Possibly I’ve found the secret to glimpsing more God-given happiness and wonder during Christmastime and any other season.

The answer: daring to risk holy, joyful seriousness about amazing truths and stories.

Two weeks ago, a drive-thru Nativity attraction reminded me of this fact. It led me to start this two-part article series about the opposite of joyful seriousness: the plague of flippancy in the church and in creative storytelling.

But the first article about the dangers of flippancy provoked some pushback from readers.

A few readers seemed uncertain about the difference between flippancy and other forms of humor, such as jokes. Some resisted strongly the notion that it’s never right to poke fun, or spoof, or employ “dark humor” about serious subjects.

I now wonder if this topic may bump against the specter of the Anti-Humor Christian.

Once I encountered this sort of person. She literally claimed that Jesus never ever would have laughed or said anything funny. (Despite the humor of many of His parables, especially obvious to their original hearers.) In her view, His sobriety over man’s sin and His mission to redeem people overruled any potential for humor in His life. That’s frankly a dangerous view. It strips the humanity from Christ. It effectively enslaves God to His own creation, forced to be “serious” by the threat of His rebellious creatures. And it leads to legalism against humor—a similar legalism we often see against stories.

So I don’t share the notion that any warning against flippancy—based on the words of C.S. Lewis through his fictional demon Screwtape—also warns against humor altogether. ¹

I also don’t believe Lewis’s cautions about flippancy also rule out “dark humor” or “gallows humor.” I myself have found that I enjoy many stories that employ satirical and even dark-humor moments, such as the superhero satire The Tick (newly remade for Amazon Prime).

It’s also true that in some sense, all this can be subjective. Like any human cultural element, humor and jokes can’t be quantified or classified. Even if they could be, I’m not a joke-ologist myself. In last week’s article, and in today’s, I’m mainly thinking aloud, having been inspired by both The Screwtape Letters and some popular stories’ seeming embrace of flippancy.

Warning: ‘flippant people’ with a prolonged ‘habit of flippancy’

In fact, if Lewis (or I) believed that it’s wrong to show a sense of humor about serious subjects altogether, we wouldn’t enjoy Lewis’s satirical The Screwtape Letters itself. After all, Lewis himself dares to act as the “clever human”—whom Screwtape dismisses—who attempts to “make a real Joke about virtue” (and about demons) throughout all 41 letters.

Instead, Screwtape wants to train humans to speak “as if virtue were funny.” In Screwtape’s world, any of God’s good gifts, such as humor as well as “sleeping, washing, eating, drinking, making love, playing, praying, working … has to be twisted before it’s any use to us.”

In this case, Screwtape hates joy and laughter, which bring to mind Heaven’s music and which require far too much effort to “twist” or even create. He would rather cloud the minds of humans who haven’t even taken the effort to make the joke; instead they assume the joke has already been made.

However, Screwtape doesn’t praise mere flippant moments or dark humor, which in non-spiritually-twisted, non-habit-forming ways would be perfectly fine for humans to enjoy. So Lewis is not ruling out occasional jokes about serious subjects, even sacred subjects, so long as they do not presume the subjects themselves are automatically unserious.

For example, we might mock Satan, as Lewis does in his book, even while seeing spiritual threats in biblical light. We might “cast” a “riddikulus” spell against spooks that should not actually frighten biblical Christians who live in Jesus’s victory. Privately I might even make a dark-humor joke about some terrible event in a way that shows I’m anticipating the eventual empty threat of death. Or a series I enjoy, such as “The Tick,” can upend superhero tropes and even have moments we could call “flippancy” without actively mocking virtue.

However, these are moments of jocularity, even flippancy. They don’t represent a “prolonged” lifestyle or dominating influence that leads to what Screwtape calls “flippant people,” that is, humans who have become defined by constant ridicule of serious subjects.

Again, in Screwtape’s view, the flippant person is not a happy or joyful person. He or she is not excited to share jokes or to sharpen intellects by trading barbs. He or she is not even very creative; after all, they don’t even go to the effort of making actual flippant remarks.

But worst of all (to Screwtape, best of all), “the habit of Flippancy” makes a person resistant to God. Screwtape describes these folks as “steady, consistent scoffers and wordlings who without any spectacular crimes are progressing quietly and comfortably towards Our Father’s house [Hell].” And with his word “scoffers,” Screwtape brings his verbiage closer to that of Scripture, especially in the book of Proverbs, which constantly warns against “scoffers” and “mockers,” that is, people who do not laugh in God’s ways, but at them.

Flippancy’s cure: ‘happiness and wonder that makes you serious’

Lewis diagnosis the problem of weaponized, totalizing flippancy that leads to “flippant people.” But I suggest he also gives the solution in his other books. Chief among those may be The Chronicles of Narnia, which offers both character-driven humor and a prevailing sense of joy and virtue that the story-world holds absolutely apart from mockery or self-awareness.² For Lewis, this joy and virtue are grounded in the person of Aslan and the wonders of his creation in Narnia and surrounding lands.

To get the most out of this story, you laugh alongside these wonders, not at them.

Moreover, Narnia is full of humorous moments, but never at the expense of Aslan or its own artful wonders. Its “jokes” don’t step on the horror of battle, the majesty of a mountain or city, the trauma of a dying mother, or worldwide destruction. (Meanwhile, some newer fantasies might feel they need to lighten the mood even among supposedly serious themes such as these, lest we consider them “pretentious” or feel the movie isn’t much “fun.”)

