Delving into Darkness
Welcome to the new series! Church brat points to whoever knows which song “Dark is the Stain” comes from.

I decided, in honor of the season, to go with a dark speculation of story. As Brian Godawa’s series has suggested, the “dark genres” often play out by way of confronting human nature, good & evil, and basic human carnality and fears (which, btw, is an excellent series). That’s using darkness to underscore the light, a pitch black background to highlight the brilliance of a sun.

But, first, I want to use the idea of chiaroscuro, which is a sharp contrast between dark and light tones (in art). This can apply to visual light and shadows, mood, or character. What I’m suggesting today is that sometimes it’s light that underscores darkness: That brilliant sun becomes the background that unmasks the tiniest speck of black paint.

The idea actually hit me while I was watching the finale of season one of Merlin.

(SPOILER WARNING!)

Here you have this teenage boy with powers no one really knows the scope of and a nature that’s generally amiable and mild-tempered. Yeah, he’s got the spine to tell off the crown prince, but he’s also got the wits to not push beyond what’s acceptable. Merlin’s version of malicious, for the most part, consists of a teenage prank at worst.

But the end of season one contains a showdown between a sorceress and Merlin. Merlin’s rushed off to save Arthur, and he fully intends to sacrifice himself. But what he didn’t anticipate was a friend’s interference and the sorceress agreeing to take the friend’s life instead. He arrives to find the sorceress standing over the fallen friend. The two fight, until finally she lands a blow that knocks him flat.

Merlin quietly stands up, much to Nimueh’s horror, with a strange look in his eyes. In an even tone, he says, “You shouldn’t have killed my friend.” Then he raises his hand and conjures a storm. Lightning strikes the sorceress dead and rain pours down. Then the look leaves Merlin’s face and he runs to his friend’s side.

(END SPOILER)

The reason it hit me is this: For the first time, we get a real glimpse of what Merlin’s capable of, the warlock legend remembers. But had Merlin been a boy given to shows of strength or flashes of dark rage, this brief glimpse of who and what Merlin really is –what he’ll be–wouldn’t have been nearly as powerful. In this instance, it’s the lightheartedness of Merlin that underscores his darker mood, however brief. His usual gentleness makes his revenge swift and terrible.

Another example came to me by way of my friend Jeremy, who mentioned  a character from the Dresden Files named Ebenezer McCoy.  He said, “Imagine Santa Claus–a genuinely jolly Santa Claus–who is a member of the White Council (the good guys), but who secretly serves as their “blackstaff,” a wizard who is not bound by wizarding rules or a concept of right and wrong. Though he is one of the most compassionate characters on the council, he is sometimes forced to commit atrocious acts against their enemies, because he’s the only one who can.”

Then there’s Dar, from Donita Paul’s books. If you’re familiar with the DragonKeeper books at all, you love Dar, the charming negotiator who does everything with a smile on his face . . . until you see him fight. The witty, entertaining servant of Paladin suddenly turns into a decorated war hero (who’d never admit that in public or private) who commands Paladin’s warriors.

Fourthly, I present Walter from Bryan Davis’ series. He plays comic relief more often than not, but if you back him into a corner, especially in Song of the Ovulum, he turns into a hardcore fighter no man in his right mind toys with.

Light reveals the dark.

Push Back the Darkness
I’ve heard a saying more than once in writing circles that evil must be painted with the blackest brush to make the light stand out — and I’m not saying that’s wrong. To be sure, we writers face darkness and evil and put them on open display so that our readers may view the spectacle from a safe distance.

But the draw of something like Merlin or DragonKeeper is that they don’t need intense violence, angsty teenagers, black moods, foul spirits, or an abundance of vice to make their good guys look good. Part of the Merlin draw is that the good guys are not a united force yet, so most of the time they’re getting in each other’s way unwittingly while trying to solve the same problem from the perspective that most makes sense to them. Instead of a dark, brooding story of the events leading to Merlin and Arthur’s reign or a whimsical, silly tale that spoofs the Arthur legends, the show rather takes an even-tempered approach: balancing an overall light tone with the sober reality of the dark forces of magic that continue to lay siege to Uther’s reign as payback for what he’s done to everyone who’s ever used the art.

“He reveals mysteries from the darkness and brings the deep darkness into light.”

~Job 12:22

In a genre enamored of artificial intelligence and all things computerized, robotic, and positronic, love poses a special difficulty because computers are based on logical operations: “If A and B, then C.” “If not A, then B.” “If A or B, then C and D.” Every input yields a predictable output.

From this point of view, the idea of a robot that can love is a contradiction in terms, not that it seems to bother science fiction writers very much. Such a robot would have to make sense of inputs that are ambiguous or inherently in conflict (A: She smiles. B: She calls me an idiot. C: She loves me. D: I love her.), and use its logic circuits to process them in an illogical manner (If A and B, then C or not C, and D or not D). Yes, there is such a thing as fuzzy logic, but it’s beyond the scope of this article and doesn’t reinforce my point here. Move right along, and pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

If you’ve spent any time at all watching Star Trek, you probably know that the most effective way to defeat a malevolent robot is to present it with a logical paradox…

Kirk, whispering in malevolent robot Norman’s ear: “You can’t believe Harry. Everything Harry says is a lie.”

Harry Mudd, whispering in Norman’s other ear: “Now, listen very carefully, Norman my boy…I. Am. Lying.”

Norman has catastrophic processor failure and locks up, smoke spewing from his ears. The universe is saved. Huzzah!

The incompatibility of emotion and computation is illustrated in a Star Trek, The Next Generation episode, “The Offspring.” Android LtCmdr Data decides he needs to explore parenthood and constructs a daughter using his own design as a template. He names her Lal. He inadvertently surpasses his programming and makes her capable of experiencing emotions, including love. Unfortunately, this is a bug, not a feature, and Lal’s emotions generate a cascade failure in her positronic brain that ends her artificial life. As for Data himself, the closest he can get to love is a few extra nanoseconds of processing speed when he’s near people he’s “grown accustomed to.” His emotional shortcomings are solved later in the Trek saga with the deus ex machina of an “emotion chip,” confronting him with the new problem of how to interpret his new human emotions, which aren’t nearly so orderly as his other subroutines.

Okay, robots as we know them aren’t capable of love as we know it because love isn’t logical. So what?

Well, our very existence hinges on the fact that love isn’t logical. Think about it. God, the creator of the universe, watches the first man and woman rebel against him and violate His very clear and simple instructions, which include the information that the penalty for doing so is death. What does He do? The logical thing would be to destroy the offending creatures, as advertised, and start fresh. Straight line from problem to solution. Instead, because he loves us so much, he takes on humanity and offers Himself as the sacrifice for our sin, in our place.

