My 9-year-old daughters love to be thought of as strange. Truly love it.

I regularly refer to one of them as an “odd little duck,” and her face lights up every time. “Thank you,” she says, and usually as an afterthought, “you’re weird, too.”

It’s shorthand in my house for “I love you and everything about you.” That it’s okay to not be like everyone else, to not like the same stuff as whatever is popular that particular hour — to actually have your own thoughts, dreams, preferences, and opinions is both modeled and celebrated daily.

My oldest daughter likes some of the same stuff as her friends, and encourages them to check out whatever nerdy thing she’s into. And whether they enjoy it or not, it’s okay with her. She has a group of friends, and they make her happy. They all like some of the same stuff, and diverge on others. In their friendship, they focus on the common ground.

When I was in college, the majority of my friends were geeks. Like, full-on nerds. They were also artists, writers, dreamers, geniuses, and great people to be around. A few of them have gone on to become full-time web designers, Computer programmers, math teachers, or scientists.

I took exactly one science course in college, one computer course, and zero mathematics. I’d had my fill of the rest in advanced high school classes. It wasn’t that those subjects didn’t interest me. Science just wasn’t what I wanted to do with my life.

When we got together, we took in science fiction movies, played Magic: The Gathering, did some role-playing, or sat around with huge cups of coffee discussing those things on a deep, philosophical, distinctly college student level.

We had differences. We still do. (I’m proud to still call most of them my friends.) But what mattered was where our interests converged — and more to the point, what mattered was that we had each other to call “friend.”

But this is all background. A foundation, if you will. My hope here is to illustrate a single point, to focus with laser-like intensity on one thing, and one thing only: That it is not our differences that define us, but our similarities.

In a recent post, Should Christian Fans Call Ourselves ‘Geeks’?, E. Stephen Burnett revealed that his hope with the new magazine venture, Lorehaven, is to essentially cast a wide net for fans of science fiction and fantasy, particularly in churches and other Christian groups. Though Lorehaven will embrace both its geek heritage and the books the magazine will showcase, he’s chosen to downplay the label of “geek” in favor of more inclusive messaging.

I applaud this move.

Every summer, a new science fiction blockbuster comes out and rakes in millions from fans ranging from lovers of action movies to full-on nerds. “Geek cred” is not required to enjoy these things; one need only find them enjoyable. It’s true: you can check out the latest Star Trek movie, enjoy it, and not have an opinion who was the better Spock. You can anticipate the new Star Wars movie, and have no plans whatsoever on showing up with your hair in buns or dressed as a Wookie.

See, everyone has a little Geek in them. A little part of themselves that waxes enthusiastic about That One Thing. Whether it’s a show (or entire genre), music, computing, astronomy, art, philosophy, or whatever — we all have that thing we get excited about, want to share, want everyone around us to love just as much as we do.

But the Geek, the RPG-ing, cosplaying, graphic-novel-reading Geek, is an odd duck.

And I love each and every one of them.

I love that they live and breath what they love. I love that they find unique and interesting outlets for both their enthusiasm and creativity.

I don’t do all the “stuff” other geeks do. I like science fiction and fantasy. I enjoy the occasional CCG (collectible card game) and RPG. I’m not really a fan of superheroes in general, but I have a selection of graphic novels I enjoy greatly. There are conversations I love having with my fellow sci-fi enthusiasts, and conversations I quietly slip away from. And I don’t dress up. Ever. Even on Halloween, my favorite holiday of the year, I can generally only be bothered to find a mask I can slip on and off quickly. Two years ago, I dressed as Kevin Smith’s Silent Bob, and the quick trim I gave my beard was the most effort I’d put into a costume in decades.

I just don’t have the energy to get enthusiastic about everything my friends enjoy. I’m old, I’m fat, I’m tired, and I have four kids. Sue me.

But these trappings, these peripherals, aren’t what brought us together anyway. Not really. The idea of a costume ball wasn’t what drew me to Realm Makers over the ACFW five years ago, and it’s not the thing that keeps me coming back.

Don’t get me wrong. I love to see my fellow creators in their costumes. They’re full of imagination and fun! But last year I wore a tie to the Awards Gala, and the year before that, I told everyone I was Jayne Cobb, because he dressed just like me, and it kept me from having to go back to my room for a polo shirt.

No, what brings us together as storytellers is actually decidedly similar to what brought us together as Christians.

It’s the story.

That’s the thing that unites us. That’s the reason we come together as fans and creators, in our varying degrees of outward enthusiasm.

That’s the beauty of Realm Makers, the beauty of Speculative Faith, the beauty of the Faith and Fantasy Alliance.

Cosplayers show their love for fantastic stories at the July 2017 Realm Makers conference in Reno, Nevada.

And that’s the beauty of the newly-announced Lorehaven.

You aren’t looked at funny when you let your freak (or geek!) flag fly, and you’re just as accepted if you don’t. Because we are united by The Story. You don’t have to dress as a favorite sci-fi or fantasy character to write it, and it’s cool if you decide you want to. You don’t have to pick a side in the Marvel vs. DC battle just because you happen to like space ships or elves or ghosts and ghouls.

Lorehaven, like Realm Makers, is about finding the fan, the reader, regardless of their level of enthusiasm.

Let’s recognize that fans come in a wide range and variety of interest. Some folks love military sci-fi. Some love Tolkien-esque fantasy. Some love all of it. The point of Lorehaven, so far as I’ve been able to tell, is to help every level of fan find books they might enjoy–by writers who love to create it just as much as read it.