And in the final Narnia volume, The Last Battle, when the world of Narnia draws to its apocalypse, humor is the first blessing to leave. Only when our heroes’ fate is grim and absolutely serious can we feel the story’s weight. Only then, once we’re drawn into the even better world of Narnia-within-Narnia, can we laugh and yet also embrace joyful solemnity:

“But very quickly they all became grave again: for, as you know, there is a kind of happiness and wonder that makes you serious. It is too good to waste on jokes.”

I love that phrase: a kind of happiness and wonder that makes you serious.

Where is this sense in some new fantasy stories, including superhero and space-adventure films? Would a director or screenwriter feel it’s worth the risk to build up a scene based on this “happiness and wonder” and not “waste” the moment on jokes? Or may such a scene—or a film based entirely on this sensibility—trigger the dread fear of “pretentious” stories?

To be earnest, you gotta risk being pretentious. There are worse things to be, like cynical, angry, shallow, judgemental or repressed.

— Scott Derrickson (@scottderrickson) July 24, 2017

Apart from stories, I crave more of this emotion in the Christian world. Although we are making progress, some churches (especially of the mega- variety) in their “preaching” and singing still emphasize “fun” and maybe even flippancy as Christian alternatives to serious-inducing happiness and wonder. This is neither biblical nor helpful to our human growth.

At this time of year, Christmastime, such flippancy especially leaves an opening for fake “wonders,” such as materialistic consumerism, which can replace the calm, joyful, wide-eyed wonder of traditions such as Advent. When we’re constantly self-aware, looking for the “joke” that’s already been made about serious glories, and unwilling to suspend our disbelief, we close ourselves off from this emotional response to Jesus’s arrival among us.

But oh, the joy, when we forget about ourselves and surrender ourselves to this God-given joy and wonder. And oh, the wonder of practicing this surrender even when it comes to the humans around us—such as in our churches—who are training to help us find this joy.

Joyful seriousness = improved creativity in storytelling

Two weeks ago, I glimpsed just the back side of this happiness and wonder.

It occurred at an annual event hosted by a Lutheran church: the “Follow the Star” drive- and walk-thru attraction that portrays not only the Nativity but all of Jesus’s life.

At this attraction, there’s no room for self-awareness, deconstruction, or flippancy. Follow the Star is assembled by hundreds of volunteers and dozens of cast members. They must work for months to set up this thing. And then, three nights in a row, these cast members must take turns repeating the same biblical scene, over and over and over, with minimal breaks (and a few shift changes) and with no room for missing their lines or actions—or getting sick of doing the same thing repeatedly and therefore wanting to make light of it.

This was already impressive during the past years I’ve attended Follow the Star. However, this year organizers added something new: two cast members, standing by the sidewalk, to introduce upcoming scenes. I was struck by the second cast member, performing a Roman centurion, who stops the group before the Crucifixion scene. This man was utterly serious. He allowed no hint of self-awareness or “this is all a show” in his performance. And there on that sidewalk behind a mid-size Lutheran church in Cedar Park, Texas, he elevated this performance. He showed that he believed this. And his belief proved contagious to us all.

No, I don’t think Christians should always operate at this level of earnestness.

But are we comfortable with being earnest at all, either in our church ceremonies or in our art? Must we always feel compelled to be cracking wise backstage, in on the joke, or aware of the trope? Can we let go of our need to feel in control that way, and release ourselves to the dis-empowering but oh-so-liberating happiness and wonder that makes us serious?

I know I can’t. Not on my own. But it’s a goal I will pursue, at Christmas and in the new year.

Of all the Christmas stories ever told since St. Luke penned the first and true one – of all the books and shows and movies themed to the season, all the Christmas specials – the greatest is Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, a tour de force for the ages. The story’s greatness is made up of many different parts – the immortal Scrooge, the chillingly evocative Marley, the color that breathes through every written line, the brilliant dialogue, witty and profound by turns. Not least among the sources of greatness is Dickens’ wholehearted embrace of joy and his endless delight in material pleasures. The Ghosts of Christmas taught Scrooge to keep Christmas with charity, which is a lesson to the stingy; they also taught him to keep it with joy, which is a lesson to the rest of us.

One of the glories of A Christmas Carol is how seamlessly it weaves together joy and pleasure. Scrooge proves this rule in the inverse. He takes “his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern;” he lives in “a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard.” Christmas Eve finds him eating gruel by a low fire in a dark, empty house. Certainly Ebenezer Scrooge, the old miser, had grown as cold as the gold he loved, and this is seen in his hardness toward all human beings, those he met and those he only heard about. But it is also seen in the unremitting bleakness of his life; he never enjoyed himself.

If Scrooge’s cold heart found manifestation in the severity of his life, the warmth and generosity of others found expression in fun and the most universal of physical pleasures. Old Fezziwig gives a party, full of dancing and cake and roast meat and mince-pies; Fred gives a party, with plentiful games and excellent food and lots of laughter; the Cratchits have their own party, the children rejoicing over pudding and stuffed goose. When the Ghost of Christmas Present brings Scrooge out of his gloomy rooms to see Christmas, he takes him first to the shops, and the descriptions provided of the wares – Norfolk apples and Spanish onions, chestnuts and candied fruit – are truly lyrical.

