Two weekends ago, I went to Orlando with my wife and three kids on our annual Florida pilgrimage. We usually visit different theme parks during our trips, and this year we went to Disney’s Animal Kingdom and Universal Studios’ Islands of Adventure. The heat was oppressive, the lines were short, and much water and ice cream was consumed. It was a great trip capped off by a visit to the beach before heading home.

There are plenty of worlds to visit within these parks, both real and imagined, but the highlights are the alien world of Pandora at Animal Kingdom and The Wizarding World of Harry Potter at Islands of Adventure. I’m a scifi guy so Pandora is more exciting for me but my wife was eager to try the new Hagrid’s Motorbike ride with our son, and they said it was well worth the one-hour wait time. Apparently this is where all of the thrill seekers went because the lines for the other rides were just ten minutes, but I wasn’t complaining.

If you’ve ever been to these parks or similar recreated worlds, it can be a truly magical feeling, seeing places and things that only existed in your mind or on the big screen. I’ve never been to New Zealand but I imagine that the LoTR tour would beat anything that a theme park can produce. Yet walking among glowing alien plants or weaving your way through the halls of Hogwarts has a transportive effect that stimulates your senses along with your imagination.

Countless fictional worlds exist only on paper, and many would not translate well into theme park experiences. Brandon Sanderson’s Mistborn books take place in an immersive world but making rides and attractions out of swallowing vials of metal flakes suspended in alcohol would be a difficult task. Even the world of Westeros from the Game of Thrones books and TV show seems too big for a theme park, though I wouldn’t be surprised if one was already in development.

There is one world which so far exists only on paper but is far from fiction: the new heavens and new earth that will endure for eternity after Jesus returns. This world will be the home of God’s children, not a heavenly paradise in the clouds. There are numerous interpretations of what is depicted in Scripture, but since we love to use our imagination, let us consider what this new world would look and feel like.

What does the Bible say about our eternal home? Isaiah 65:17 and Revelation 21:1-5 tells us that everything will be new and that the former things have passed away. All pain and sorrow will be forgotten and God will be the joy of our existence. We don’t know if this means we won’t know one another in eternity, but there will be no memory of past hurts or sins. Every moment will be pure joy in the presence of God.

What will this new world look like? The book of Revelation indicates that there is no more sea (21:1) and that believers will dwell in a massive city made of gold and jewels (21:10-21) and that there is no more sun or moon (21:23). This seems to be in contrast with how God’s creation was originally set up, with man and woman living in a garden to cultivate. It seems like a poor use of the world’s space to corral everyone into a city, especially with no more sea. But of course, if that is how God designs it, that is without question the absolutely best eternity possible.

The most important thing is that we will be with God, physically and spiritually. Rev. 21:22 tells us that there is no more temple, because God is the temple. Regardless of how the new world looks, the best part  will be enjoying the presence of God in its fullest sense. That’s something that no depth of imagination can ever approach, and we will just have to wait until that glorious day comes.

Western 21st century culture is all about entertainment. In fact there are some “industries” that pride themselves that they have made your entertainment their number one focus. Others aren’t quite as open about the fact, but in reality, there is no other reason for their existence. I’m thinking of the movie industry here. I mean, they want to make money and that won’t happen if they put out movies no one wants to see. They don’t tell you that their chief end is to entertain you like a certain casino that says otherwise in their ad, but there’s no doubt about it: they want blockbusters, movies that rake in big bucks because the public is flocking to see them.

Movie makers don’t say, We’re trying to make movies that influence the culture. Or, We’re trying to make movies that are beautiful and artistic. Or, We’re trying to make movies that are truthful. Why? Because they understand our culture correctly: people want to be entertained.

The value of the entertainment factor is apparent simply by looking at how many people attend or watch football on any given weekend, versus the number of people who visited a local museum. Or perhaps, church.

The idea of leisure in this culture seems to have become synonymous with “be entertained.” Once, leisure was simply time that was freed up to do what you want. But “what we want” these days, seems to be entertainment.

This is the culture into which God has put Christians living in western society in the 21st century. So, how should we then live? More specifically, how should we then write? Or read?

I know some Christians who believe we should write the very best stories we can, and by using the gift God has given us, we bring glory to His name. But I wonder if entertaining people is a way of writing good stories.

I haven’t done an in depth study, but what I know about the history of novels, I tend to think that entertainment is a residual effect, not a primary purpose of stories at their inception. We know from Scripture that parents were to tell their children about the amazing things God did for His people in freeing them from the slavery they endured in Egypt. The point was two-fold: preserve the history of what happened, and teach the children the values that their parents and grandparents held. Some of the “telling” was actually enacted in a kind of “living play” as they held the Passover meals or made booths to live in for a week.

Jesus told a lot of stories, too. None of them was for entertainment value, though I’ve wondered if initially large crowds didn’t follow Him in part because they liked hearing His stories. But what we know from the gospel writers is that Jesus told stories to answer questions, to illustrate a point, to give the people something new to think about.

Early novels—which were a relatively new art form, and were, in fact, suspect by many when they first surfaced—followed much the same purpose. Above all, novels showed. They showed the people in Europe and the East what life was like in the wild, wild West. They showed what slavery was like, what war was like, what working in coal mines was like, what the abuses of the railroad were like, what the conditions were like in the meat industry, what life was like for the “high class” poor, and on and on. A book entitled Pride and Prejudice was not primarily a love story, though it certainly included love stories. More than one.

