thus crafting Doctor Who stories perfect for discussion.

Both recent episodes of series 7a touched on themes of evil, vengeance, and forgiveness.

Notice I said “touched on,” not fleshed out or explored. Like most stories, especially those by folks outside of God’s forgiveness, they have limits. Here I hope to explore those.

But first, a bit about Batman, from the 2005 film Batman Begins. (With some spoilers.)

Also a bit about Egyptians, embassies, and terrorists.

Bruce Wayne on trial

Ra’s al Ghul (posing as Henri Ducard): You are ready to become a member of the League of Shadows. But first, you must demonstrate your commitment to justice.

(They bring forward a captive, panicked man. Earlier Ducard told Bruce Wayne that the man was accused of crimes. They then force the man to kneel, and Bruce realizes they mean to ask him to kill the man now.)

Bruce: No. I’m no executioner.

Ra’s al Ghul: Your compassion is a weakness your enemies will not share.

Bruce: That’s why it’s so important. It separates us from them.

Ra’s al Ghul:  You want to fight criminals. This man is a murderer.

Bruce: This man should be tried.

Ra’s al Ghul: By whom? Corrupt bureaucrats? Criminals mock society’s laws. You know this better than most.

Naturally the just-recently-ninja-trained Bruce Wayne finds a way to avoid being vigilante killer against the accused man, and (seemingly) bring down the entire headquarters of the League of Shadows. But that raises one question: did the accused man die anyway, in the melee? Also this one: what was Bruce’s preference over acting as an executioner?

He could have said, “No, if we kill or punish him for his crime, we’ll Become Just Like Him.”

Or, “Threatening or taking life is always wrong” (immediately betrayed by his ensuing self-defense during the fight and his own war against criminals).

Or worse, he could have said, “I am judge and jury, and I declare this man innocent.”

Instead Bruce simply and rightfully replied, “This man should be tried.”

That of course raises the question about what kind of judge should oversee the trial.

Terror suspects

One week ago as I write this, people in the nations of Egypt and Libya began raising a ruckus. Ultimately they killed the American ambassador to Libya and several others, and (in my view) raised a question many U.S. citizens naïvely hoped had been already answered by other people some years ago: what is the best response to radical “acts of terror”?

Some reply that the maker of an obscure, apparently Islam-mocking video should be put on trial or punished, made a scapegoat for the sins of the people.

Others more accurately say that such mobs tend to get worked up by many factors, and that it would have been impossible for them to have seen this obscure video. But among those — I heard one the other day — some accuse American leaders of promoting these sorts of crises out of political opportunism. So vote this November! Make them a scapegoat for sin.

Skipping here the Biblical truth that governments are tasked with enforcing some justice on Earth on God’s behalf, all of these are missing the point. Just as Doctor Who almost did.

The Doctor’s sin doctrine

(‘Ware spoilers.) In Dinosaurs On A Spaceship, the Doctor showed a shocking side: a desire for vengeance, leading to action. Apparently seeing a defenseless Triceratops killed pushed him too far. Suddenly the Doctor is shoving the villainous Solomon (played by David “Mr. Filch” Bradley) out an airlock, who’s later helpless as his ship careens into an explosion.

Last Saturday, such themes reprised. In an Old-Western town, the Doctor and his friends learn that a cyborg gunslinger wants to take vengeance on an alien resident. Then when the Doctor finds the harmless-appearing alien is a criminal who created the cyborg assassins, the Doctor is ready to throw the man out of town, a scapegoat in the wilderness.

The Doctor: We could end this right now. We could save everyone right now!

Amy Pond: This is not how we roll, and you know it. What’s happened to you, Doctor? When did killing someone become an option?

The Doctor: Jex has to answer for his crimes.

Amy: And what then? Are you going to hunt down everyone who’s made a gun or a bullet or a bomb?

The Doctor: But they keep coming back, don’t you see? Every time I negotiate, I try to understand. Well not today. No, today I honor the victims first. His, The Master’s, the Daleks’. All the people that died because of my mercy!