It’s preposterous. Ridiculous. The Author of Creation becomes a miniscule dot on a tiny speck in a hazy cloud of dust in a nondescript corner of an inconceivably vast cosmos. To save a race of ungrateful, rebellious little dots. Because of love.

It just doesn’t compute, and I, for one, am glad it doesn’t.

 P.S. – For more on love and logic, I highly recommend the classic non-spec-fic short story, “Love is a Fallacy,” by Max Shulman. Don’t forget your raccoon coat.

The book had a simple, even predictable plot and the writing was serviceable at best. The characters were not complex, the theme undeniably obvious. Imagine my surprise, then, when I came to the climax of the story and cried.

Isn’t that the greatest achievement for fiction — to move readers emotionally?

Not according to freelance writer Tony Woodlief in his article “Bad Christian Art” which appeared last spring in the online journal Image. In this critique of Christian fiction, Woodlief lists three specific areas he refers to as “some common sins of the Christian writer.” Last on the list is sentimentality:

Like pornography, sentimentality corrupts the sight and the soul, because it is passion unearned. Whether it is Xerxes weeping at the morality of his unknown minions assembled at the Hellespont, or me being tempted to well up as the protagonist in Facing the Giants grips his Bible and whimpers in a glen, the rightful rejoinder is the same: you didn’t earn this emotion. (emphasis mine)

I’ll admit, this has me confused. When is passion in fiction “earned” by the reader? It isn’t. Whatever passion a reader experiences is in one sense “borrowed” because he’s reading someone else’s story. The fear or tension or joy a reader feels in reaction to what happens to a pretend person is never earned in the sense that the reader lived the events that generated the emotion. So what kind of story could ever create “earned” passion?

Since I’m admitting stuff today, I’ll add this: I’ve teared up at Hallmark greeting card commercials, too.

You might think that I’m merely a maudlin person, perhaps, but I don’t think so because I know others who have teared up at the end of those heartwarming, sentimental card ads.

Ah, sentimental – “of or prompted by feelings of tenderness, sadness, or nostalgia” according to the Oxford American Dictionary. But there seems to be an important difference in the use of sentimental when discussing literature, music, or art: “dealing with feelings of tenderness, sadness, or nostalgia in an exaggerated and self-indulgent way” (emphasis mine).

So the emotion isn’t the problem, it would seem, but rather the issue is whether it is exaggerated or self-indulgent. Honestly, I don’t know that this use of sentimentality gives room for a “right” or earned passion. It seems to me if it is sentimental — exaggerated and self-indulgent — there is no change that will make the reader’s emotional experience “earned” and therefore acceptable and appropriate.

I’m not sure I’m any closer to understanding this. For one thing, I don’t know if I understand what exaggerated emotion in fiction looks like.

I think I know it when it comes to suspense. It’s the old piece of writing advice — if all the character has to trust in is a horse, then shoot the horse. (That’s my interpretation of “make things go from bad to worse.”) Often times I read or watch a story unfold and roll my eyes because all those bad things happening to one person in a lifetime would be unbelievable, never mind that in this story it’s all taking place within forty-eight hours!

Perhaps the same could play out with grief — one person after another dying or leaving. But I don’t think that’s the accusation against Christian fiction.

Woodlief compared sentimentality in Christian fiction to Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s idea of cheap grace. He then elaborates:

The writer who gives us sentimentality is akin to the painter Thomas Kinkade, who explicitly aims to paint the world without the Fall, which is not really the world at all, but a cheap, maudlin, knock-off of the world, a world without suffering and desperate faith and Christ Himself, which is not really a world worth painting, or writing about, or redeeming.

I can only imagine that someone who complains about Thomas Kinkade landscapes must live a deprived life, away from all natural beauty.

But that brings another question. Is it always sentimental to show God’s goodness and not also show man’s depravity? I mean, apparently Kinkade detractors want to see a rusted car or a discarded tire painted into the foreground of his scenic pictures.

These visual comparisons to writing make me think of where I live in Southern California. We are surrounded by beauty, but at the same time, man’s depravity is just as apparent. As an illustration, a view of the snow capped San Gabriel Mountains, which I can see out my window, often include the gray haze of smog. But not always. If I were to paint the picture the day after it rained, the sky would be a wonderful cerulean hue.

Which of these views is true? Both. If I were to intimate, however, that the latter is the only truth, then perhaps that would be “self-indulgent” or at least dishonest.

But I believe, to intimate that the sky is never smog-free is just as untruthful.

In other words, I believe that stories that suggest God never brings things to right here in this life are just as untrue as those that imply He always does so.

Perhaps J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis were such masters because they knew how to show both the truth of this world and the truth of Christian hope.

In the Lord of the Rings, Frodo decides to claim the one ring for himself, but in spite of his change of heart, the ring is destroyed. Yet that’s not the end. There is more struggle before evil is vanquished, and even then not everyone “lives happily ever after.”

So too with Narnia. At one point each of the children learns he or she won’t be coming back to Narnia … but then all except Susan do, in a final way that is bitter-sweet.

I cried at the end of those stories. Was that sentimental because I hadn’t earned the right to feel the joy mixed with sadness — the commingling sense of triumph and loss?

I never considered anything about these stories to be sentimental. Instead, I think I cried because they felt real.

It is real stories (not “realistic”) that stay with readers. Not because I as a reader have suffered as the characters did or triumphed in the same way either, but because I recognize the truth of their condition. I may mourn because of it or I may long for it, but one way or another, it triggers an emotional response.

Is that good or bad?

SOCIAL COMMENTARY

Lastly, the horror and thriller genres can be effective social commentaries on the sins of society. Many Christians claim that we should not tell stories that focus on the evils of sin. They appeal to verses such as Ephesians 5:12: “It is disgraceful even to speak of the things which are done by [the sons of disobedience] in secret.” I write about this “hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil” interpretation in my newly updated and expanded edition of Hollywood Worldviews: Watching Films with Wisdom and Discernment. These critics read this Bible verse, and others, to teach that we should not speak of, let alone watch, acts of depravity in movies. But look at the verses before and after this “disgraceful to speak” verse. Ephesians 5:11: “Do not participate in the unfruitful deeds of darkness, but instead even expose them.” Ephesians 5:13: “But all things become visible when they are exposed by the light, for everything that becomes visible is light.”