Through all of this, Dickens finds his way to a vital truth: Joy, even the most spiritual, needs material expression. The joy of the LORD is your strength, Nehemiah once told the people, and then sent them off to feast. This is itself a defense of Christmas – if not to the Scrooges of the world, then to the Puritans. The material pleasures of Christmas are empty without the spiritual meaning, but with it, they are not superfluous. Joy naturally overflows into pleasure. We celebrate the coming of Christ with food and presents because this is how humans celebrate everything. There is no point in demanding purely spiritual observances from those who are not purely spiritual beings.

Especially at Christmas, when we remember how God, becoming incarnate, took on our physical nature, not to destroy it but to resurrect it anew. So keep Christmas with charity, and keep it with joy, and keep it with pleasure – for this, too, can be done to the glory of God.

Hark! The sounds of jubilation. Of cheer and love and peace.

Across the lands of Middle-earth the joyful tidings ring: Merry Christmas!

*Merry stumbles through the door carrying a pile of presents* Did someone call my name? *staggers off without awaiting a reply*

As the end of the year approaches, realms and races prepare for the final rush until Christmas. (A Middle-earth Christmas? WHY NOT!)

In Hobbiton

Hobbits bustle to and fro, turning the Shire into a veritable anthill of busyness in preparation. Wood is chopped, fires blaze, pots simmer with the promise of a delicious fare for the grand day.

Gandalf can hardly move about as children flock around him, bursting to add last-minute items to the lists that in some cases stand taller than they do. His beard and jovial manner are his downfall. No one seems to notice the distinct absence of a belly that shakes like a bowl full of jelly.

According to rumors, the special day will consist of an extra handful of meals, much partying as only the Shire folk can pull off, and copious amounts of ale. When asked about such prospects, Pippin reportedly said, “It’ll be grand. Best day of the year. I can’t wait.”

Elf on a Shelf

An age-old holiday tradition, which the elves guard as though it’s an untainted forest pulsing with enchantment. As Christmas draws nigh, in the elven safehavens the best-looking of their race, as chosen by popular vote, take turns posing on natural tree-bough “shelves.”

The reason? Allow elven artists to create masterpieces—drawings, paintings, sculptures. The tradition celebrates the natural beauty and creativity of the elves. Each model is given a copy of the artistic piece that depicts them.

Often, the art pieces are displayed in prominent places as a mark of honor.

Important note: The elves are decidedly not interested in mass-producing enough toys for Middle-earth and have made such desires quite clear.

P. S. They do not advocate the wearing of pointy shoes or hats. In fact, they heartily denounce it as a practice of “uncultured vagrants.”

What would a Middle-earth Christmas be without a few songs?

A Wraith Lament (to the tune of We Three Kings)

We nine kings of Middle-earth are
Were deceived, our greed went too far,
Sauron snaring, now despairing,
Wraiths our lot is for e’er.

O rings of wonder, rings of might,
Sauron’s craftsmanship of spite,
Spread his power from his tower
On the lands bring ruin, night.

Nazgul king of Angmar am I,
Bringing terror when drawing nigh,
Sauron serving, most deserving
Seeing all with his eye.

O rings of wonder, rings of might,
Sauron’s craftsmanship of spite,
Spreads his power from his tower
On the lands bring ruin, night.

The ring I took, it is my bane,
Fealty I offer again,
Dark Lord ever, ceasing never
Middle-earth his domain.

O rings of wonder, rings of might,
Sauron’s craftsmanship of spite,
Spreads his power from his tower
On the lands bring ruin, night.

King I was, no fearer of doom
Now—my life a living tomb,
Servant, sighing, never dying,
Shrouded in cloak and gloom.

O rings of wonder, rings of might,
Sauron’s craftsmanship of spite,
Spreads his power from his tower
On the lands bring ruin, night.

Come, all lands, allegiance swear
Let the Dark Lord give you care
Death and ruin, death and ruin,
May be your lot—beware!

O rings of wonder, rings of might,
Sauron’s craftsmanship of spite,
Spreads his power from his tower
On the lands bring ruin, night.

Note: There is a discrepancy of wraiths to number of verses. According to scholars, this is due to the unimaginative and non-musical mindset of the other six wraiths.

Dwarves’ Feast Song (to the tune of Jingle Bells)

Tables are spread thick
With a feast to stir the heart
Let us all come now
And onto benches dart
Plates and tankards full
Making spirits bright
What joy it brings to eat and chomp
On roasted pork all night.

Oh, meat and ale, bread so pale
Do a soul right well
Every day and every night
Our thirst and hunger do they quell
Meat and ale, bread so pale
Do a soul right well
Every day and every night
Our thirst and hunger do they quell.

When mealtimes come ‘round
We celebrate our food,
With laughter and with cheer
We gorge ourselves right good,
Though stout and plump we are,
Our feasting never dies
Our stomachs growl and groan and howl,
Then feasting—let food fly!

Oh, meat and ale, bread so pale
Do a soul right well
Every day and every night
Our thirst and hunger do they quell
Meat and ale, bread so pale
Do a soul right well
Every day and every night
Our thirst and hunger do they quell.

What else would a Middle-earth Christmas include?

*This post was published in original form on zacharytotah.com in December 2016.

Recently Stephen responded to a posted video clip on Facebook, a promotion piece by Todd Friel for his Wretched radio/TV series, The gist of the episode which I watched is that “wizard stories,” by which he means fantasy, go against Scripture and have no place in the life of a Christian.