Amy: See this is what happens when you travel alone for too long. Well listen to me, Doctor, we can’t be like him. We have to be better than him.

The Doctor: Amelia Pond. Fine. Fine! We think of something else. But frankly, I’m betting on the Gunslinger.

Scenes like this are why we may enjoy great stories, not because they are all beautiful and truthful or because they are all controversial, but because they are often perplexingly both.

On the negative side:

1. Another science-fiction staple: the wise, seemingly all-powerful alien and/or leader who is vulnerable to extremes, who needs a balanced Human Influence to sort him. Potential theme: our gods must work justice according to human views.
2. “We have to be better than him” — as if this is the only humane justice. As if killing, a necessary evil, isn’t at least potentially a sobering choice in our sinful world.
3. “Today I honor the victims first.” With this contradicted, we may doubt victims’ rights to be avenged.

On the positive side:

1. Humans, even powerful ones, do have limited views and abilities to carry out justice.
2. One person alone should not make such life-and-death decision. “Power corrupts.”
3. Later in the episode, Jex realizes he must die to save the townspeople for whom he claimed to care. And he believes he will face justice. “In my culture, we believe that when you die your spirit has to climb a mountain, carrying the souls of everyone you wronged in your lifetime,” he says. “Imagine the weight I will have to lift.” And later: “I have to face the souls of those I’ve wronged. Perhaps they will be kind.”

This confirms a raw, refreshing honesty of Doctor Who, in particular this writer: honest touching on true justice must ultimately surrender the question. At least in this age. Our only assurance that killers will be punished or mercy shown lies beyond this life.

“This man should be tried,” Bruce Wayne gently admonished.

And who is the judge? Human beings? In one sense yes, per Romans 13, yet in our justice systems (which can be corrupt, as Ra’s al Ghul said) we can only begin to reflect the perfect justice God has in store beyond this age. He, as the One Who has been most sinned against — not people — is the true Judge. Only He has the right to choose when to show mercy and execute punishment. Moreover, He will not falter, or lunge about for a spontaneous scapegoat as we often do. All sin will be punished and His holiness vindicated, whether 2,000 years ago on the Cross, or for eternity in torturous separation from His presence.

Doctor Who misses that, though episodes such as A Town Called Mercy echo this truth. Perhaps more directly than the writers know.

The Preacher: He’s coming. Oh God, he’s coming!

Abraham: Preacher, say something.

The Preacher: Our Father, who art in Heaven. Hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done.

Who decides who lives or dies? The answer to The Question is “hidden in plain sight.”

From the Travel Guide:

For those unaccustomed to venturing beyond their own backyards, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz provides a pleasant, sedate introduction to the land “somewhere over the rainbow” that is easy on both the traveler’s pocketbook and heart rate. No fear of the usual whirlwind tour of Oz on this plan…travelers will experience the exotic locales and peoples at a leisurely pace and from a safe distance.

Your tour guide, Miss Dorothy Gale, is a no-nonsense Kansas farm girl whose honesty and politeness will charm you and smooth over any minor bumps you might encounter during your trip along the Yellow Brick Road. You’ll see all the popular tourist attractions: Munchkinland, the Poppy Fields, Emerald City, the Witch’s Castle, and some lesser-known spots like the Dainty China Land and Hammerhead Hills.

Here’s a summary of L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, for anyone who might be unfamiliar. Lots of spoilers. I recommend reading the story yourself because it’s the original, it serves as the baseline for this series, it’s free at Project Gutenberg, and it’s a quick read, maybe two hours total. Some folks may be more familiar with the MGM movie version, which we’ll take up next week.

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Dorothy Gale lives on a farm in the gray, featureless prairies of Kansas with her Uncle Henry and Aunt Em. It’s not an exciting life, but Dorothy is content, so long as she’s got her little dog Toto to keep her company. One day, a tornado sweeps across the farm, carrying the farmhouse away, along with Dorothy and Toto, who didn’t make it to the storm cellar and took shelter under a bed.