Paul is not telling us to evade talking about deeds of darkness because of their disgracefulness; rather, he is telling us to expose them by talking about them. By bringing that which is disgracefully hidden out into the light, we show it for what it really is. This proper biblical use of shame aids us in the pursuit of godliness.

This is exactly the tactic God uses with his prophets under both Old and New Covenants. God uses horrific explicit images in order to put up a mirror to cultures of social injustice and spiritual defilement. God used gang rape of a harlot and dismemberment of her body as a metaphor of Israel’s spiritual apostasy (Ezek. 16 and Ezek. 23), and the resurrection of skeletal remains as a symbol for the restoration of his people within the covenant (Ezek. 37). Our holy, loving, kind, and good God also used the following horror images to visually depict cultural decay and social injustice: skinning bodies and cannibalism (Mic. 3:1–3); Frankenstein replacement of necrotic body parts (Ezek. 11:19); cannibalism (Ezek. 36:13–14; Ps. 27:2; Prov. 30:14; Jer. 19:9; Zech 11:9); vampirism (2 Sam. 23:17; Rev. 16:6); cannibals and vampires together (Ezek. 39:18–19); rotting flesh (Lam 3:4; 4:8; Ps. 31:9–10; 38:2–8; Ezek. 24:3, 33:10; Zech 14:12); buckets of blood across the land (Ezek. 9:9, 22:2–4); man-eating beasts devouring people and flesh (Ezek. 19:1-8; 22:25, 27; 29:3; Dan. 7:5; Jer. 50:17); crushing and trampling bodies and grinding faces (Amos 4:1; 8:4; Isa. 3:15); and bloody murdering hands (Isa. 1:15, 59:3; Mic. 7:2–3). Horror is a strongly biblical medium for God’s social commentary.

Invasion of the Body Snatchers is a story that has had many movie remakes, with all of them reflecting the current cultural fears of each era. The basic template is a story about an epidemic of alien life forms coming to Earth and replacing human bodies with people who look the same but are part of a conspiracy to take over the planet. The original (1956) was a political analogy of the Red Scare of communist infiltration of the United States in the 1950s. The 1978 remake, starring Donald Sutherland, was a parallel to the 1970s conformity to the herd mentality of the New Age “me decade.” Body Snatchers was the 1993 version that analogized the doppelganger takeover to a monolithic conformism to U.S. “military imperialism,” with a touch of AIDS paranoia thrown in. In 2007, The Invasion, with Nicole Kidman, became a parable of cultural imperialism and the postmodern “other.”

Strong social criticism has been leveled by horror movies at various relevant issues in our culture. In Underworld, racism is paralleled and condemned through an “inter-species” romance between a werewolf and a vampire; The Wicker Man, damns neo-pagan Gaia religion in its murderous matriarchal colony of goddess-worshipping, man-abusing feminists. In one segment entitled “Dumplings” in the movie Three Extremes, abortion is likened to the sci-fi quest for eternal youth through cannibalizing our offspring.

One common theme in some horror movies is the degeneration of society into a selfish survival of the fittest ethic that animalizes us, versus an ethic of self-sacrifice that humanizes us. In a sense it becomes a cinematic dialectic of the evolutionary worldview versus the Christian worldview.

28 Days Later is about Jack, who awakens in a hospital bed to discover all of London is empty of people—except for roaming zombies seeking human flesh. The zombies are the result of a viral contagion that sends people into a murderous rage. When Jack stumbles upon a fortress of military survivors besieged by the zombies, this isolated human society degenerates into its own animalistic survival. It is a parable of how uncivilized male aggression can become an evil culture of “zombies within.”

In the sequel, 28 Weeks Later, a father struggles with the moral guilt of saving himself at the expense of his wife’s life when escaping from the zombies. He finds it hard to face his own surviving children later. The entire movie is an incarnation of the ethic of survival versus the ethic of sacrifice, the first making us no different than a zombie, the other making us human. Those in the movie who try to save themselves tend to end up stricken; those who try to rescue others at risk to themselves demonstrate the potential nobility of the human race.

I Am Legend is a parable of a lone survivor, Neville, maintaining his humanity in the face of wild flesh-eating zombies. It becomes a Christ parable as Neville’s blood contains the antibody to the viral contagion that caused the zombies in the first place. As a Christ figure, Neville must sacrifice himself to save others, but only after struggling with his doubts about God’s goodness in light of all the evil. A fellow survivor’s unwavering faith that “God has a plan” wraps up this movie that wrestles with God’s sovereignty and evil, the primal instinct for survival, and the values of religion, sacrifice, and atonement.

30 Days of Night portrays vampires as metaphors for an atheistic evolutionary survival of the fittest ethic. When one victim whispers a prayer to God for help, the head vampire stops, repeats the word, “God,” looks all around the heavens to see if He will answer, and then replies very simply, “No God” before devouring her.

It is important to remember that in a story, the worldview that the villain holds is the worldview that the storyteller is criticizing. So the fact that the vampires in this movie are atheistic, inhuman predators without mercy is a metaphor for the consequences of evolutionary ethics. In contrast with this ethic, the people who do battle with them can only win by being more human, which is through altruistic sacrifice of themselves for others.

DISCERNING GOOD FROM EVIL IN GOOD AND EVIL

Horror and thriller movies are two powerful apologetic means of arguing against the moral relativism of our postmodern society. Not only can they reinforce the biblical doctrine of the basic evil nature in humanity, but they can personify profound arguments of the kind of destructive evil that results when society affirms the Enlightenment worldview of scientism and sexual and political liberation. Of course, this is not to suggest that all horror movies are morally acceptable. In fact, I would argue that many of them have degenerated into immoral exaltation of sex, violence, and death. But abuse of a genre does not negate the proper use of that genre.

It would be vain to try to justify the unhealthy obsession that some people have with the dark side, especially in their movie viewing habits. Too much focus on the bad news will dilute the power that the Good News has on an individual. Too much fascination with the nature and effects of sin can impede one’s growth in salvation. So, the defense of horror and thriller movies in principle should not be misconstrued to be a justification for all horror and thriller movies in practice. It is the mature Christian who, because of practice, has his senses trained to discern good and evil in a fallen world (Heb. 5:14). It is the mature Christian who, like the apostle Paul, can explore and study his pagan culture and draw out the good from the bad in order to interact redemptively with that culture (Acts 17).

– – – – –
Brian Godawa is the screenwriter for the award-winning feature film, To End All Wars, starring Kiefer Sutherland and Alleged, starring Brian Dennehy as Clarence Darrow and Fred Thompson as William Jennings Bryan. He previously adapted to film the best-selling supernatural horror novel The Visitation by author Frank Peretti for Ralph Winter (X-Men, Wolverine).