The sad thing here is that a number of his Wretched followers left comments agreeing with his position, saying that his views were right. While a number of speculative writers chimed in to give an opposing view, how many of Friel’s followers read those when they had already endorsed the original episode? In other words, one of the reason I object to what this TV and radio host had to say is that he only presented one side—his opinion and his understanding of what the Bible says.

Besides leaving a comment, I also invited Mr. Friel here to Spec Faith for what I termed a print debate. I want people who follow him to know that there are believers who hold fast to the teaching of Scripture who do not agree with the position shared in that Wretched episode. So far I haven’t heard back from him, but I have not given up hope.

I don’t want to wait, though. The longer this Wretched position sits there with only a brief flurry of opposition, the more deadly it becomes. What may have started out as an interesting concept to consider can quickly become a hardened conviction.

The reason is simple: at the heart of what Mr. Friel says is the Bible. In fact Scripture does say exactly what Wretched claims. Here’s the pertinent passage:

you shall not learn to imitate the detestable things of those nations. There shall not be found among you anyone who makes his son or his daughter pass through the fire, one who uses divination, one who practices witchcraft, or one who interprets omens, or a sorcerer, or one who casts a spell, or a medium, or a spiritist, or one who calls up the dead. For whoever does these things is detestable to the LORD (Deut. 18:9b-12a)

From that passage, it’s easy to generalize by saying, “No magic.”

All well and good if magic was the issue here. But the context of the passage is Moses’s warnings to the people of Israel against adopting the idolatrous behavior of the nations they were about to encounter. So killing children and trying to know the future and talking with the dead and all these practices listed in Moses’s command have to do with tapping into a power that does not come from God. It either involves worshiping a false god or trying to use power obtained from a spirit claiming to have power like God.

Mr. Friel never addressed this aspect of the Deuteronomy passage. So in other words, a person could conclude from his show that magic is the real problem when in fact idol worship is the real problem.

Idol worship, of course, doesn’t start or stop with magic. So talking to people about avoiding magic completely misses the mark when it comes to what Scripture actually is saying.

What Mr. Friel says about fantasy reminds me of what the Pharisees said in Jesus’s day about keeping the Sabbath. They particularly wanted Jesus to stop healing people on the Sabbath (which he persisted in doing throughout His ministry). In fact, the Ten Commandments expressly said to keep the Sabbath as holy, and the prophets confronted Israel over and over about breaking the Sabbath.

So weren’t the Pharisees right? No. For one major reason: breaking the traditions that had grown up around the “keep the Sabbath” command, were not the same as breaking the command itself. Jesus also indicated there was some hypocrisy involved in their insistence in keeping the Sabbath they way they prescribed it. They would certainly care for a needy animal on the Sabbath, but they were opposed to Jesus caring for a needy human?

Both these matters apply, I believe. Some Christians like Mr. Friel have raised up traditions—an artificial understanding of magic that includes all things pretend such as flying broomsticks and magic wands, pointy witch hats and wizards that can teleport from one place to another, talking pictures and moving staircases, talking animals and flying dragons. These creative fantasy elements have nothing to do with real power or methods of tapping into a false god’s power. In other words, they become straw men which distract us from the true battle against idolatry.

The converse is true. When C. S. Lewis told his Narnia stories, he showed in no murky manner what the gospel is all about. He was “healing on the Sabbath,” if you will. People who had not opened a Bible knew in their heart that there had to be a real person like Aslan and a real place like Narnia. To declare the Deeper Magic that Aslan displayed to somehow be off limits and to be avoided is nothing more than restricting the way we can share the truth about Jesus Christ.

Because, make no mistake, the power of fantasy is in the good versus evil trope—with good winning. Only when someone like Phillip Pullman flips the script and writes evil as good, does fantasy present a problem. But that happened in the Bible too. Moses turned his staff into a snake and the magicians in Egypt did the same thing. So, a little discernment here is helpful. Which is the power of God and which the power of a false god?

Of course when Moses’s snake/staff ate the others, the point was no longer muddled. We might have to work a little harder, but the answer is clearly not to outlaw staffs.

A Christian media leader is again warning about stories with fictional magic.

Todd Friel, host of the “Wretched” radio and TV series, made the comments in this Facebook promo video on Dec. 13. A fuller video is here.

At Speculative Faith, we believe Christian fans of fantasy need to consider these issues. When Christians voice their concerns or uncertainty about fantasy, we can’t simply say “that’s legalism.” We also can’t just say “that reminds me of what my parents or that one pastor did,” and then reject it.

After all, what hard truths might we miss, if we ourselves act so legalistically against unfamiliar or annoying ideas?

But even if we understand these issues better, we need to know what beliefs other Christians have been taught about fantasy. After all, the Christian missionary would need to understand his non-Christian neighbors’ culture so she can better share the Gospel with them. Likewise, we need to understand our Christian neighbors’ culture–including videos like this one–so we can better share in the Gospel with them.

That’s why we encourage you to watch the whole video. Then consider your own response based on Scripture, not just as a fantasy-genre fan/defender or “geek,” but as a person who wants to glorify Jesus in everything you do.

In this case, we would say that Friel means well, just as many Christians do who raise concerns about fictional magic.

However, Friel’s chief oversight is this: He commits a category error. He’s ignoring the very real difference between real occult practices, which do exist and which God does forbid, and the kind of pure-imagination fictional magic that does not and cannot exist in the real world.