They’re whirled across the sky to the faraway land of Oz, where the farmhouse lands like a laser-guided bomb on the Wicked Witch of the East and among the Munchkins, who are a little smaller than average humans and favor the color blue in their clothing and architecture. They welcome Dorothy joyfully as their liberator, but she’s a well-grounded American girl unimpressed by flattery from strange foreigners, so she brushes off the compliments and inquires about how she might return home. A little old lady identifying herself as the Witch of the North directs Dorothy to the City of Emeralds and the Great Wizard therein, who might be able to help. She also advises Dorothy to take the silver shoes sparkling among the dusty remains of the Witch of the East because they possess some mysterious charm, properties unknown.  The Witch of the North kisses Dorothy’s forehead, leaving a mark that signifies the power of Good over Evil, and bids her farewell.

Dorothy sets off along the Yellow Brick Road which leads to the Emerald City, and she collects three odd companions along the way: a Scarecrow longing for brains, a Tin Woodsman lacking a heart, and a Lion short on courage.  They encounter and overcome several obstacles before reaching the Emerald City (which is mostly white but perceived in shades of green, thanks to a universal law requiring the inhabitants and all visitors to lock themselves into green spectacles while inside the city limits), and they arrange an audience with the Wizard. He meets separately with each of them in a variety of intimidating incarnations, but promises to help Dorothy and her companions…if they agree to kill the Wicked Witch of the West.

Dorothy, being a nice Kansas girl untutored in the martial arts, has no intention of killing the Witch, but she figures there’s nothing else for it but to travel to the Witch’s castle and convince her to stand down, or surrender, or turn over a new leaf, or something. The Witch detects their approach with her telescopic vision and, being wicked, sends wolves, crows, bees, and soldiers to kill them, but is thwarted by the ingenuity and valor of Dorothy’s companions. She finally manages to capture Dorothy and her friends with the aid of an army of winged monkeys controlled by a magic golden cap. The monkeys dismantle the Scarecrow and Tin Woodsman, then deliver Dorothy and the Lion to the Witch, who sentences them to lifelong servitude.

The Witch’s primary interest is the silver shoes, but Dorothy won’t give them up, and the Witch is reluctant to take them by force, fearing the Mark of Goodness on Dorothy’s forehead. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your perspective, the Witch makes a clumsy attempt to steal the shoes and manages to grab one of them, which pushes Dorothy’s patience past its breaking point. Our heroine lashes out with the time-honored weapon of the domestic servant, a full mop bucket, and the Witch, badly dessicated from her many years of wickedness, dissolves like a puff pastry left out in the rain. The locals hail Dorothy as their liberator and reassemble the Scarecrow and Tin Woodsman. Dorothy and her friends head back to the Emerald City with the flying-monkey-controlling golden cap. They lose their way, and they call on the winged monkeys to carry them to the Wizard.

The Wizard, manifesting this time as a solemn, disembodied voice,  refuses to honor his promise. The lion roars in protest, and Toto scurries away, knocking over a screen in the corner of the Wizard’s throne room, which reveals a nondescript little man who’s been the ventriloquist and puppeteer behind the Wizard’s persona all along. He confesses he’s nothing more than a carnival humbug from Omaha who arrived in Oz via a wayward balloon, which so impressed the gullible residents that they named him Wizard and installed him in the Emerald City as their ruler. He’s been living in fear of discovery (and the witches) for so long, his exposure is something of a relief. He fulfills the petitions of Dorothy’s companions via a little more flim-flammery, which seems to be the most effective sort of magic in Oz. The Scarecrow gets a scoop of brain, er, bran (it sounds enough alike to satisfy the Scarecrow) poured into his flour-sack head, along with a handful of pins and needles so everyone can see he’s sharp. The Tin Woodsman gets a heart—it’s made of cloth, but a heart’s a heart, and that’s sufficient to allow the Woodsman to fully express his feelings. Hey, it worked for Raggedy Ann. The Lion gets a dose of liquid courage, presumably left over from the carnival, and he’s ready to rock and roar.