But the entertainment value of novels only drew people, though some aspects of novels were highly fictionalized. Consequently, many who read the tales of Wild Bill Hickok or Annie Oakley or Davy Crockett or other well-known figures, received a distorted view of the way things were. Much the way people today who have never visited the US have a distorted view of what life in the States is like because they are basing what “they know” from movies.

Nevertheless, a number retained the goal to pass along values to the next generation. Consequently Pilgrim’s Progress became popular, but so did stories by Charles Dickens and even a children’s series about Goody Two-shoes.

At some point novels seemed to divide. There were “serious” novels and there were dime-store novels. Literature and pulp fiction. Art and entertainment. Literary fiction and genre fiction.

So why are Christians writing fiction? Where do we fit in this paradigm? We’ve discussed this topic before here at Spec Faith. One example is this article.

Obviously people will have their own individual reasons for writing. I’ve also mentioned that some believe using their God-given talent is enough to honor God for the giving of it.

I have questions about that, and I think Christians can do better. Maybe writing well is sort of the bottom rung of accomplishment. “Good, we’ve entertained well.” Perhaps we’ve entertained by giving “clean fiction.” (There’s actually a small publisher that is called that, I believe). Maybe we’ve entertained well because we weave the same kinds of stories that any other writer writes; we just do it well.

I suggest that’s the low rung.

Christians are to live in a way that points to God, that identifies us as uniquely followers of Jesus. Christians are also to go and tell the good news of Salvation, of Jesus and what He’s done for us.

I suggest that Christian novelists, writing in a culture that loves entertainment, that values stories, are in a unique position. Not just to return to the former purposes of stories, and not just to be like all the others writing entertaining stories. But I think we can and should marry the two. We should be creating stories that show the world what’s what spiritually. We should entertain, by writing truth, by creating beauty.

Easy? If it were, we’d have shelves of books that have won prizes handed out by those who value literature and art, as well as having reached the New York Times best-seller lists. No, it’s not easy. But I think it’s worth aiming to write to our culture what our culture needs to hear.

In the world of books, readers, and reviews, Christian authors live in fear of one simple word: preachy.

Now, I entirely agree that a book that pushes the forward momentum of the plot aside to sermonize on the author’s latest soapbox deserves to have a star or two knocked off a review, not for the author’s viewpoint, but for ham-fisted delivery.

But a great many authors, new to the game of navigating the minefield of public opinion, develop a new fear after hearing their writing comrades share the woes of one-star reviews and Twitter trolling. “Preach fear” broadens its infectious influence and drives some writers to ask, with trepidation, “Are themes no longer allowed in fiction?”

To me, this feels a lot like the subset of church culture that leans heavily upon the mantra “Come as you are” as they seek to draw in unchurched readers, with the motivation of wanting to express that personal perfection is not a requirement of attending a service.

Don’t get me wrong, I fully support the notion that having it all together is nothing more than an illusion and an excuse. Where “come as you are” sometimes goes wrong is when it putrefies into the non-confrontational practice of avoiding any mention that believers are to be transformed, to turn from habits that hurt their relationship with Christ.

A total avoidance of themes in fiction is like a church that never elaborates on “God loves you.”

So, as a writer, I’m pretty adamant that books (and churches) don’t have a duty to be non-confrontational. Stories can carry intense thematic elements without being preachy. Unfortunately, not every reader/reviewer knows the difference between encountering an idea that makes them uncomfortable and being hammered with an author soliloquy.

I’ve been exploring the notion of “Come as you are, but face your flaws and overcome them in Christ’s strength” in my fiction.

My Windrider Saga trilogy began as an experiment in writing an unlikeable protagonist, and I know that I’ve lost readers who struggle to put up with my main character’s deeply flawed personality. He’s ornery, impulsive, speaks his mind when he should hold his tongue, or just picks ungracious words to express himself. But it’s all a cover-up for his brokenness. The rejection he’s lived. The trauma of his childhood and his present-day. These are deep wounds, and just as we wouldn’t expect a long-time alcoholic to suddenly be sober and have every aspect of their life together the moment they hear the gospel, so it is with my Windrider.

As of September 10, I’ve reached the finale of a long cycle of re-releasing my four previously published books under my own self-publishing banner. It’s been an exciting time of recognizing some of my newbie writer mistakes (which I very much was when Divine Summons came out the first time) and having the opportunity to improve upon them. I “came as I was” in 2011. But here in 2019, I know my writing craft and my relationship with God had transformed. Now that the re-release process is over, I’m beginning to view my time being out of the published author game as a blessing—a needed time of growth and equipping.

And so, as I build these improved editions of my backlist and forge onward to writing new novels, I walk a hazy line in the realm of themes. I must tread carefully between offering the theme of hope: “You’re not stuck. Small steps in the right direction are valid. And God can use you even if you’re a serious work-in-progress” and indulging my characters some easy preaching. It’s nervous work to weave inspiring character transformation into an engaging story, especially when an author can’t control whether readers who catch a whiff of a Judeo-Christian worldview in a book will sound the Preach Alarm.

When it comes down to it, the work is worth it, though. Who wants to read (or write) a book that simply unpacks a series of events, that doesn’t endeavor to offer some points of reflection? As an artist, my ultimate goal centers on reflection, to offer stories in which readers see a reflection of some aspect of themselves, and ultimately, for my themes to reflect the character of the Creator, the one who has inspired me to make stories in the first place.