For instance, he suggests two initial responses to “wizard fiction.” To paraphrase Friel’s paraphrases:

1. What’s the big deal? It’s Just Fiction.
2. Well, but there’s good magic and bad magic in fiction, and you can just sort of tell the difference.

Friel tries to handle the second response thoughtfully, though he concedes he does not quite understand it. (This is usually the sort of thing Christians say when they want to defend at least The Chronicles of Narnia or The Lord of the Rings and are using anything they can get.)

However, we would disagree with the wording of both of these notions.

The first is too flippant about the fact that Jesus wants every child of His to transform their thinking about everything to be like His. Fiction is never “just fiction.” In fact, this sort of statement devalues or even insults fiction. Stories are part of human creativity, which is a gift of God, and therefore becomes dangerous in sinful hands.

The second is a poorly stated adaptation of our real reasoning: not that there is “good magic” and “bad magic” in fiction, but that there is real occult “magic” (divination, idolatry, manipulation) versus made-up, imaginary, reality-impossible “magic” that does not exist. And discerning readers who approach entertainment–or rather, human recreation–with intention to glorify God, according to the Bible, can sort out the differences.

Our own Rebecca LuElla Miller wrote a response to the Wretched video on Facebook:

Wretched, you asked, Should we watch/read wizarding fiction? There are so many points to make here.

1. There is a difference between pretend and real, and much “wizarding fiction” is pretend. Do those engaged in the witchcraft of the Bible wave magic wands or fly on broomsticks? No, because those things aren’t real. Never have been. We as believers need to discern what is real and what is pretend, and we ought not spend great efforts to fight the pretend. As someone on another site mentioned, it’s likely that in your own apple scene, the one who “hates” apples, probably doesn’t. Was he lying or pretending?

2. Stories, even fantasies, are vehicles that can teach the truth. The stories are not the issue. There are even fantasies in Scripture. For example King Joash told King Amaziah a short fantasy about talking trees and thorn bushes getting married, recorded in both 2 Kings 14 and 2 Chronicles 25. Judges 9 records another when Jotham told a story that involved talking trees when he prophesied to the men of Shechem. Stories that encourage involvement in evil, including divination and talking with the dead and the actual practices of real people that practice witchcraft, should be treated differently than those that teach life lessons through the pretend.

3. God created our imagination, and there is nothing wrong with inventing tales and heroes and places that by their existence point to what God in Christ has made available to us. That’s what the Narnia books do. Yes, there are witches and other evils in those books, just as there is Satan and other evils in the Bible. The presence of evil does not disqualify a book from being worthwhile, valuable even. I could go on, but I think those three points more than out weigh the ones you addressed in the video.

Furthermore, a Christian leader simply cannot engage the topic of fantasy fiction accurately or biblically, unless he or she first explores, and understands, a more biblical view of the purpose of stories in the first place. I e-cycled this comment from Christians, Please Stop Warning Against Human Popular Culture Until You Know What It’s For:

Why not frame this topic in a biblical worldview, rather than use the world’s language?

Why not discuss popular culture—human stories and songs—in terms of human creativity being a gift from God? The way some pastors talk, popular culture is some alien (even if “harmless”) thing unrelated to God. But if God gives this gift (of popular culture-creation), then He, not us, defines the terms of how the gift is best used—to glorify Him, to guard against idolatry, and to make sure we get the most joy out of using the gift in the ways He has prescribed.

Why not explore how Jesus has built the work-rest rhythm into the universe, starting right in Genesis 1? Why not consider how stories and songs are part of being human, whether they’re shared around a campfire or enacted on your tablet screen? Why not allow the possibility that Scripture seems to allow—that we will create cultural works in eternity?

I would even go so far as to suggest that if the Christian leader cannot allude to the biblical view of recreation, or articulate this view in his body of work somewhere, he probably ought not talk about culture or popular culture at all.

You can consider more thoughts on how to respond When Pastors Criticize Popular Culture. About Deuteronomy 18 witchcraft, including a ground-level exploration of the text itself and what it means, see Deuteronomy 18 Witchcraft: What It Is and Isn’t.

When it comes to famous people, we naturally gravitate towards those whom we admire or whose values are more or less aligned with ours. A punk rocker is going to have Sid Vicious on his wall; the power player CEO will have a quote by Elon Musk (or maybe Gordon Gekko) on his computer background; the eager young activist will read books by Nelson Mandela or Malala. Everyone looks up to someone, and when we find those people, we want whatever content they produce.

It’s the same yet a little bit different with writers. There are some exceptions, but writers are more on the private side of the celebrity spectrum (those who are celebrities, at least). They’re not visible like singers or actors, even though they are producing an entertainment product. And they generally don’t broadcast their beliefs and values as religious leaders or politicians do. To say they “hide” behind their books implies a willful act of secrecy, which may be true in some cases, but for most writers, they hide behind their books because that is the nature of their entertainment product. Their values and beliefs are contained in their words but unless they write something with an explicit message, it may be impossible to know where they stand on religious, political, and social issues.

Of course, this was before social media. Now everything is out there like knickers on the clothesline, blowing in the wind and practically waving to the neighbors. This was especially evident during the last election. The creative community generally leans left and many authors whose pages I follow on Facebook were tooting Hillary Clinton’s horn as loudly as they could. There are many writers who lean the other way, and there were plenty of Trump-eteers making just as much noise. And when The Day After arrived, the sobs of dismay and shouts of exultation drowned out any news about their raison d’être, their books.