Finally, the Wizard offers Dorothy a ride home in his balloon, which will require her prairie seamstress-ship and a little elbow-grease to reconstruct. The Wizard declares the branny, er, brainy Scarecrow the new ruler of Emerald City and launches the balloon, but Dorothy misses her ride as she’s trying to corral Toto, and it seems all is lost. The denizens of Emerald City tell her to seek out Glinda, the Good Witch of the South, who might be able to conjure a way back to Kansas.

After a long journey southward through a forest of hostile trees and a bizarre land made entirely of fine china, Dorothy and friends reach the land of the Quadlings, who are similar to the Munchkins but prefer red things. Dorothy finds Glinda and learns that the silver shoes have the power to take her home at her wish. Dorothy gives Glinda the golden cap (so the Good Witch can order the flying monkeys to return Dorothy’s companions to their proper homes), makes her wish, and is whisked back to Kansas for a joyous reunion with her aunt and uncle, who have rebuilt the farm and house in her absence.

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Of the four journeys to Oz we’ll consider here, this one is the most straightforward and unadorned. L. Frank Baum intended The Wonderful Wizard of Oz to be a modern and distinctively American fairy tale, as he notes in the introduction, “in which the wonderment and joy are retained” from the old European fairy tales, “and the heartaches and nightmares are left out.” That’s a pretty good summary, circa 1900, and it might reflect the sentiment of a nation of immigrants who believed, or perhaps were still praying, that they’d left the monsters of the old country far behind them. The characters are very simple, the plot is linear, and there’s never a strong sense of danger anywhere along the way. We’re treated to a series of encounters along Dorothy’s journey from Kansas to Oz and back again. Dorothy meets something strange and befriends it or ponders it for a while, or she runs into an obstacle and quickly overcomes it—then it’s on to the next event. Oz is depicted as a real place, not an illusion or dreamland, and Dorothy will return there in stories yet to come.

Though Baum peppers his novel with some very creative and often phantasmagorical elements, his descriptions of Oz, on the whole, seem rather bland to me. Perhaps I’ve become accustomed to a more modern style of storytelling that relies less on the reader’s imagination to fill in detail. The first edition included a host of  delightful illustrations by W.W. Denslow (a couple are included in this post), and early reviews credited them with as much impact as the text in telling the story. There is a synergy that can emerge when pictures and words are used in combination, and some stories seem to demand it. I think this may be one of them.

Dorothy is a nice, ordinary everygirl who, while suitably impressed by the odd world she tumbles into, doesn’t prefer it to life on her Kansas farm. She doesn’t like Oz very much, and she worries her aunt will have to purchase expensive mourning clothes if she doesn’t find a way home soon. Every problem she encounters is quickly resolved with the help of her friends and facilitated by Dorothy’s patience, optimism, pluck, and kindness. She loses her temper twice—when the Lion frightens Toto at their first meeting (earning the shaggy bully a firm slap), and when the Witch steals her shoe. There’s no deeper destiny, motivation, or guidance, divine or otherwise, directing her beyond her desire to return home. She’s not exiled royalty, or a juvenile messiah riding the rails of prophecy. She’s simply a lost child with common sense and good manners.

The contradiction of the self-perceived shortcomings of Dorothy’s friends (they’re the only ones in Oz unaware they have plenty of brains, heart, and courage) is obvious, yet it’s not delivered explicitly as a moral of the story but rather left as an idea for readers and listeners to connect on their own or discover via 1970’s pop music.

Good and evil are presented in direct opposition, even to the point of being on opposing geographic axes (North/South Good Witches, East/West Bad Witches), though some have bristled over the years at the inference that a witch could be anything but evil by definition, fairy tale or no. It’s stated more than once that “Good is more powerful than Evil,”—yes, they’re almost always capitalized in this story—and the Kiss of Good on Dorothy’s forehead wards off mischief at several key points. Evil, on the other hand, relentlessly sucks all the moisture out of the Wicked Witches’ bodies, turning them into dried-out husks.

That’s what’s known in the trade as an apt metaphor.

There’s very little magic on display in this story of Oz, and it’s almost exclusively linked to objects with an intrinsic power, like the silver shoes and the golden cap—or the animated Scarecrow and Tin Woodsman. The Wizard’s flim-flam effectively simulates magic in Oz, even intimidating the genuine magic users, though the Wizard cowers in fear of the day he might be revealed as an impostor.