Please note this post is a re-edited and slightly updated version of an article I first published on my own personal blog in 2014 on this topic. It seemed appropriate to share this because another article from 2014 dealing with magic by E. Stephen Burnett was linked to comments on Facebook and he and I discussed this topic via social media just last week. I disagreed with his approach but instead of simply disagreeing, I felt it was better to share how I’ve handled this topic in the past via my “seven ways” post:

First off, what is the problem with magic for Christians? Or sorcery? Or witchcraft? (Are all of those things even the same?)

An entire book could be written on this topic (perhaps I’ll do that someday) but to keep this as brief as possible, the short reason this is a problem is the Bible has nothing good to say about the practice of magic (neither does extra-Biblical Christian tradition). No translation of Scripture will record the 12 Disciples watching Jesus walk on the water and say, “Wow, that was magical!” Nor is the mana falling from heaven in Israel’s wilderness wanderings described as some kind of powerful spell that Moses used, nor even is his rod described as “magic,” even though Moses had the power granted to him by God to turn it into a serpent at whatever time he chose. No, the Bible describes events like these as “miracles,” or “signs,” or “wonders.”

Supernatural power from God at the parting of the Red Sea. Image credit: Allcreatures.org

On the other hand, when the Bible talks about “magic” and calls people “magicians” or “sorcerers” (you could substitute “wizards” if you wanted), it includes the court magicians of Pharaoh, who resisted Moses by demonstrating to Pharaoh that the power Moses showed from God was not really that special after all, because they could imitate it. The Bible also makes mention of a death penalty for witches (Exodus 22:18–though the Bible does not record any instances of this particular death penalty being carried out). It also mocks the interpreters of dreams who worked for Nebuchadnezzar in the book of Daniel, showed sorcerers converting to Christianity and demonstrating the genuineness of their faith by voluntarily burning all of their own scrolls of magic (Acts 19:19), lists magic as a sin from which the Earth under judgment from God will not repent in Revelation 9:21 (the Greek word for “magic” or “sorcery” shares the same etymology as the word “pharmacology” and indicates the use of drugs to induce mental states associated with sorcery), and in general has only bad things to say when the word “magic” or related words like “sorcery,” or “witchcraft” come up.

A verse in Isaiah (8:19) directly contrasts reliance on God with the use of magic: “When they say to you, ‘Consult the mediums and spiritists who whisper and mutter,’ should not a people consult their God? Should they consult the dead on the behalf of the living?” (That’s the NASB–the King James Version uses the word “wizards” instead of “spiritists.”) Note this verse is specifically talking about necromancy for the purpose of divination in context, but note that the Bible has many examples of non-divination magic, magic also not shown to be directly connected to raising up spirits. This passage points out the fundamental reason why seeking “magic” (as the Bible defines it) is wrong and the reason is not limited to necromancy–it’s wrong because it detracts from seeking God and his power.

Note that the passage in Deuteronomy 18 that E. Stephen Burnett made the focus of his comments (verses 10-11) says: “¹⁰ There shall not be found among you anyone who makes his son or his daughter pass through the fire, or one who practices witchcraft, or a soothsayer, or one who interprets omens, or a sorcerer, ¹¹ or one who conjures spells, or a medium, or a spiritist, or one who calls up the dead.” The very first thing this passage references is a Canaanite practice of offering an infant to their gods in an attempt to manipulate their favor–that is, the very first act condemned along with a list of magical practices is actually something the Canaanites would have defined as an act of worship to their gods. This why “seeking supernatural power from sources other than God” is the glue that binds this passage together and which applies to all the specific practices it lists. Yes, at the time of writing of that passage, divination was probably the most common practice of those who sought to work “magic”–but it was by no means the only one. It was not even the first or most important one in this particular passage and as I’ve already shared, magic refers to many other things that have no connection to divination in the Bible, including manipulation of forces of nature by Pharaoh’s men, which looks pretty much like magic in many fantasy stories.

So, having looked at multiple words for “magic” in Scripture to draw a conclusion as to what it means in the Bible, the basic definition of magic is: Magic is the attempt to use supernatural power outside of relying on the one Creator God of the Bible. Note I’ve phrased this so that it does not comment on whether “magic” really does contain supernatural power. The very attempt to circumvent God to gain access to the supernatural is, Biblically speaking, a problem. Whether it really works or not.

“So why bother putting magic in stories at all?” someone might ask. “If magic can be an issue, why shouldn’t a Christian writer leave it out of stories altogether?” I’d say there are three basic reasons to work out a means to include magic in stories: 1) Fantasy is a popular genre with loads of readers. It makes sense to desire to reach them within their genre expectations from a strictly analytical point of view. Not to mention it can inherently interesting to write fantasy for people who’ve read it–and fantasy normally contains magic. 2) Fantasy has the ability to use analogy or allegory or myth-making to create powerful messages about the world we live in. And what the story calls “magic” can be a key part of any such analogy. C.S. Lewis achieved using the word “magic” that way in the Chronicles of Narnia, in fact. 3) And it so happens to be that magic is a staple of fantasy as much as aliens are a staple of science fiction. You could write the one without including the other, but it would not really represent the genre well for the most part. Or be as interesting.