It’s been my observation that in the speculative realm, particularly in science fiction, the writer’s political and religious beliefs are more easily discerned than in other genres such as romance or mystery. Perhaps this is because the science fiction writer usually has to create an entire fictional world, and in a realistic world, religion and politics play crucial roles in how that world would exist. It also gives the writer a chance to air grievances, issue warnings, foretell perceived catastrophes, and sometimes indulge in some wishful thinking about what life would be like if everyone thought and felt as they do (at least the good guys). Personally, I have little patience for blatantly political speculative fiction, with the classics being an exception (there’s a reason they’re classics).

But here’s a growing problem that I see creeping over the literary world: because of social media and the ease with which people can find out about other people’s political and religious beliefs, readers are gravitating more and more towards writers who hold similar beliefs and values as they do. Writer: “#notmypresident.” Reader: “Yes! Fan for life.” People read books from this or that author because of who they are, not just because of the books they write. He is so handsome, she is so beautiful, he loves animals, she loves Australia as much as I do, he’s pro-gun, she’s anti-gun, etc., etc. This isn’t a new phenomenon – an interesting person who writes a book is always going to get more attention than a boring person who writes a book. Yet with social media and blogs, writers are becoming like Hollywood actors, crowing their opinions from their virtual rooftops. How often do we roll our eyes when a coddled, self-important Hollywood star weighs in on the issue du jour and we retort, “Stick to acting!” I’ve wanted to say the same thing to many writers when I see them spouting off on something that has nothing to do with writing. Of course, writers are real people with real beliefs and values, and there’s no reason for anyone to change simply because of my feelings, but I’m sure I’m not alone when I say: writers, stick to writing.

People often act as though stories are made terrible mainly by profit motive, laziness, and sentimentality.

I disagree.

Sure, these problems constantly plague stories. Christians know that evangelical stories are especially haunted by all three wicked spirits. When, say, Christian movies are terrible, we can’t help suspecting their producers only make them for the money. Or they take shortcuts in craft or budget. Or they see the world, or pretend to see it, through sugar-coated lenses.

However, the most powerful story-haunt of all may be flippancy.

This threat is common to all three of the other threats. Yet I’ve begun to wonder if flippancy is more powerful than them all. This enemy threatens even stories we otherwise enjoy in both the “Christian” and non-Christian story arenas. Flippancy can ruin churches, social networks, romantic relationships, novel series, and even superhero movie franchises.

For Christian fans, flippancy plagues even our attempts to raise the value and readership of our favorite fantasy, science fiction, and supernatural/horror novels by Christian writers.

What is flippancy?

We could be clichéd—or even flippant—and fetch a dictionary definition for flippancy.

I prefer C.S. Lewis’s understanding as voiced in The Screwtape Letters. In letter 11 the demonic uncle/undersecretary Screwtape expounds on human humor. Ever the philosopher about everything, Screwtape classifies humor in four categories:

1. Joy
2. Fun
3. The Joke Proper
4. Flippancy

In Screwtape’s world, every good gift comes from God, including humor. All God’s gifts can be twisted by sinful humans—aided by influence by demons. So whenever Screwtape considers a topic, he’s the ultimate pragmatist: he sees any sin and any good enjoyment alike as useful to the cause of Hell, so long as it’s leading the human away from Jesus.

Thus, Screwtape all but throws out “joy” and “fun” as useful pursuits for demons to exploit.

He sees more promise in humor mode number 3, The Joke Proper. However, Screwtape the pragmatist prefers shortcuts around pitfalls to temptation methods. So he sees limited use for seemingly easy sins like plain old dirty jokes. In his view, even these kinds of bawdy jokes are not always associated with actual lustful thoughts or actions.

Far better, Screwtape argues, to promote flippancy as the most demon-friendly humor:

Flippancy is the best [devilish use of humor] of all. In the first place it is very economical. … Among flippant people the joke is always assumed to have been made. No one actually makes it; but every serious subject is discussed in a manner which implies that they have already found a ridiculous side to it.

If prolonged, the habit of Flippancy builds up around a man the finest armour-plating against the Enemy that I know, and it is quite free from the dangers inherent in the other sources of laughter. It is a thousand miles away from joy: it deadens, instead of sharpening, the intellect; and it excites no affection between those who practise it …

We can break down Screwtape’s definition like so:

1. Flippancy is cheap and easy humor.
2. You don’t even need to make the actual joke; just allude to one being made.
3. Nothing is truly serious.
4. Everything is ridiculous.
5. Flippancy does not challenge your mind; in fact, it can make you stupid.
6. Flippancy doesn’t make you joyful; it makes you a dulled, cynical snark.

Flippancy surrounds our stories and culture

I couldn’t help but consider Screwtape’s unabashed ode to flippancy while watching my (alas) least-favorite super-film of this past year, Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2.¹

Like many of you, I’m a fan of the original Guardians of the Galaxy (2014). It’s truly inventive and irreverent. Director James Gunn and company included trace amounts of flippancy. But most of its humor came in other forms, including joy, fun, and The Joke Proper—and most such overt jokes were based in the characters’ unique natures.

Unfortunately, Vol. 2 dispensed with this character-driven humor—such as Drax’s failure to grasp metaphors—with interchangeable and flippant “jokes” any character could tell. Nothing was even partly serious, not even death or injury.