Finally, and I hate to end on a low note, this isn’t a work of Christian fiction, though it does espouse a very simple and generic morality that might contain a faint echo of Christian sentiment. L. Frank Baum grew up a Methodist, then moved to the Episcopal Church later in life, mostly because it offered a venue for his theatrical ambitions. He abandoned Christianity altogether in 1897 for Theosophy, a melange of oriental mysticism and occultism emphasizing the brotherhood of mankind, studies in comparative religion, and paranormal research.

His views on race were clearly prejudiced, though sadly common in his day. Perhaps the most disturbing of these was his advocacy for the genocide of Native Americans in the wake of the 1890s Ghost Dance movement and Wounded Knee Massacre. This fact might be enough to induce some readers to avoid his stories altogether, and anything connected to them. It certainly took me by surprise, but once I knew about it, I couldn’t ignore it or pretend it wasn’t there. It was as if I’d discovered Joseph Goebbels had penned Heidi.

However, we see none of Baum’s racial prejudice or unorthodox religious beliefs reflected in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, and the story is beloved by both Christian and secular readers. We’ve often discussed here at SF whether and how the faith and values of a Christian author might shine through a story that isn’t explicitly Christian. Here’s an example of a story where we might ask a similar question: Can we sequester the writing of a non-Christian author from a personal worldview that is immoral and offensive? Or, to put it another way, can we love a story and shun its writer? How far can we go? What do you think?

Next week, assuming we have any readers left, I’ll talk about the different approach to Oz taken in the MGM film, The Wizard of Oz.

Our summer writing challenge was a big success, so I want to follow up with another similar opportunity for writers to exercise their writing muscles and for readers to practice their ability to give gracious feedback. Both parts are equally important for a writer challenge to work.

A couple observations from last time. Writers that posted early seemed to receive the most feedback. Writers that posted later had more time to polish their entry. Which is better? Does one garner more recognition than the other? Only you can decide.

By way of reminder, here’s the way this particular challenge works:

I’ll give a first line, and those who wish to accept the challenge will write what comes next–in 100 to 200 words, putting those in the comments section of this post.

Readers will give thumbs up to the ones they like the most, and, if they wish, they may give a reply to the various entries, telling what particularly grabbed their attention.

We’ll take this challenge one step further than the last one, too. I’ll re-post the top three (based on the number of thumbs up they receive) and visitors will have a chance to vote on which they believe is the best.

And now, the first line:

If dragon hopping was safe, then I wouldn’t have any interest in it, but of course it’s not, so guess where I’m heading.

Your word count does not include this first line.

Once again you’ll have between now and next Monday to post your challenge entries in the comments section. You may reply to entries this week and next. Voting will take place in two weeks.

Feel free to invite any of your friends to participate, either as writers or readers. The more entries and the more feedback, the better the challenge.

It’s been said that the most compelling element of fiction is its ability to evoke strong emotion. But how do we do that?  How do we infuse our writing with enough believable story to wrangle that response from readers? I’m personally learning one particular aspect of this right now, and it cuts me to the heart, but it also enriches me.

I’m currently in America, visiting dozens of people, and the lessons have been endless. Let’s start with a simple yet profound one that I’ve not enjoyed in the least: leaving friend after friend after friend. It’s a thing that wrenches my insides with unshed tears that may come out later on paper, if I’m lucky. Imagine for a moment you’re me; this is how you would experience it.

You spend years working together online, chatting regularly, sometimes video chatting. Minds meld in an inexplicable way, even across the distance. You plan a journey to meet. You sweat and toil to make it happen, and you wait longer than you thought you ever could. Then you are there, but oh, the time is so short. For a while you float along in your bliss, then you realise your sojourn is half over. In the remaining days and hours before the parting, you drink in their face with your eyes, memorising every line and expression. You want to be able to call up their image on your inner screen at will, almost as if they were there, but aren’t.