So, how to proceed? I would say the basic task is to make it plain the magic in the story world is not the same thing as the sorcery the Bible condemns. In order to harmonize with the Bible’s condemnation, a Christian writer must make it plain that the supernatural power referenced in the story is not in fact in opposition to reliance on the Creator God of the Bible. I know of six good ways to do this (and will reference a seventh way):

1. Only the villains have “magic.” 
This is probably the most straightforward approach. Bad guys use spells, sorcery, incantations, and magic items. Good guys are stuck with either plain items devoid of any magical powers, or have supernatural power openly linked to God and under His control rather than theirs (and which is never described by the term “magic”). The Left Behind series actually shows baddies into witchcraft whereas the good guys, especially the two prophets in Jerusalem, call down supernatural power overtly in the name of God. To take this notion into the realm of fantasy, take this same sort of thing but instead of setting it on Planet Earth, put it in a world of imagination, but one where God is still God, though perhaps under a different name (e.g. Aslan–though note that magic in Narnia is not just reserved for the villains).

2. Rename miracles and prophets as “magic” and “wizards.”
Take a person who acts like a prophet of the Old Testament, but call him or her something other than “prophet.” Create situations similar to Moses parting the Red Sea or Elijah lighting the sacrifice to God with fire from heaven, but don’t call it prophecy or a miracle or a sign or a wonder. Call it “magic” or “sorcery” instead and those who them “wizards” who call upon the equivalent of the name of God in the story. By linking the activity you’re calling “magic” clearly to the Creator God in the story, you’re making it plain that you’ve simply changed the functional definition of “magic” within the context of your story world. Doing this would take advantage of the fact that fantasy readers expect magic in a tale, but turns their expectation on its head so the story magic works the opposite from how the Bible negatively uses the word. Therefore, done correctly, such wizards would really point back to prophets and their sorcery powers back to God’s power (by whatever name He is presented in the story). Readers who are not Bible-savvy may not immediately notice that the story points back to a Biblical way of seeing the supernatural, even though that’s what it would do. By the way, L. B. Graham, Christian author of fantasy, has used this approach in some of his books.

3. Treat “magic” as an allegory for the workings of God.
I’m thinking especially of how C.S. Lewis used the term “Deep Magic” as a description of what the “Emperor-beyond-the-sea” had written in the stone table where Aslan was sacrificed (in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe). It stated that the White Witch was entitled to kill every traitor and if anyone denied her that right, then all of Narnia would perish in fire and water. But an even deeper magic said that if a willing innocent victim was killed in the place of a traitor, then the Stone Table would crack and death would be overcome. Clearly this references how Christians see Christ dying on the cross for sin, but is phrased as “magic.” A story could call other acts of God or properties of God that parallel what we know to be true, “magic.” Wizardry of this sort would not in fact allow characters to use spells (because “magic” is part of the structure of the universe) and as such might call for the addition of another method of dealing with “sorcery” (one that does allow spells). Though I can imagine a fantasy story without spells at all in which all references to “magic” are simply to acts of God in allegorical form.

4. Treat magic as a form of undiscovered science.
I have imagined in stories I’ve written that magic is a kind of physics that operates in other universes but which is undetectable here. I conceived of magic as a form of power that flows though the multiverse not unlike how electricity flows through a circuit. For universes closest to the source, this power is readily available. The power is subject to manipulation by acts of the will and spoken words (so the use of this power resembles spells), but other universes drain most of the power by the time it hits our universe, so it has never been discovered in our world. In universes that have active magic, wizards are like scientists who study the properties of the invisible and learn how to use it, like how scientists learn to manipulate the forms of energy and matter we know about. Like science, such power can be used for either good or evil and like technology, there are unexpected residual wastes that can be harmful. 

Other novelists have invented other means in which “magic” is either science by another name (as I’ve done myself in the “Time of Magic” referenced in Medieval Mars) or have stated magic is an undiscovered science. Note that making sorcery equal science may create a story universe very similar to ones written from a non-Christian perspective, of the sort that have wizards and spells. But the difference is the kind of story that creates magical power which can be used in a neutral sense isn’t really supernatural power anymore. It’s the power derived from the ordinary physical world as much as photography, internal combustion engines, and atomic power is. What is called “magic” really should be considered part of the natural order in such stories.

It still would be possible for a character to seek supernatural power in an illicit way in such a story world by knowingly circumventing whatever understanding of God he or she had, which would amount to the sin of witchcraft, i.e. trying gain supernatural power without God. Which in that story universe would be a separate thing from the use of magic as in science by another name or in another form.

5. Blend the lines between the supernatural and natural into a strange universe.
What I just suggested in effect blends the supernatural and natural by making acts that would appear to be supernatural merely natural acts, merely the acts of a type of science instead. But I’m suggesting here goes the opposite way. 

A recent example of a Christian writer using “strange universe magic.” Image copyright: C.E. White

Instead of giving everything a natural explanation, nothing has one. Everything is off-the-rails strange and nothing can be said to be a deliberate attempt to achieve the supernatural without God because everything (or most everything) is already supernatural from the point of view of planet Earth as we know it. I’m thinking of Alice in Wonderland or The Wizard of Oz type story universes, where scarecrows and rabbits talk, where changing your size is a matter of what you eat and drink, and tornadoes will transport a house to another land without killing its occupants.In this kind of strange universe, magic is so worked into the fabric of everything that it isn’t special and using it is as natural as walking and breathing. Then that sort of magic does not relate to the Biblical condemnation of people seeking the supernatural without God. Though such a story can shut out God by never mentioning Him and can act as a sort of allegory for witchcraft, it certainly does not have to be. A story universe like this can just as soon mention God in various ways, even though the classic examples I mentioned do not.