And to my memory, in many cases, the jokes weren’t even made. Only alluded to.

Male nipples. Ha ha! Space god needs to “go take a whizz.” Ha ha!

Oh, and surprise actual cameo by David Hasselhoff. Ha! Ha!

Literally, at that moment I felt the Guardians jig was up. They didn’t even do much funny with Hasselhoff. He just shows up to serve as the “joke’s” butt (butt! ha ha!) and that’s it.

Similar moments scourge Thor: Ragnarok. But I laughed more often anyway, partly because most of the humorous moments serve as overt yet affectionate genre parody, and are based on the characters. In other words, it’s not just any character making a “funny” poop “joke.” Rather, the comic moments are based squarely on who the person is.

Often the Marvel films are criticized for this kind of flippant humor. I think the criticism is usually undeserved; Marvel films offer more varied kinds of comedy than mere flippancy.

But unfortunately, people are not careful like Screwtape to distinguish between playful “fun” and dull flippancy. They’ll call the Marvel films “fun,” and then fault the DC films for their more serious tone (at least until the less-serious entry Justice League).

This is partly why I often defend the DC films: because despite their flaws, at least they consciously avoid flippancy. Other than in Suicide Squad, the films’ characters don’t often crack a quip or suffer a pratfall that undermines the dramatic weight of the moment or dialogue seconds ago. In other words, even these fantastical figures such as Superman and Wonder Woman act like real people, caught in the midst of a fearful or tense situation.

In response, critics call these films (with the exception of Wonder Woman) “cynical” and “over-serious.” They fail to consider that real seriousness and cynicism can’t go together. In fact, the true cynical critic is one who sees an attempting-serious story and assumes that, because it does not pause to be Self-Aware or silly, the story isn’t worth much.²

Superhero movies (and their critics) provide just one example.

Flippancy can appear frequently in our fantasy stories and broader popular culture.

For example, we often expect buzz-concepts like “self-aware” and “deconstruction” to apply to fantasy stories. It’s as if we believe these stories’ only value is not by repeating old myths in new ways, but simply tearing them down and showing how our cynicism is superior. This approach can make stories worse than “mindless entertainment.” Without balance, this approach renders these stories actively mind-harming: deadening, not sharpening, the intellect, and exciting no lasting affection for the story itself, or for our real neighbors.

In turn, this cynical, flippant approach to stories and popular culture infects reality. This year alone, we’ve seen how flippancy about sex and harassment has gone unchecked for too long, leading to our often-willful ignorance of creative men in power who abuse others. Even more often, we see people being flippant about serious matters, including personal character and even simple human biology.

Seriousness, which can include joy/fun, often has a job to do, a truth to explore, or a beauty to reflect.

But flippancy can never stop asking, “Why so serious?”

Next, I’ll explore why flippancy harms stories and ourselves. Then I’ll turn to the real example of a walk-thru Christmas pageant that shows our cure for flippancy: what C. S. Lewis called “a kind of happiness and wonder that makes you serious [and] is too good to waste on jokes.”

Something about Christmas stirs in my heart a desire to dive into fantasy. I know atheists would say that Christ’s birth is simply a myth, just like Santa and his elves and all the other Christmas tales, so why wouldn’t I be more inclined toward fantasy during this season?

I reject that notion. I understand the events of Christ’s birth to be real, factual, historical, verified by Dr. Luke’s accurate account. Santa Claus and his North Pole workshop, Rudolph and the other flying reindeer, Frosty the Snowman, the Grinch, talking and singing Gingerbread men—not so real.

So Christmas is both pretend and make-believe, mixed with accurate and true. Consequently, I rule out the idea that this season is all about myth, so why wouldn’t I want to read more pretend.

In fact, “more pretend” would seem like overkill, if that’s what was happening. During a season of all pretend, wouldn’t the logical response be a little more reality to balance it? As it is, Christmas is already well=balanced.

Reading fantasy, then, is clearly not “overkill.” But not just because I believe in the factual accounts of Christ’s birth recorded in the Bible. I also don’t read fantasy simply to enjoy whatever myth the writer is telling.

Of course fantasy is myth, but generally myth points to what is true. It may include an exaggerated rendition of events or a person—like Superman coming to save Metropolis—but in so doing, it points to a real desire in the hearts of people: that a hero, a Savior, will do for us what we can’t do for ourselves.

Myth may point to the past and explain how things came to be, socially or supernaturally. J. R. R. Tolkein’s Lord of the Ring purports to do just that. And by pointing to the history of Middle Earth, he opens up our thinking about the struggle, the conflict, the heroes, the small people tasked with big missions in the here and now.

Finally, a myth may present the backdrop for a set of beliefs. Hence, the Harry Potter books were much more than stories with cool creatures and fun magic. The author, J. K. Rowling explored sacrifice and death as well as friendships and loyalty within the mythos of a wizarding world.

All those aspects of “myth” point to reality, and perhaps the most important part of their job is to point to the supernatural. After all, “reality” fiction, whether it’s historical or romance or mystery or contemporary, can talk about how real people perceive the supernatural. Only speculative fiction can show the supernatural. Hence the White Witch is more than an evil ruler, and Aslan is more than a talking lion who rules Narnia.