His book, Hollywood Worldviews: Watching Films with Wisdom and Discernment has been released in a revised edition from InterVarsity Press. His new book Word Pictures: Knowing God Through Story and Imagination (IVP) addresses the power of image and story in the pages of the Bible to transform the Christian life.

His new Biblical Fantasy novel, Noah Primeval will be released next month. Visit his web sites to read sample chapters and learn more about Brian.

Tough decision this week — should I continue the Human Nature series with its final part, or offer a followup to last week’s thoughts about the contemporary Christian film Courageous? Well, as Tony Stark would say, “Is it too much to ask for both?”

Series recap: many stories include mainly external enemies, often from a lineup of usual suspects. But great stories will emphasize our greatest battle: against our rebel flesh.

Now I hope to apply this specifically to Christians. I believe any story that includes themes of good and evil, in which good ultimately wins, will reflect much of God’s truth. This can’t be helped, because this universe is His Story, and we’re just living in it. Even storytellers who overtly reject God are still stuck in His world. They can’t choose not to use His material, only to take some of it to echo, twist, or to try using as little of as they can. Even those who make “colorless” movies still film in hues of black and white.

As author Chad Walsh says, this truthful paradox is very freeing. “The Christian lives in the roomiest house that seems to be available,” he says in The Christian Imagination (page 170). “Writers who become Christians discover that they have only their [faith’s] negations to lose. The affirmations that other faiths make, Christians can mostly second—with appropriate footnotes, of course. Their negations must be denied.”

So, say, when a story shows us evil, optimally without glorifying its actions and effects, Christians can applaud. Yes, the world is a sick place. Scripture is clear that we shouldn’t pretend all is well. (For more, see Brian Godawa’s awesome defense of horror stories.)

But here’s the footnote: the world isn’t all like that. Even a fallen world praises God (as the Psalms show). Moreover, God will redeem the world, into a New Earth (Rev. 21).

Secondly, when a story shows heroes who make right choices, despite their inner and outer enemies, Christians can affirm that. For Scripture is clear that unsaved people can do good things, even make right choices. Christians have even more motivation for this.

But another footnote: in real life, no one can carry this on forever, in ways sufficient to please our perfectly loving and holy Creator, apart from the death and life of Christ.

Which brings me to Courageous, and some responses to it, and any other Christian story that purports to show a savior-like character. These may even mention Jesus, and — this is important — are not by themselves harmful or evil. But they are certainly harmful if we assume this is the only or best kind of story Christians have to share with others.

Epic-Story echoes: expecting too much

I thought more of this just yesterday, when I read Anthony Parisi’s gracious criticisms at White Horse Inn, of Courageous. Though I agreed with many of his thoughts, others at least need some qualification. That’s especially true for this seeming contradiction: how can we say that any story doesn’t have enough clear Gospel in it and could come off as moralistic, then also suggest that Christian art shouldn’t be reduced to sermon vehicles?

I think I, and other discerners/enjoyers of Christian stories, get more things confused when we don’t consider the differences between stories’ themes and audiences.

Christians can offer stories to two kinds of audiences: 1) other Christians, for the joy, encouragement, and education of the Church; 2) non-Christians. (In my view, our stories for each group ought to be much more alike, but that’s another column topic.) And within each audience are two subsets of story themes — its truth-echoes.

One subset echoes the Epic Story of the Bible, that is, the Story’s main point, the Gospel.

Another subset will act much like the subplots Scripture gives us, that is, the accounts of people who, whether good guys or bad guys, play smaller parts in the Epic Story. They point to that Story. But they don’t always include the whole thing. (The same is true of all Christians’ real lives: we echo the Story, but in part; our stories are only its subsets.)

So if I hear a Christian’s fiction and expect overt Epic Story echoes, when that wasn’t his goal, and then go off to criticize the story for not being clear enough, that doesn’t allow for the story’s genre. I might as well fault Esther for not giving King Xerxes John 3:16.

I think maybe some critics of Courageous expected more beyond the filmmakers’ goals. They said they did not want to make “just a story,” or, conversely, to make a film that only preached the total Gospel, making it absolutely clear all the time that Jesus is the true Hero and we can do nothing apart from Him. Despite what I think were flaws in the movie’s sermon- or story-telling, their goal seemed to be to show how that Gospel, once assumed, can affect a Christian’s life. (Whether the film succeeded is another issue!)

If even God could wait until the very last decades of His inspiration of the Scripture, to give more-overt answers about His plan in a few dozen years than He had given us in centuries, surely there’s a place for stories that only foreshadow and hint at the Gospel.

And in these stories, we’ll surely find flawed heroes — heroes, “messiah” figures, who point to Christ. They do this throughout the Bible, and Jesus Himself endorsed these interpretations. He said He was the Son of David (Mark 12: 35-37). And He referred to Jonah’s experience in the fish’s belly for three days as a foreshadowing of His own death (Matt. 12: 39-41). Obviously then, Jesus had no problem if people wanted to compare Him with other “messiah” figures who sinned or who didn’t represent Him completely.

This would implicitly endorse more manmade stories about flawed heroes who remind us of Jesus, or at least echo the echo of Jesus — maybe not a Christ-figure, rather a “Christ-figure-figure,” a picture of what our attempts to imitate Christ will look like.

Epic-Story echoes: expecting too little

But with that said, now we come to this series’ conclusion, and a few more highly trendy complaints (I hope gracious ones!) about many stories marketed to Christians.

That’s because there seems to be a frequent assumption that, as Becky wrote Monday, if a story is “family friendly,” Christians should love it. Or that if a story includes a hero, even one who risks his life to save others, we’ve somehow included the full Gospel. Or that if we mention God, or even Jesus Christ, at all, and faith in Him, and even trusting in Him or Taking a Leap of Faith, that makes a story not only Christian “enough,” but fully Christian — and well worth Christians’ support, awareness, purchase, and popularizing.

Again, I don’t suggest these stories are not Christian, or that we should boycott them.

But do we confuse definitions? Why treat subplot stories as if they’re big-Story stories? Why do we encourage Support for these stories more than support for other, secular stories that include saviors? Moreover, why would Christians react as if only this kind of story is the epitome of Christ-glorifying storytelling and “safe,” “family-friendly” fare?