6. Treat magic as an innate special ability in analogy to spiritual gifts.
This approach in some ways is a subset of #5, but can also employ notions of #4 as well. It might seem logically contradictory for a story to be both more and less scientific in its approach to the supernatural at the same time, but the author I know who uses this method makes both work. Kat Heckenbach starting in Finding Angel treats the power of magic as a gift that an individual has, given from beyond herself or himself. As such, her approach runs parallel to what the Bible has to say about spiritual gifts, almost forming an allegory of them. Yet since working the supernatural is just a natural ability, she in effect makes the supernatural more common and ordinary as per point #5. But at times she gives specific descriptions of how someone’s ability affects matter or energy in terms someone who has studied science on planet Earth would recognize. Which goes back to #4. In truth, Kat’s approach is unique, but her basic idea of making magic an inherent gift the magic user possesses can well harmonize with a worldview that does not include witchcraft in the Biblical sense of the term.

Dragging magic God condemns into an examination of God’s gifts. Image credit: ohippo.com

Note though that Pagans too have imagined that someone could be born with an innate ability to perform magic that does not really require casting of spells in the ordinary sense. Obviously, if they link such an inherent ability to their gods and goddesses, this would be a portrayal of magic the Bible would condemn. (It’s even possible to corrupt this idea in other ways, as to imagine Christians should be using astrology, tarot, ouija, or other forms of divination the Bible would condemn to find out their “spiritual gift from God”.)

So in a way, what really matters in this discussion is how God is portrayed in stories and what is the relationship between the user of magic and God. That matters more than how magic itself is portrayed.

7. Downplay the Biblical objection in the first place.
This approach seventh would be to either ignore altogether what the Bible says about magic or claim it only references a specific kind of attempt to gain supernatural power without God. I have heard people use the verse I quoted in Isaiah to claim the Bible does not condemn all magic, it only condemned necromancy, that is, trying to interact with or raise the dead. Or as I mentioned, some claim that Deuteronomy 18 only references divination or the point of Isaiah 8 amounts to divination as well. So as long as you stay away from these specific kinds of magic, the thinking goes, you’re clear. Which is why I gave examples outside of Isaiah and Deuteronomy. In fact, the Bible condemns far more that just necromancy and divination. It takes a broad shot at seeking supernatural power apart from God as a whole, though we need to understand by study what that really means.

I don’t recommend approach #7. I think one of the things that distinguishes an overtly Christian writer of speculative fiction is the attempt to work these issues out by some means or other. Not to ignore them. It does not mean conformity to just one way of thinking and it doesn’t mean it’s impossible to be creative or imaginative. (Kat certainly was creative in her solution.)

There’s no reason in most cases to use just one of 1-6 above. In some instances, you can blend two or more of them. Or create your own. I’d be fascinated to see in comments below if there are any other methods to resolve this issue that I didn’t think of. Or of course if you disagree with my definition of “magic” in the Bible–or any other pertinent points. 

Let me tell you what a snob is. But first, let’s talk about what a snob is not.

A snob is not a critic. Nobody likes a critic, of course, and some people deal with criticism by ruling it out of order. (By the way, in the great war of opinions, it is an implicit surrender to huff about people enjoying things.) All of us – even those not unduly sensitive about such things – have been annoyed and occasionally angered by other people’s criticism. But criticism is not snobbery. You can’t invite people to experience art and then expect them not to judge it.

A snob is not someone who refuses to like what other people like. A snob is not someone who refuses to like what you like.

A snob is not someone who thinks that popular art is bad, or even that it is vulgar. A snob is not someone who prefers what we vaguely call culture – Shakespeare, Beethoven, and all the rest – and insists on its superiority.

A snob is not someone who holds – however stubbornly, pedantically, or harshly – to inalterable standards of Real Art.

So what is a snob? A snob is the sort of person who might deliver the gibe Whittaker Chambers fancied he would receive: “How can anyone take seriously a man who says flatly that his life has been influenced by Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables?”

It is not that I have a high opinion of Les Miserables. Having never read the book, I have no opinion at all (this is the perfect objectivity that comes of abject ignorance). But the point I am trying to make is remarkably, though obliquely, illustrated by Chambers’ defense of his life having been influenced by Les Miserables: “I can only answer that, behind its colossal failings, its melodrama, its windy philosophizing, its clots of useless knowledge, its overblown rhetoric and repellent posturings, which offend me, like everybody else, on almost every page, Les Miserables is a great act of the human spirit.”

Chambers saw the artistic failings of the book as clearly as any critic (or snob!). But he also saw the great triumph of its humanness. Art is more than craftsmanship; art is intensely human. Art that is truly great – probably even art that is merely popular – forges its achievement through reaching something elementally human. Maybe it moves the heart or reaches the intellect; maybe it only plays on the nerves. Craftsmanship helps the human achievement, but it isn’t necessary. Bad art can play the nerves and the emotions powerfully, and usually does so shamelessly. Criticize it freely. But understand it.

The hallmark of a snob is that he forgets the humanity of art. He forgets that all great art is an act of the human spirit. He forgets that even bad art is an expression of human nature. A great deal of popular art is bad art, but you don’t have to overlook that to see its humanity. And yet the snob doesn’t see. The snob can’t imagine that there is any reason, besides poor taste, for the popularity of inferior works.

Because a snob is someone who doesn’t understand that the most important part of art is not its artistry but its humanity.

By Christian themes, I mean a point a story makes—either as a major or minor issue—that aligns with the gospel, the Good News that Jesus Christ came to save sinners, which includes all of us. For a number of years, even after books published by “Christian publishing companies” included better prose, better description, perhaps better plots, they were still being dinged by the reading public because they were “too preachy.” That’s just another way of saying, they laid out their Christian theme in a transparent way.