When the moment finally arrives, you do the unthinkable and just turn away—less painful that way. No clinging, no extra hug, just do it and get out of there. And then it’s over. You’re away and they’re gone and there’s nothing else to be done about it. You cry inside and maybe out, and things return to a semblance of normalcy, if there is such a thing.

Further, in all of this rumbles the hassle of travel, of getting away by whatever means you have chosen. You fly and are afraid. Or even with ground transport you are afraid you might miss a connection and all the repercussions that go along with that. All this fear mushrooms up to the extent that you are no longer sure how much of your bellyaching is from that and how much from having to leave. And you think you would rather be sentimental than a scaredy-cat, even as the miles stretch out between you to impossible distances where you once again hang by the fragile thread of technology to keep you connected.

Then you wonder if maybe you’re overdoing it. If everyone else is much more matter-of fact about these things than you are and you embarrass them by, well, being more intense than is necessary. But no, there was that connection before, though via the safety and silence of the anonymising Internet.

Parting is such a strange thing, this instantaneous transition between there and not-there, with you and not with you. We’ll meet again someday, but we can’t know how or when or where. In view of that hope I can live through these sorrows.

For after the leaving comes an arriving; after the lonely travel comes a meeting, a sighting of faces seen many times before: photos differ from their live subjects in subtle ways. Now, at last, I know what you really look like. There is a jaunt through local haunts, finally pulling into a driveway of a place I’ve known from many angles except this one with my feet on its ground. It is a most peculiar—and spectacular—sensation.

This is my life, so it seems, to look my friends but rarely in the eye. However, I do get to look them in the soul very often, and for that I shall be glad, and travel on—other friends await, and I will yearn also in good time for home, so as to welcome kindred spirits there.

I hold onto these experiences, mentally filing them away.  And when I write about a character in the same situation, I pull them out of my heart and mind, and live them all over again: osmosis from reality into fiction and then to the soul of a reader, the grand circle of literary life.

Perhaps you’ve had a similar experience when reading a book you didn’t want to end. I know it’s happened to me. So by writing these moments of life with friends into my stories, I make them last longer in the reliving—and I’m taking a little piece of you home with me, too.

Lately his name has been in the news; you would recognize it, as a popular Christian leader. Once I pitched him on my novel project, and I don’t even want to recall my age then.

It was 1990-something. (Please, God, let it have been then, and not later than 2000.) I had learned this leader was speaking at a local church. I must have just finished a recent re-editing, and I felt more prepared than ever. Unlike all those Other Times that failed, This Was It. I had the most well-written, original, ground-breaking, God-blessed manuscript yet.

Did I include the entire manuscript in that manila folder? I doubt it; the folder couldn’t have held that much. Lord, I hope I didn’t needlessly slaughter that many of Your good trees.

I arrived early and made sure to sit behind this leader. Then I engaged in conversation. Gave a quick pitch. I tried not to imply what I had already begun to suspect: that my novel’s themes would be such a help the ministry’s cause.

And he listened — before not rudely, but briskly, tossing the package to a ministry aide.

Not only recently have I concluded what I should have known before. That was a long shot, and within hours of it I determined why it fall short. First, a Christian ministry is not in the fiction-publishing business. Second, I cannot imagine what kinds of quacks, weirdoes, gadflies, and slobbering faith-based fanboys (all those other people, you see) that Christian leaders encounter. You’re so cool, you helped my faith, would you let me help you because I know X issue that you’d teach about more effectively if you only listened to me, please, please?

Third, it’s not only the soaring experience of a speculative story, or the promotion of such stories, that evil human hearts can hijack and steer toward idolatry. One may neglect the destination to which great stories should fly, and focused only on the craft of writing.

Idol identified: ambitions to write the next Great Speculative Novel

Not long ago, a few other Speculative Faith writers and I began to wake up and realize something. I do not know who awakened first, to poke the other one. Nor did we have some deep brainstorming session, followed by note-taking and mission ratification. Instead this simply arrived: the fact that it’s very difficult to encourage mainly enjoying speculative stories “Christianly.” Rather, temptation presses us to recite mainly Writing Tips and Tricks: Here’s what publisher X is doing. Here’s what may be changing. Here’s a new agent who is open to these stories. Active voice, passive voice, point of view, proposals, queries.