This may be best shown when more-conservative Christians react to the latest sports or inspirational movie marketed to family-friendly folks, or when more culturally-aware Christians promote, say, a violent R-rated war flick. (I have nothing against either kind of film; these are examples.) Their reasons for supporting these are like this: The movie shows human heroes and saviors. People die or sacrifice themselves to rescue their friends.

Those are all good morals. But they’re not the best or only kinds of Christian stories.

If we want to show all the Christian worldview in our stories, and explore a wide range of tales that reflect God’s truths and beauties, showing a human savior isn’t enough.

A human savior-figure who saves his friends, or saves anyone from Outside Enemies, is certainly close to being like the true Savior, definitely better than many alternative plot concepts. But the true Savior saved His enemies from themselves and their human nature, to make them His friends. Not all Christian stories reflect that. More should.

And I believe many Christians need to stop reducing the Gospel in stories to what others call “moralistic, therapeutic deism,” to appeal to the most amounts of people we can. Folks, many of our “haters [are] gonna hate” anyway. Do we recognize that?

Meanwhile, we already have a glut of secular stories that give “family-friendly” values, and morals, and heroes who sacrifice themselves, and things like that. But we are the only ones who can give specific Epic-Story echoing stories. Why miss out on the chance to be unique, and to explore themes few others do — such as savior-figures or human heroes who imitate Christ (consciously in the story-world, or otherwise) by saving not just their friends, but enemies, even as they fight their own human nature?

Our barn-burner discussion of the non-spec-fic movie, C0urageous, reminded me (thanks, Stephen) that I haven’t talked about another sort of love (or lack thereof) we often find in speculative stories: parental love. More specifically, paternal love.

Fathers are most often a focus of dramatic conflict in speculative fiction, whether in film or on the page. Fathers spur the main character to action in many ways, including the following:

1. Our hero is trying to earn his father’s love or approval: In the Star Trek episode, “Journey to Babel,” we learn that Spock’s father never got over his son’s decision to enter Starfleet rather than attend the Vulcan Science Academy. Spock, meanwhile, is driven by an intense perfectionism as he tries to validate his choice. A crisis brings them back together, revealing a powerful love between these two stubborn, emotionally-repressed people.

2. Our hero is trying to live up to his father’s magnificent legacy: How to Train Your Dragon‘s Hiccup feels the weight of his Viking chieftain father’s accomplishments and struggles to emulate him in his own way, though he’s woefully unequipped for the task.

3. Our hero is trying to overcome his father’s despicable legacy: In Star Wars – Return of the Jedi, Luke Skywalker copes with the shattering revelation that Darth Vader is his father, and forges his own path as a Jedi.

4. Our hero is trying to escape his father’s control and establish himself as an adult: Thor chafes under Odin’s authority and yearns to take the reins of power in Asgard before he is fully mature as a leader and a man.

5. Our hero is trying to restore a broken relationship with his father: Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade shows Dr. Jones the Younger overcoming years of conflict and estrangement, gaining new respect for his father as a  professional and rediscovering his love for him.

As usual, I’m sure our brilliant readers can offer more and better examples of the father-son dynamic in spec-fic, and my apologies, ladies…father-daughter, mother-daughter, and mother-son issues are three other topics for three other days. I’ve got my hands full with fathers and sons here, but feel free to chime in with your perspective on this topic.

Where was I? Oh, yes, the fathers…

The fathers, meanwhile, usually blunder along, all unaware of the profound effect they have on their sons, whether through detachment, uncaring, ignorance, incompetence, or personal pride. We see the same sorts of patterns in the Bible. It’s frightening how many delinquent or just plain evil offspring are sired by God-fearing fathers who are otherwise praised and held up as paragons of virtue for our imitation. Adam, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Samuel, David, Hezekiah…that’s just a partial list of patriarchs and kings with less-than-stellar father-son relationships.

Yes, they were flawed human beings. Of course, we can’t blame them for their children’s bad choices. We’d never do that to fathers today, as if their tally of well-behaved children who go on to follow in their righteous footsteps was the ultimate yardstick of their worth as parents, right?

Right?

“There goes Jack. Didya hear? One of his boys isn’t living for the Lord. Cleaned out the family bank account and took off east to the big city.”

“It was just a matter of time. Boy was always a little hellion. Jack should have reined him in tighter.”

“The other one’s doing fine. Near as I could tell, he treated them both fairly, set a good example, took ’em to church…what d’you think happened?”

“Lord only knows. Some guys can’t hold things together for the long haul. Two kids was one too many for him.” 

“You think the boy will ever come back home?”

“Jack thinks he will. The poor sap stands out at the crossroads every night, waiting.  Pitiful.”

“Yessir, it’s one sad story. There but for the grace of God go you and I.”

“Amen, brother.”

Anyhow, I don’t think anyone will argue that being a father is easy, and there isn’t much explicit direction in the Bible about how to do it. Paul directs Christian fathers to not provoke their children to wrath but  to “bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord,” without providing further detail. Most of the guidance we receive is via illustration–as we often say around here, “showing, not telling.” We see Job’s continual prayer for his children. we see the strength of Abraham’s love for Isaac despite an incomprehensible command from God to sacrifice him. We witness the intensity of Jacob’s love for his sons (though he had his favorites and seemed most engaged when they were in peril). We see David’s steadfast love for Absalom in the face of that son’s rebellion. Jesus takes numerous opportunities to illustrate the love he shares with his Father, which often stands in stark contrast to what we may have experienced within our own families.

And perhaps that’s the key. Jesus characterizes God most often as “Father.” To be a good father is to become conformed to the image of God the Father, the Father who provides for us, guides us, and helps us in distress. The Father who loves us, even when we stray, and who welcomes us with open arms when we come to our senses and return to Him.

We can’t make that happen in and of our own power. The patriarchs couldn’t do it, and we’re no less broken than they were. All the guidebooks and checklists and good intentions and promises in the world won’t suffice. What we can do is be obedient to the direction and example God has provided us, asking for His strength, and relying on Him for the results. Will we still make mistakes and have problems? Yes. But we’ll have the best help in the universe along the way.

While Brian Godawa is giving us an excellent apologetic for what many consider the opposite of “family friendly” films — horror — we have also been discussing the movie Courageous which released September 30 in a limited number of theaters. Interestingly this movie experienced, according to CBN News, startling success (Hollywood starts paying attention when something earns money against all odds) and it is “family friendly.”

What makes fiction “family friendly”?

Not many people seem interested in defining the term, perhaps because it seems self-evident: the whole family can watch the film or read the book. That would suggest there is no sexual innuendo, no graphic violence, no language inappropriate for the youngest members of the family. Undoubtedly there isn’t any drinking or smoking or gambling, either. I’d imagine there is no drug activity, and certainly no physical abuse. The list could go on.