Friday, in response to our Spec Faith guest article by Jillian Boehme, author of the soon-to-be released Stormrise (there’s still time to enter the pre-order contest—see details here), a discussion arose concerning forgiveness, certainly a theme I would consider Christian. At the human level, forgiveness is not the exclusive property of Christians, but neither is love or grace or kindness or any of the other qualities we see in God and Christ in His life and act of sacrifice which provides us with an escaped from sin and its consequences. Nevertheless, it is a key component of the gospel message.

So forgiveness is in Boehme’s novel Stormrise, but is it the “right” forgiveness? That seems to be where the discussion started.

Here is a critical point for Christians, I think, both readers and writers: must Christian themes be totally unambiguous and on-the-nose to be properly considered, Christian? Must a book that includes the theme of forgiveness show reconciliation as a result (because that’s certainly what God’s forgiveness of us entails), or can it reflect a “one-sided” attitude that does not bring a relationship full circle?

Actually, all this is another way of asking, How Christian must Christian themes be?

I tend to think that Christian fiction can be preachy (and some still is today) because authors don’t want an incomplete message. They don’t want readers missing what they want to say. They want to deliver the whole gospel and not part of the gospel. They don’t want their Christian theme to be misunderstood.

I can identify because I went through a self-analysis of my own writing some years ago. Was I willing to be misunderstood? Did I have to “spoil” the story by making the themes crystal clear?

In truth, themes should be crystal clear, but even Christian themes should not overshadow the story. They are not morals added on to make the point the way morals are added to fables. Rather, the best novels and short stories make the reader think about what they are saying; wonder what happens next as a result of what happened in the story; think about whether or not the character made the wisest choices; whether they stumbled on something true or not.

Themes we think about are not delivered in a perfectly wrapped package with a nice, neat bow on top. In other words, in a book that includes the theme of forgiveness, there well may not be a definition of forgiveness or a discussion of the ramifications of it. Those things might seep through as a character struggles to reach a point of forgiving—or not. They simply don’t have to be there.

Great themes, including great Christian themes, actually are great because they require some introspection on the part of the reader. When they are crystal clear, a reader can nod and close the book (and forget the story in days, most likely); or shake his head, throw the book across the room, and write a review telling everyone how preachy this book is. People who agree will have some affirmation; people who disagree will criticize. But neither one thinks much about what they read, because they got the point and don’t need to go any farther.

Great Christian themes should generate more questions. Great Christian themes don’t give all the answers.

Consequently, Christian themes won’t necessarily contain the whole gospel. It’s not impossible, certainly, but laying out all that God did for us, in a story, will likely not be unambiguous.

In part this is true because Christ has great name recognition in the world. It’s polarizing, as Jesus said it would be. Should that keep Christians from writing books that contain Christian themes that point to Him or His work or His plan or His purpose? Not at all.

But those Christian themes don’t have to always be fleshed out and fully explained. They can be suggested. They can generate thought such as this: I’d love to know unconditional love like that; I wonder if there really is such a thing. Or perhaps like this: Why would someone forgive anybody who has hurt them so much; is that even possible?

Christian stories today seem to fall into two camps: ones that are just good, clean, entertaining stories; or ones that make some effort to present the gospel either for Christians or about characters who are or become Christians.

Nothing wrong with either of those. But it seems to me, there is a need for the third kind, the story with the great Christian theme that makes readers think about some element of Christianity.

A number of years ago Peace Like A River by Leif Enger made a great splash (no pun here), even winning awards and reaching best-selling status. To be honest with you, I didn’t like the book. At all. It had some good features, truly, but that didn’t change the fact that I didn’t like it. Yet I have to say, it made me think. I couldn’t walk away without wrestling a bit with a theme of the book: does God involve Himself in the personal and specific affairs of men?

In a sense that book was an eye-opener for me. Stories can make people think about God without being preachy . . . if they are willing to risk the possibility of being misunderstood or debated or disagreed with. But of course, with great risk comes great reward.

Funny, how the things that are important to us find their way into our stories whether we mean for them to or not. Things like forgiveness.

Years ago, a dear friend and I parted ways—because of me. We didn’t fight or reach any sort of impasse in our relationship. I simply felt like there were too many unresolved differences and that it would be better for me to release her. So I did.

I likened my decision to the Biblical account of Abraham and Lot, who amicably separated because their shepherds kept arguing. “I forgive you,” I wrote in response to my friend’s having asked me to forgive her, “but I think it would be better if we parted ways.”

Over the years, every so often, my husband would (irritatingly) suggest that I forgive my friend. Always, he was met with my defensiveness: “I don’t need to forgive her! I already have! We’ve just gone separate ways.”

Except.

Forgiveness doesn’t feel like a need to pull away from someone.

Forgiveness doesn’t keep replaying scenes that stir up past anger, hurt, or disappointment.

Forgiveness doesn’t drive a wedge between friends.

And after too many years, I realized that my husband was right. The real, ugly-as-it-gets reason that I’d ended the friendship was because I hadn’t forgiven my friend for all the times she’d hurt me. I spent months working through things in my heart with God, until one day, while I was driving, it suddenly occurred to me that I loved my friend.

I wept. In that singular, joyful moment, I realized I had the capacity, after all, to be a friend to this woman, simply because I had forgiven her.

We have a relationship once again. (And the grace she offered me after years of lost friendship is one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever been given.)

Forgiveness is powerful—it frees us from a prison of resentment and unresolved anger we were never meant to be in. And because I passionately believe that forgiveness is the key to emotional and relational health, it makes sense that some of my characters’ strongest moments happen when they forgive.