All this may ultimately encourage one thing: Self. With all this, Self has greater opportunity to become, not the author of the next great American novel, but the author of the next great Chronicles of Zimb’warl’déem novels. So move over, Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, Katniss Everdeen, and whoever was in those awful atheistic books with the talking polar bear!

(Click to see it spinning.)

Are your defenses on red alert? Mine too.

After all, earlier today I felt this impulse again, thanks to some news about one mainstream publisher that has chosen to — foolishly, perhaps! — remove all its publishing submission restraints for two weeks in October. (Talk about being confronted with crazed fanboys.)

Let me be blunt. Deep down, where others can’t see, this kind of impulse says this:

Other Christian speculative novels simply can’t go far because of (insert wise-sounding culturally savvy reason). I think I may have Cracked the Culture Code and could go where no Christian novelist has gone before. Now all I need is craft. More craft. Time to write and rewrite, deep point of view, make this subtler, make that clearer, sharpen dialogue, tighten action. …

It’s exhausting. And let me clear: I don’t believe this is evil. Authors need writing skills, discipline, craft, and professional, Christ-exalting teachers who impart their knowledge. The last thing we need is demonization of artistic skill. But the next-to-last thing we need is idolizing such skill — or idolizing ambition to write the next Zimb’warl’déem-ian novel.

Cure: Loving God’s Story and great stories more than their craft

At Speculative Faith, we stress Christlike reading first, craft-of-writing second. This is by design, likely because of what seems a glut of writing-and-industry-oriented material. Yet I realize it also may help combat what is otherwise a secret assumption: that we have been there, done that, mastered the reasons why we love Christian speculative stories, and now we only need to discuss how to write more of them and get them sold and become famous.

But I’m not convinced that’s in the past. I’m sure we still need to discuss why we love these stories, not because they’re a means of a pyramid scheme, but because we love them. And that love is based in the love of the true Epic Story, by the ultimate Speculative Novelist, whose truths and beauties are uniquely reflected in speculative stories.

That helps on days (or weeks, as has recently been true for me) when we can’t write. Or when we don’t want to read novels for what they can teach about Craft, but for delights.

For readers: what keeps you loving these stories, other than authorial ambitions?

For aspiring authors: if for the rest of your life you were unable to write, would you still love speculative stories for their unique delights?

I’ve had a secret book project lurking inside my mind for a while now. It’s actually an idea that I had a number of years ago. Basically, it would be a systematic look at the religions of Star Trek. I mean, I’ve read that lawyers have written papers about the legal system of the Federation. A number of years ago, some of the professors from my alma mater did a paper on the family communication systems displayed in some of the episodes. And I figured it might be a kick to have a pastor take a look at the religions presented in the Star Trek universe and try to sift through them to figure out what the disparate races actually believed. I even got started on the research a number of years ago, watching the first season of The Original Series and taking notes. I even heard what could be mistaken as a seeming benediction in the first episode, when Sulu “blesses” Yeoman Rand with the odd phrase, “May the Great Bird of the Galaxy bless your planet.” Awesome stuff!

But then I couldn’t get my hands on a copy of the second season and didn’t want to buy one of my own. So the project kind of fizzled.

But then, thanks to the miracle of Netflix, I’ve been able to resume my Star Trek viewing, going through all three seasons of the Original Series, diving into the Animated Series, and working through the Next Generation.

And in the weeks that this has taken, I’ve noticed something: I wouldn’t have had that much material if I had just gone with those three. Oh, sure. There are divinities of a sort, such as Apollo or Trelane of Gothos. And let’s not forget Q. But by and large, religion doesn’t play much of a role in 23rd and 24th century society. The few times it does come up, it’s mocked (such as when the Mintakan people mistake Picard for a god, the belief of which is roundly snorted at by the Enterprise-D crew). Or it’s co-opted in odd ways. For example, in the abysmal episode Sub Rosa, at Dr. Crusher’s grandmother’s funeral, the alien Scottish governor oversees the proceedings. And some of the words sound very familiar. I’ve said them myself plenty of times, “. . . ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in the sure and certain hope . . .”