But what about ideas? Are anti-God ideas family friendly? How about idol worship? Or humanism? Who exactly is to say what ideas are family friendly and which are not?

My thinking is that the ideas are much more significant, probably more subtle, but more lasting than the externals some people apparently use to judge whether or not a movie or book is family friendly.

Paul Jankowski, author of How to Speak American: Building Brands in the New Heartland, recently published “Family Friendly Movies Make Big Money: Hollywood Noticing” on the subject. In his article he references movies with Christian subject matter, others that “are sneaking faith-based messaging and values into films,” and still others he called “family friendly.”

Unfortunately, the term “family friendly” has become entwined with the idea of “safe.” But safe from what? What is it that can do eternal damage to a soul?

I just read, for example, a review of The Lion King at Focus on the Family’s Plugged In Online movie review site. While I consider this film a gateway into New Age thought or neo-Hinduism, Focus found “insightful spiritual components.” In addition, the review gave no warning that there might be ideas in the movie — apart from those that are rejected or defeated — that contradict Biblical truth. Apparently, then, this movie, according to this evaluation, is “family friendly,” and presumably “safe.”

The value of “family friendly” stories.

While I think we would be wise to divorce the idea of “family friendly” with the idea of “safe,” I think we could — and probably should — categorize family friendly stories as “clean.”

There are any number of moral values that Christians share with others in our culture, and it’s right for us to encourage the propagation of those values — not as a means of salvation or as a primary focus over proclaiming Christ, but as a part of “soil preparation.” I wonder if Christians have been so focused in the last fifty years in sowing seed — the word of God — that we’ve neglected the main point of Jesus’s parable. The critical factor that insured much fruit was what kind of soil the seed fell on.

Anyone who knows the smallest bit about gardening knows that best results come from first spending time preparing the ground. Why, then, would we assume that in Jesus’s parable (Luke 8:5-8) we stand in the position of the sower with the responsibility of scattering seed, but not preparing soil?

Family friendly stories are not inherently Christian.

Buddhists can write clean fiction. So can Muslims, Mormons, and Jehovah’s Witnesses. There is nothing uniquely Christian about “Little Red Riding Hood” or “The Three Little Pigs.” There are values in both fairy tales, ones that Christians undoubtedly adhere to and might say have Scriptural justification. Nevertheless, those values are not uniquely Christian.

Only one thing is uniquely Christian — Jesus Christ and the reconciliation with God which His sacrifice provides for the believing sinner. That’s the Christian message. Stories that show the Christian message, whether overtly, symbolically, or allegorically, are Christian stories.

Should Christian publishers produce fiction that is family friendly but not Christian?

Should farmers prepare the soil before they plant?

We should probably ask the question about Christian bookstores too, but they’ve already answered it for us — they sell clean DVDs that are not produced by Christian companies and do not include the Christian message.

Why then, do they not sell good fiction, clean fiction, that similarly does not come from a Christian publisher or include a Christian message?

Some writers decry the divide between Christian fiction and secular fiction, desiring to see Christians with books on the same shelves as their unbelieving counterparts. I’d like to see that too, but I can’t help but think this issue will never get squared away until we stop calling clean fiction or family friendly fiction, Christian.

When I explain who a Christian is, I don’t start with a list of behaviors. It is untrue to say that a Christian is someone who goes to church, who believes in the sanctity of marriage, who shuns violence.

Why then should fiction bearing the name of Christ be defined by those kinds of things?

Family friendly, sure. There are things I think most of us agree should be excluded from the consumption of children, so stories that are appropriate for them and that adults can enjoy are correctly identified as for everyone in the family.

But safe or Christian? Not necessarily, and definitely not by definition.

YOUR SIN WILL FIND YOU OUT

Another way in which horror and thriller movies can communicate truth about human nature is in showing the logical consequences of sin. In the same way, the Bible plays out some sexually disgusting scenarios and gruesome violence in order to communicate the seriousness of sin and its negative impact upon our relationship with God. In Ezekiel 16 and 23, God describes Israel’s spiritual condition figuratively as a harlot “spreading her legs” to every Egyptian, Assyrian and Chaldean who passes by, as well as donkeys (bestiality) and idols as sexual devices. The book of Judges depicts the horrors of a society where “every man does what is right in his own eyes,” such as gang rapes and dismemberment (Judges 19:22-29), burning victims alive (Judges 9:49), cutting off thumbs (Judges 1:6-7), and disemboweling (Judges 3:21-22) among other monstrous atrocities that illustrate their need for repentance.

Hide and Seek is a story in the vein of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde about a man named David whose daughter is in danger from some kind of scary imaginary man who is stalking her. Like Nathan’s parable to King David, this David learns that “he is that man,” his dissociated split identity a symptom of his suppressed past sins.

The Machinist and The Number 23 are both macabre Poe-like tales that illustrate the effect of suppressing sin and guilt, as well as the redemptive power of confession. The Machinist is about an industrial worker whose body and mind wastes away from insomnia because of his running away from a past crime. The movie is a literalization of Psalms 32:3–5: “When I kept silent about my sin, my body wasted away through my groaning all day long…I said, ‘I will confess my transgressions to the LORD’; and Thou didst forgive the guilt of my sin.”

The Number 23 is a thriller about a guy whose discovery of a novel that mysteriously reflects his own life leads him to an obsession with the number twenty-three, which ultimately leads him into mental disorder that endangers others. It’s not until he faces the fact that all the mysterious coincidences in his life are the bubbling up of suppressed sin and guilt that he can repent and find redemption. Not coincidentally, the filmmaker put a Bible verse at the end of the film to express this very theme: “Be sure your sin will find you out” (Num. 32:23).

Ghost stories have been a staple of humanity’s storytelling diet since the beginning. From the Bible’s witch of Endor, to Shakespeare’s Hamlet, to modern campfire yarns, people love to tell ghost stories to scare the Beetlejuice out of each other. Christians sometimes condemn ghost stories because they seem to imply a purgatory that is not in the Bible, or because they appear to violate the Scriptural prohibition against calling up the dead. But the purpose of some ghost stories has nothing to do with “reality.” They are often metaphors depicting morally “unfinished business” or the demand for justice against unsolved crime, very much in the biblical spirit of the voice of Abel’s murdered blood crying to God for justice from the ground (Gen. 4:10).