The cool thing about good fantasy, however, is that no one explains it. There isn’t a narrator in C. S. Lewis’s Narnia books that says, “Now boys and girls, Aslan is actually Jesus.” Instead, readers are allowed to discover the dots on their own and connect them at their leisure. Or leave them unconnected.

Such open-ended stories need to be re-read multiple times. Why did Dumbledore have to die? Or Dobby? Or Cyrus Black? Did Harry die or did something magical actually spare him? What came of Tom Riddle’s attempts to save himself?

These are the kinds of questions that drive me into fantasy yet again. But I confess, there’s more. This is the time of year I most enjoy immersing myself in Middle Earth or Narnia or Hogwarts.

In other words, the worldbuilding is significant. I’ve read a number of books set in a world that felt like medieval earth more than Some Other Place.

Science fiction, particularly space opera, is good at transporting readers to another time, but that doesn’t necessarily translate into another place.

Fantasy, though, the kind I want to re-read at Christmas, creates a vivid place that I want to live in. Lloyd Alexander made such a place in his Chronicles of Prydain. C. S. Lewis did when he took readers to Perelandra—which he did in his books mislabeled science fiction (they are more science fantasy, I think, but that term wasn’t in use when Lewis wrote those books).

So why do I read fantasy at Christmas time? I still can’t really say. I love the reality of it and I love the pretend. I love going to a new world, and I love thinking about timeless truths. In short, fantasy has it all. But then, so does Christmas. So maybe the two just seem like the perfect match.

One thing I love about speculative fiction is the fact that it opens the door to the impossible. It expands our vision of reality.

Years ago, people didn’t have the constraints of science as we do today. They didn’t have the skeptical, “show me” mentality of the Missourian. They believed what they couldn’t see because they’d been told it was so.

Today our response is more apt to be, Really? Those Muslim converts first heard about Jesus in a dream? Really? His behavior mirrors that of people in the Bible identified as having an evil spirit. Really?

In truth, all the events of the original Christmas would likely come under our skeptical questioning today. Think about it.

Mary was astounded. How could she not be? An angel had told her she’d get pregnant, and here she was, still a virgin, staring down into the little face of her newborn son.

As if that wasn’t enough, a group of shepherds crowded into their quarters to worship her baby. Angels, they said, had told them about this child—where he’d be born and how they could find him and how they would know him.

Then there were the two people she encountered in the temple when she and Joseph went to present Jesus according to the law. First was Simeon who said strange things: that her son would be a light to the Gentiles and a glory to Israel. Then in his blessing, Simeon added that her son was appointed as sign to be opposed. Simeon concluded with some confusing personal prophecy about a sword piercing Mary’s own soul.

Then there was the prophetess Anna who thanked God for Mary’s son and talked about him to everyone who was looking for the redemption of Israel.

All this came on the heels of her cousin Elizabeth—her barren cousin Elizabeth—getting pregnant. The angel had told Mary that would happen, too. And it was then he made the whole astounding series of events make sense: “For nothing will be impossible with God.”

The bottom line, and the only thing a person actually needs to believe in order to accept the astounding things we read about connected to that first Christmas, is that truth which Mary accepted. When the angel made his declaration about God’s greatness and power and limitless ability, Mary submitted to God—to His plans for her, His capacity to accomplish what He’d made known to her through His messenger.

She got it—that God was bigger than the laws of nature and that He was the Fulfiller of prophecy. She ought not to be a mother, but she was. The shepherds ought not to have known about her son, but they did. Simeon and Anna ought not to have declared a poor baby born to an unwed mother in a manger to be the Messiah, but they had.

Indeed, God can do the impossible.

That’s really the truth that separates people today as believers or unbelievers. If God can do the impossible, then He could take on human flesh and be born as a baby. If God can do the impossible, then He could die, once for all, the just for the unjust. If God can do the impossible, then no sin is too great for Him to forgive, no person so far from Him than He can’t reach them.

One of the worst kings in Israel’s history illustrates that point. Manasseh

erected altars for the Baals and made Asherim, and worshiped all the host of heaven and served them. He built altars in the house of the LORD of which the LORD had said, “My name shall be in Jerusalem forever.” For he built altars for all the host of heaven in the two courts of the house of the LORD. He made his sons pass through the fire in the valley of Ben-hinnom; and he practiced witchcraft, used divination, practiced sorcery and dealt with mediums and spiritists. He did much evil in the sight of the LORD, provoking Him to anger. Then he put the carved image of the idol which he had made in the house of God (2 Chron. 33:3b-7a).

A hopeless case, right? Idol worship, child sacrifice, witchcraft. Evil. But God didn’t turn His back on Manasseh.

The LORD spoke to Manasseh and his people, but they paid no attention. Therefore the LORD brought the commanders of the army of the king of Assyria against them, and they captured Manasseh with hooks, bound him with bronze chains and took him to Babylon. When he was in distress, he entreated the LORD his God and humbled himself greatly before the God of his fathers. When he prayed to Him, He was moved by his entreaty and heard his supplication, and brought him again to Jerusalem to his kingdom. Then Manasseh knew that the LORD was God. (2 Chron. 33:10-13)

Impossible! But no. God “was entreated by him.” God forgives. God redeems. God reconciles.

The Christmas story is both the proof that God can do the impossible and the declaration that the God who is Lord of the impossible accomplishes the miraculous.

And speculative fiction expands readers’ thinking so that we can more easily come to grips with this truth.

This post first appeared here in December 2015.