Mind you, I never wrote, “Rain will forgive this person” or “This is the scene where so-and-so forgives Rain” while I was plotting Stormrise. Rather, the forgiveness expressed in these scenes is a natural outgrowth of the character arcs, according to my views on forgiveness. In each instance, a character can choose whether to forgive or not. And I believe choosing forgiveness is the stronger (though not necessarily the likely) path.

Unforgiveness plays an equally strong role, not only in plotting, but in character backstory. For instance, in one brief comment, Sedge, one of the less likeable characters in Stormrise, reveals more than he means to:

It’s not fair, the way the good ones go first,” Sedge said. “I’d have traded my father for Grandmaster Denerek in a swift second.

In this scene, the characters are discussing the death of their Grandmaster. Sedge’s comment smacks of unforgiveness, whether Sedge knows it or not (and he probably doesn’t). His attitude and outlook have been formed by his lack of a good relationship with his father, and by the fact that he has (unconsciously) chosen to stay angry about it. What he’s really saying is, “I wish my father had died instead of Grandmaster Denerek.”

Wishing his dad were dead is a pretty good sign that he hasn’t forgiven him.

There are even more pivotal moments of forgiveness in Stormrise that I don’t want to mention (because, spoilers). But the bottom line is that I didn’t set out to weave the theme of forgiveness into my story. It was a natural outgrowth of the state of my heart.

I am forgiven. So I forgive.

Not that forgiveness is easy. Sometimes our hurt is so big (like Sedge’s) that it takes a lot of processing before we can truly forgive the person who has hurt us. And sometimes we aren’t aware that we’re carrying a secret grudge. (Psst. Grudge = unforgiveness.)

To deny the thread of forgiveness that makes its way into my writing—both the presence and the lack of it—is to deny my own heart. I know what years of unforgiveness feel like, and I know the sublime freedom of finally forgiving someone. It doesn’t surprise me that it’s such an important theme in my writing, despite never having set out for it to be.

Stormrise isn’t a story about forgiveness; it’s a story about a girl who hides herself in order to ultimately discover her identity and step forward to save her land and everyone she loves. But it wouldn’t be the story it is without the thread of forgiveness woven through its words.

And I didn’t even do it on purpose.

BIO—JILLIAN BOEHME

JILLIAN BOEHME is known to the online writing community as Authoress, hostess of Miss Snark’s First Victim, a blog for aspiring authors. In real life, she holds a degree in Music Education, sings with the Nashville Symphony Chorus, and homeschools her remaining youngster-at-home. She’s still crazy in love with her husband of more than thirty years and is happy to be surrounded by family and friends amid the rolling knolls of Middle Tennessee. Stormrise is her debut novel.

You may find her online in these places: her author web site (where you may enter a Stormrise preorder contest—details below), Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Goodreads, and Miss Snarks’s First Victim.

Stormrise Pre-order Contest

PREORDER STORMRISE BETWEEN NOW AND SEPTEMBER 23 TO RECEIVE A SIGNED BOOKMARK AND BE ENTERED INTO A DRAWING TO WIN THIS GORGEOUS, STORMRISE-INSPIRED PENDANT BY @T.ARCHJEWELRY! [Picture available on the pre-order page at the above link.]

YOU CAN ORDER A SIGNED COPY OF STORMRISE FROM PARNASSUS BOOKS! CLICK HERE TO ORDER!

INSTRUCTIONS:
1. PREORDER STORMRISE FROM ANY BOOKSTORE.
2. EMAIL A COPY OF YOUR RECEIPT TO JILLIAN@JILLIANBOEHME.COM.
3. IMPORTANT: PLEASE INCLUDE YOUR MAILING ADDRESS IN THE EMAIL.
4. YOU WILL RECEIVE A SIGNED BOOKMARK AND YOUR NAME WILL BE ENTERED INTO A DRAWING TO WIN THE PENDANT.
(IF YOU PREORDER A SIGNED COPY FROM PARNASSUS BOOKS, YOUR BOOKMARK WILL BE UNSIGNED AND WILL BE INCLUDED WITH YOUR ORDER. ALL OTHER BOOKMARKS WILL BE SIGNED AND MAILED SEPARATELY.)

Featured Photo by Sharlene Jackson from FreeImages

Hurricane Dorian just finished thrashing the Bahama Islands and is crawling along the east coast, eroding beaches and ruining countless vacations. This storm is the latest incarnation of nature’s fury, which despite our best technology and planning, still manages to unleash death and destruction. As technology and planning improves, death and destruction is mitigated by degrees, but the fact remains that we are still at the mercy of the Earth in all aspects.

If you’ve been paying attention the 24-hour news cycle, you might get the idea that humanity is to blame for any natural upheavals, especially as it relates to the weather. The talking heads ponder how industrialization directly correlates to strong storms such as Dorian. The world’s average temperature has increased over the last several decades and the debate remains about the causes and effects. There is no question that we should take care of the world as its stewards (Gen. 1:28) but the ideological battle rages on about whether we are responsible for the turmoil we see around us.

This tension is reflected in our entertainment as well. One of the most famous weather-gone-wild movies is The Day After Tomorrow, which was made before the climate change debate really shifted into overdrive. In that movie, mankind is simply at the whims of Mother Nature who decides to freeze nearly every first-world country. The commentary is more socioeconomic than environmental, but Hollywood gave it another bumbling shot with the comedy I mean serious drama Geostorm, in which well-meaning scientists try to control the weather but end up creating…you guessed it…a global storm system. The moral of the story: leave nature alone.