Now, normally, when I do that, I keep going with this: “of the resurrection to eternal life.” But that’s not what alien governor dude said. Instead, he finished it with some lame Hallmark-esque nonsense like “. . . that she’ll live on in our hearts and minds.” Crazy thing is, this whole scene was taking place outside of a church building, or at least, something that looked like one. So they put it in for the tourists? No wonder Anne Rice doesn’t want her name associated with this dreck.

But then things changed with Deep Space Nine. I’m only halfway through the first season so far, but already, we’ve seen great respect shown to the Bajoran prophets. And I know what is to come: Klingon wedding rituals, Ferengi afterlife visions, plus the twisted theological world of the Dominion. There was a shift where suddenly, what once was mocked suddenly could come out in the light.

Cole Matson, in a recent blog post, points out that DS9 aired two years after Roddenberry’s death. With different people at the helm, we could see how spirituality plays out in a highly technological society. Rather than mocked, it has its place and hey, wouldn’t you know it, it can even be shown as a driving force. Think the ending season of DS9. The war with the Dominion has a deeply spiritual component to it as Gul Dukat champions the cause of the pah wraiths against the Prophets, and the war isn’t truly over until . . . well, spoilers. Sorry. The point is this: the wormhole aliens or Prophets or whatever you want to call them never tell the Bajorans to stop worshiping them. There’s never a moment where the aliens say, “C’mon, folks, knock it off, we’re just an alien society that lives outside of linear time. Please stop.” Instead, the worship of the Prophets almost seems proper given the cultural context. They provide hope and protection to the Bajoran people. Their faith is rewarded.

This gives me hope. While DS9 wasn’t well-received at the time, I think it has aged well and shows us that yes, spirituality and science fiction can go hand in hand.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll write that book someday. But for now, I’m going to have some fun getting re-acquainted with some old friends.

I decided a couple of weeks ago that I wanted to write at some length about L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and its various re-imaginings over the years (Why? Because, because, because, because, because…), but trying to find the right way to structure it has been giving me fits. I’ve got four very different styles and approaches here: a short juvenile novel, a movie, a long adult novel, and a Broadway play, and each presents the Land of Oz and its denizens in a different light with different priorities (see Note). I considered drawing an analogy to the four Gospels, but I would have had to torture the metaphor beyond recognition to make it work.

Anyhow, the situation suddenly reminded me of a recurring feature in my favorite airline’s inflight magazine. It’s called, “One City Five Ways,” and it outlines a quick guide to tourism in the featured city, divided into five parallel paths depending on the traveler’s interest. There might be one path for foodies, another for history buffs, art lovers, etc. In like manner, over the next four weeks, I’m going to give you “Oz Four Ways,” delving into it from the perspective of these four related works of fiction, film, and theatre:

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, by L. Frank Baum.

The Wizard of Oz, an MGM film directed by Victor Fleming.

Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, by Gregory Maguire.

Wicked, The Musical, with music and lyrics by Stephen Schwartz, production book by Winnie Holzman.

The cultural impacts are far-reaching.

This series dovetails from a recent post by Becky Miller that dealt with monsters and the trend toward “rehabilitating” legendary creatures that have traditionally portrayed or symbolized evil. The Wicked Witch of the West came up, one thing led to another, and, well, here we are. Besides, I’m a Kansan, and I’ve got a vested interest in all the twisters and yellow brick and flying monkeys and magic shoes and annoying little dogs.

The Oz books aren’t Christian fiction, but it won’t take long to encounter many of the themes and issues we usually talk about here. It’s also a good illustration of how stories change when they’re translated from one form of storytelling to another and back again.

I really, most sincerely think this will be a good time. Just be sure to pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

Note: I’m not including the film Return to Oz in my discussion, nor the musical/film The Wiz, nor the television mini-series Tin Man. Tackling every variation and spin-off of this universe could consume the better part of a year. If you’d like to fold those into the comments, have at it.