A Stir of Echoes, The Haunting, Gothika, and The Haunting in Connecticut are all movies where ghosts are not haunting people because they are evil, but because they are victims of unsolved murders who can’t rest until the murderer pays for his crimes. These are parables communicating that there is no spiritual statute of limitations on the guilt of sin. They are fables about the telltale heart of moral conscience.

Some sincere Christians will often find passages that in their eyes appear to discredit the narrative depiction of sin and its guilty consequences. One such common passage is Philippians 4:8: “Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, dwell on these things.”

Contrary to some interpretations, this passage does not depict Christianity as an episode of Veggie Tales or Little House on the Prairie. It is not only true, honorable and right to show the glorious blessings of the gospel. It is also true, honorable and right to show the suicidal rotting flesh of Judas, the betrayer of that gospel (Acts 1:18–19). It is not only pure, lovely and of good repute that Noah was depicted in the Bible as a righteous man, but it is also pure, lovely and of good repute that all the other inhabitants of the earth around him were depicted as entirely wicked and worthy of destruction (Gen. 6:5). It is not only excellent and worthy of praise that Lot was revealed as a righteous man, but it is also excellent and worthy of praise that the destroyed inhabitants of Sodom were revealed as unrighteous men “who indulge[d] the flesh in its corrupt desires” (2 Pet. 2:10).

The portrayal of good and evil, as well as their consequences, are two sides of God’s one honorable, pure, lovely, excellent, and praiseworthy truth. According to the Bible, pointing out wrong is part of dwelling on what is right, exposing lies is part of dwelling on the truth, revealing cowardice is part of dwelling on the honorable, and uncovering corruption is part of dwelling on the pure.

MONSTERS OF MODERNITY: HUBRIS

Horror and thriller stories can also be redemptive when they illustrate the consequences of modern man’s hubris. In his book, Monsters from the Id, Michael E. Jones writes about the origins of modern horror as a reaction to the Enlightenment worldview. Jones points out that the Enlightenment rejection of the supernatural, the exaltation of man’s primary urges, and scientific hubris created Frankenstein, Dracula, Jekyll and Hyde, and others.(4) He argues that the evils of horror are the result of suppressing morality, which backfires on us in the form of the monsters it breeds.

Jones explains the origins of Frankenstein as author Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s personal attempt to make sense out of the conflict between the Enlightenment’s naturalism and sexual libertinism and the classical Christian moral order. Mary Wollstonecraft had been initiated into the inner circle of libertine poets Percy Shelley and Lord Byron. By the time Mary wrote her novel, she had married Shelley and experienced an avalanche of the consequences of living out Enlightenment sexual and political “liberation” with her husband: familial alienation, jealousy and betrayal, promiscuity, adultery, incest, psychosis, suicides, and drug abuse. These men espoused “nature” in place of morality and therefore behaved as animals. In the novel, Dr. Frankenstein is the symbol of enlightened man. He is the “hero” or high priest of the religion of science, the belief that man is ultimately a machine, reducible to chemistry and physics. His creation of the monster is his ultimate act of hubris in playing God. The monster’s pursuit of vengeance against the doctor is a playing out of the miserable consequences Shelley herself had experienced in her own life.(5)

A common staple in many horror films is the calmly deliberate, logical-minded scientist who tortures or kills in the name of scientific therapy or advancement. The scientist’s often flat affect or calm in the face of others’ suffering represents the repression of emotions or humanity that modern science and reason demand. This scientist “monster” is a powerful moral critique of the dangers of science without moral restraint and can be seen in such movies as The Boys from Brazil, Blade Runner, The Island of Dr. Moreau, Hollow Man, The Island, Turistas, and The Jacket.

Another example of the Frankenstein monster motif is the serial killer, who becomes the evil yet rational extension of evolutionary survival ethics, as in Collateral; or the amoral monster created by a society that rejects the notion of sin, as in Se7en; or the beast that is justified by humanistic theories of behaviorism, as in Primal Fear and Silence of the Lambs. In From Hell, an investigating criminologist explains to an inspector that Jack the Ripper was probably an educated man with medical knowledge. The inspector replies with shocked incredulity that no rational or educated man could possibly engage in such barbaric behavior. All these serial killer films make the point that humanistic and Enlightenment beliefs about man’s basic goodness blind us to the reality of evil.

Enlightened modern man has another weakness: the inability to deal with real supernatural evil. Because he believes that there is a natural scientific explanation for all spiritual phenomena, he is blinded to the truth of a spiritual dimension to reality. The classic example of this is The Exorcist, where a little girl possessed by a demon is analyzed by medical and psychological doctors. All of them seek natural explanations that remain inadequate because their worldview blinds them to the truth. This blindness to the supernatural is updated in the horror films The Exorcism of Emily Rose and The Exorcist: The Beginning.

The Reaping carries that naturalistic ignorance to new heights when a small southern town is being besieged by supernatural phenomena replicating the ten plagues of Egypt. A Christian apostate professor, who specializes in debunking paranormal phenomena, seeks to give natural scientific explanations for each plague, only to be confronted with true demonic spiritual reality. Her faith is restored in God when she experiences a supernatural arrival of God in judgment on the evil.

(4) Michael E. Jones, Monsters from the Id: The Rise of Horror in Fiction and Film (Dallas: Spence Publishing, 2000).
(5) Jones, 66–100.

– – – – –
Brian Godawa is the screenwriter for the award-winning feature film, To End All Wars, starring Kiefer Sutherland and Alleged, starring Brian Dennehy as Clarence Darrow and Fred Thompson as William Jennings Bryan. He previously adapted to film the best-selling supernatural horror novel The Visitation by author Frank Peretti for Ralph Winter (X-Men, Wolverine).

His book, Hollywood Worldviews: Watching Films with Wisdom and Discernment has been released in a revised edition from InterVarsity Press. His new book Word Pictures: Knowing God Through Story and Imagination (IVP) addresses the power of image and story in the pages of the Bible to transform the Christian life.

His new Biblical Fantasy novel, Noah Primeval will be released next month. Visit his web sites to read sample chapters and learn more about Brian.

(Breaking the Human Nature series, just for this week, to explore this broader Story issue.)

To my brothers in the faith, Alex and Stephen Kendrick, and any other brother or sister from the Sherwood Baptist Church (Albany, Georgia) film ministry, Sherwood Pictures:

I write as an admirer and simultaneous critic of your movies, specifically Fireproof and Courageous, both of which I’ve seen.