Obviously this is impossible, since we live in the world and we are commanded to subdue it (not abuse it, but not to merely exist either). Yet the idea that humanity is a scourge upon this world is gaining traction, especially in the developed world. There is an entire movement devoted to the voluntary extinction of the human race which asks people to stop reproducing (though not to abstain from sex, because come on, don’t be a prude). Children and families are seen as burdens rather than blessings, and the people who would appear to be in the best positions to provide for families are choosing to forego that route entirely and focus their energies on themselves and their pets.

Numerous films have tackled the issues of overpopulation (Elysium) and global infertility (Children of Men) and neither possibility looks appealing. If you asked the average Joe on the street, they might tell you that this world is screwed no matter what and we should just start over on Mars or in another solar system. After all, it looked so easy in Interstellar, right?

Here is the bottom line: creation groans and yearns to be freed from its inherent corruption (Rom. 8:21-22). Regardless of whether or not our cars and factories and farting cows are heating up the atmosphere, this world will never be at peace. The very ground hates us and produces thorns and thistles. By all means, we should take care of what is in our charge, but we should also realize that the only thing that will make this world truly wonderful is the return of its Maker.

It’s been more than a month since Realm Makers 2019. In that time I, personally, have:

• become a foster dad, and
• structure-edited my first book—
• both starting in the same week.

So it’s been crazy. Those plus ongoing production of Lorehaven‘s fall 2019 issue means I’ve delayed in finishing this series that focuses on one hundred graces I found at Realm Makers last July.

Let’s conclude with:

Realm Makers 2019: One hundred graces, 76–100

76. All the people whom I met, whom I haven’t been able (or haven’t remembered) to include in any of these articles. You’re still an amazing grace that God has gifted me and this whole community.
77. I could walk in after a long day of traveling and immediately connect with folks.
78. Last year, I kept crisscrossing the hotel to reach different classroom wings. This time, I was pointed toward a ridiculously simple outdoor shortcut that reduced a two-minute journey to a five-second walk.
79. When it was time to pack up the bookstore, so many people (even without their own books in the store) pitched in to help.
80. All the agents and editors who know that (1) fantasy is a difficult sell from Christian publishers, (2) fantasy authors can be a little different, (3) come anyway, and listen to aspiring writers try their best, and treat them with respect and graciousness.
81. All the organizers seem to have hit a fantastic balance of “fun” and “professionalism.” Surely this is very difficult. Here it’s a Godsend.
82. Yes, I just love being around all these books. It doesn’t get “old,” even after following the bookstore to at least two major events.
83. Laurel Anne Hill! This delightful steampunk author, actually sponsored the Realm Makers Bookstore this time. I heard tell that she really wants to support creative stories from other authors. Behold her sweet owl puppet.

84. H. L. Burke, who finally said to me, “You look just like this TV doppelganger.” She showed me this GIF (of actor Michael Weatherly). And I believed.

85. Even as the 2019 conference was winding down, next year’s event was already being planned.
86. In this case, Realm Makers 2020 will take attenders to the Jersey shore, at a casino hotel July 16–18 in Atlantic City, New Jersey.
87. The conference’s theme will likely not be based on that old “Jersey Shore” television “reality” series. (Alas that they’ve already used the mermaid motif for the 2017 event, hosted at the admittedly name-perfect Atlantis Casino Resort Spa in Reno, Nevada.)
88. Plans call for attenders to actually fly into Philadelphia. Then we’ll ride by bus for about two hours to the Atlantic City resort.
89. Thus, if you fly in by plane, you get to ride the bus with Christian fantasy writers. (Alas, I may need to drive directly to the location.)
90. The conference will have great eateries on-site. There will be a seaside boardwalk and everything.
91. Which means this grace will come with a risk: writing instructors may need to dismiss classes early so students can go play outside.
92. Hotel costs should be even more affordable than before. For Christian creators wisely stewarding their resources, that’s a big plus.
93. The keynote speaker is back from the 2016 conference: none other than Thomas Locke (aka T. Davis Bunn).
94. Conference registration is still amazingly affordable, and the organizers plan to keep it that way.
95. Every year the conference gets a little bigger. So does the “movement.” But it’s not so big that it’s lost any personality.
96. If there are any closed-off “cliques,” I’m unaware of them. Or maybe I’m blind, or just (at least) a casual-member of every single one. Either way, my own experience confirms that you’ll not be finding any mean girls at Realm Makers any time soon.
97. Even when you get home, the conference continues because you can still stay in touch with friends and fellow Christian fantasy-fans. Even as I write this, I’m messaging with a friend and fellow Realm Makers member.
98. You can do the same, thanks to the providential gift of social media, SMS, and contact by plain phone or email.
99. Please do the same with me, especially as things are about to get even more interesting for me in 2020, career-wise. . . .
100. For the 2020 event, I’ll likely have more to showcase, not just on behalf of Lorehaven magazine, but with a brand-new nonfiction book. Even if you’re not a writer or a conference attender, you’ll be invited to a Saturday night showcase of books, authors, and book-signing. So, if you’re anywhere near Atlantic City on July 18, 2020, please, ignore those “New Jersey, HAW HAW”–type jokes. Come visit us at Realm Makers!

At Realm Makers 2019 last July, from left: author and Lorehaven columnist Marian Jacobs, myself, and novelist/Lorehaven book clubs chief Steve Rzasa.