On Sept. 26, 2008, my girlfriend and I bought tickets on the very debut night of Fireproof. Inside the theater, filled with Baptists (they love bringing their big white church vans to the movie the-ay-ter!), we enjoyed the film. Many moments made us laugh or be gripped, just as a good story should do. Of course, the theme of “fireproofing your marriage” got through blazing hot, and in fact, the very next day, I proposed to the woman who’s now my wife. Of course, I had already been planning that, but still, the film’s theme helped set the mood.

Just last Sunday, there we were again, surrounded by Baptists, and viewing Courageous. As God-delighters and movie-enjoyers, we were glad to find that you have gotten even better at your craft. Funny moments were funnier, sobering moments more sobering. The story was more complex, the conversion scene more subtle, the acting definitely improved.

Action scenes were better than the gripping car-on-the-train-tracks scene from Fireproof. The bad guys, even though they never cussed, were clearly bad. Cops chased and pounded them. Realistic. At times — and especially for a Sherwood Picture — almost “edgy.”

Story powers

I’m an aspiring novelist. I enjoy exploring Story from a Biblical worldview. I help run a blog, Speculative Faith, about such topics — especially visionary stories like fantasy and sci-fi. Many of my friends have similar missions: to craft and enjoy stories for God’s glory.

How come?

Because we are all characters in God’s true-life Epic Story, the Gospel. Because God Himself in His Word, both implicitly (with beauty in His writing craft) and explicitly (Old Testament literature and Jesus’ parables), endorses manmade, fictitious art and Story. Because unlike nonfiction, only Story can uniquely apply and “simulate” truth in imagined experiences.

Story has power. I think you folks realize this. And in making stories, you have power.

And this is not of yourself. It is God’s gift — the gift of imagination, of “imaging” Him and His truths even when we don’t know it. Nonbelievers can stumble across this, thanks to common grace (as when Paul in Acts 17 quoted a Greek poet who accidentally echoed truth). Yet only Christians discern beauty’s and truth’s spiritual Source (1 Cor. 2:14).

Story fears

So how come, in both Fireproof and Courageous, you seemed to forget the power of Story?

Example: The quiet opening of Courageous quickly turns thrilling — a man chases his own car, stolen by a crook, and hangs out the vehicle’s window as it careens down the road. Later a stunning moment reveals the reason why the driver was so desperate not to let the crook get away, and shows us something about the character.

But then, seconds after, we catch up with other main characters, sheriff’s deputies. They blatantly ask each other if they could have done the same thing, and for the same reasons.

Argh. Why?

Seeing as how my point is — to give it away — overstating the case, here’s Example Two. A man in grief after a family tragedy is slowly beginning to recover. Already the audience can tell this is happening, and up until now it’s been (mostly) realistically yet cinematically shown. But already the story begins to overdo it by showing the man arriving at a place he’s been before. There his daughter had once asked him to dance with her, but he had declined. Now he is reenacting that dance. He looks happy. The music is whimsical and the scene almost already becomes schmaltzy. But then he has to start praying, aloud, acting well — but over-explaining to the point of audience-participation squirming.

Double-argh. Why?

Might as well flick up a white sign inscribed with the words I Am Now Experiencing Healing.

Story subtleties

It’s not just my Story-enjoying snarky friends who’d moan at that, or the movie’s altar-call ending in a church. (Yes, that’s how it ends.) Fellas: everyone got the point! Subtlety is great. You even practiced this yourself in the movie’s well-done (yet obligatory) witnessing scene. So how come the movie bends over backwards to make other things excruciatingly clear?

If God had put His main point in the Bible like this, every book, even chapter, would repeat John 3:16. We’d have no Psalms, no Song of Solomon, no Ecclesiastes, no “he who has an ear to hear, let him hear,” as announced by Jesus as a challenge to explore His parables’ truths.

By contrast, all of Courageous is obviously about Fatherhood. That’s how it’s been sold to Christians. Not “this is the story of four men who band together to protect their families as they protect their city.” Not “this is a story about how men from different paths come together on their mission.” Instead: “This movie is about a Virtue. Give your Support.”

Sure, Christians are great Supporters. It’s instinctive. We are Support Zombies.

But is that the point of a movie? The point of any story? Support it ‘cause it Proves a Point?

Evidently God didn’t think so, in His Word. And in many ways, you don’t think so either. PluggedIn.com quoted one of you gents, Alex Hendrick, from a 2008 interview. You said:

“There are two views [about making Christian movies]. One is that you should let the art speak for itself and let people infer from it what God wants to say. The other view involves using the art to present the gospel in no uncertain terms so that people won’t miss it. There’s a place for both. God has called us to a certain style of filmmaking, and we’re going to stay true to that. Our goal is for it to be natural but clear. We want to have a solid gospel message so intertwined in the plot that it never feels like we’re pausing the movie to preach to the audience.”

That’s fantastic. I’m grateful you’ve thought this out, and — unlike other Christians — do see that Christian filmmakers, and storytellers, have more than one option. And in this, I’m trying to be careful not to expect more from Courageous than you intended to give.

But while much of the film did seem “natural but clear,” the parts I described just weren’t.

The truth-based themes that any great story should Show were frozen to a halt while we were Told about fatherhood, the need to be courageous, and about how God will somehow, someday tell daddy and his teen daughter whom she’ll marry(?). ^{[Biblical citation needed.]} We also saw slow pans over the print Resolution the fathers sign to do better jobs at home — and that very afternoon I was stunned to find that framed Resolutions are available at Christian bookstores near you. (The daddy/daughter scene Purity Ring^® truly did surprise me.)

That’s one viewer’s perspective, about your own stated goals. But I also encourage this:

As you practice better Story craft, consider trusting the power of Story. Trust it to do what it does best, without dragging seemingly federally required Churchy Content into it.

Christians should hate it when people base church services on entertainment.

They should also dislike when people base entertainment on church services.

Ultimately, doing so doesn’t trust God — the Author Who gave us the Word that itself is sufficient, and gives us all the clear spiritual truths we need.

Ladies and gentlemen of Sherwood Pictures, or any aspiring Christian movie-maker: if we truly believe that, this is freeing! We don’t need to feel guilty if specific calls to repentance and faith aren’t in a movie. We don’t need to think, subconsciously: Scripture isn’t enough; people also need stories to put Bible truths in their minds. Instead, we can fulfill the purpose of Story: to bring others into a truthful, beautiful simulated reality, an experience, that takes us outside ourselves and helps us glorify God our Creator, our story’s Author.

I have hopes for Sherwood’s next film. I hope it will show you’ve led others in deepening your filmmaking craft, simulating Gospel-based living in stories that will honor God and the gifts He gives us.

In Christ,

E. Stephen Burnett