Imagine you’re stopped in public by a concerned-looking activist wearing a suit jacket, who frowns and lifts his hand-drawn sign that says: Proud Member of the Popular Culture.

“There’s something wrong with your church,” he tells you. “It’s bad. They have too many useless programs. Also you’re using the wrong Bible translation. Also your pastor sinned last Sunday by preaching something mean-spirited, and you just sat there in the pew, just smiling and nodding—if you were listening at all. You need to stop listening to those sinful, nasty sermons. Get out of that church! Those people are all hypocrites anyway!”

“What?” you sputter. “I’m sorry, who are you? You don’t know me. You don’t know—”

The activist grimaces, then leans in close to share confidential information. It’s hard to hear him. But he seems to be saying, “Deep down, I kinda think we don’t even need churches. Just come out into the world to do ministry. Do what I do. I’m all about the popular culture.”

With that, he’s off for more spiritual activism, leaving you quite confused and offended.

Who was this person? He looked familiar, and as far as you knew, he supports good causes.

But what did he have to do with you or your church?

For illustrative cases, we’re assuming you’re a Christian. You know Jesus likes to put local churches together to show the world his capital-C Church, which shows the world Himself. You know some churches are terrible. Yours is certainly flawed too.

But who is this guy to blast you and your church like that?

You walk away muttering, “What a jerk. I haven’t heard him say anything about supporting the local bodies of believers, who are part of the future-sacred Bride whom Jesus loves and saves. In fact, I’m sure I heard him say that secretly he doesn’t care about churches at all.”

Now you know how Christian fans may feel when pastors critique popular culture.

Just reverse examples. The parallels aren’t exact, but we can start here:

• Both churches and popular culture (which is part of human culture) are gifts of God.
• Both churches and culture are corrupt because corrupt people put them together.
• Both churches and culture can be redeemed, because Jesus gives common grace in the world and special grace to save human beings.
• And both are often criticized, rightly and wrongly, by people who mess up their critiques. They haven’t tried to make sure you know first that they have studied the biblical purpose of the gift, and appreciate what that purpose is, and based on this can show you how a church or story doesn’t match the original, biblical purpose.

In this case, I’m thinking of a popular pastor/author/blogger, Kevin DeYoung, who has been going after the Game of Thrones TV series because Game of Thrones has porn in it.

Now, what he says is technically correct. Many Christians are ignoring the lust-inducing moments of Game of Thrones, which by all accurate accounts feature blatant nudity and graphic scenes of sex and even rape. (Even non-Christians condemn the series for these moments.) Moreover, these scenes don’t only endanger Christian viewers, who are called to purity and to shun any lust whatsoever. These scenes also endanger the souls of their own human actors. They often face the bounded choice like, “for this scene, take off your clothes, or else your acting career won’t take off”—and violate their own consciences to do it.

DeYoung doesn’t cover all that. Sure, we can hardly expect any one person to write a book every time he critiques a popular story, especially given the limitations of one blog article.

However, when DeYoung and other solid, loving, well-meaning pastors critique popular culture, it makes sense when some Christians blanch and feel personally attacked.

Why?

Because even if you’ve heard about and trusted this pastor, you haven’t seen or heard him say anything constructive about popular culture (to say nothing of this particular story).

The pastor usually hasn’t written a book or even short article, to indicate that he knows or appreciates the purpose of popular culture in God’s plan of creation and redemption.

The pastor hasn’t shown that he can watch this show—or at least take what he’s accurately heard of it—and compare it, not just with the Christian’s call to holiness,¹ but with our call to make culture and stories in the first place.

And in fact, the pastor honestly reinforces your suspicion that if he took a lie detector test and was asked, “Do you think we ought to have popular culture at all?”, he would honestly answer, “No. I think it’s all wasted time. So it really makes no sense for me to imply I only critique particular stories, when in fact I could do without any popular story at all.”

A better Game of Thrones critique would show respect for popular culture as, for lack of better term, an “institution.” Popular culture comes from human culture-making, which God Himself told humans to do in Genesis 1:28.² So as basic as this may seem, a pastor cannot simply assume that he, and his audience, shares a common view of what human culture—with popular culture like Game of Thrones—is meant to do in the first place. We must build that foundation first. Even in little ways. Even in blog articles and comments and conversations.

Of course, some pastors legitimately don’t have time for this kind of ministry.³

In that case, I’d honestly suggest they need to do this, because human culture is part of their mission to apply the Gospel to every area of life, not just the familiar churchy topics.

But if they’re not comfortable in this work, they’d best outsource it to Christians who can.

Pastors, please don’t step out to critique popular culture, or a popular story, if you can’t also do the heavier lifting and explore the original good purpose of human culture. If you can’t do both, do neither. Leave that to the Christian non-pastors who do this sort of thing. You need them and they need you for the Church’s purpose: using our gifts together to tell and show Jesus’s redemption of people and then of the whole world, including its cultures.

“Fairy tales are more than true – not because they tell us dragons exist, but because they tell us dragons can be beaten.”

So goes Neil Gaiman’s paraphrase of G. K. Chesterton. Both Gaiman and Chesterton, and many others besides, recognized the power of art to give hope to the hopeless. But, Gaiman and Chesterton had very different visions of where this hope might come from. Where Gaiman’s paraphrase leaves our salvation in the passive voice, Chesterton continues:

What the fairy tale provides for him [the child] is a St. George to kill the dragon. Exactly what the fairy tale does is this: it accustoms him for a series of clear pictures to the idea that these limitless terrors had a limit, that these shapeless enemies have enemies in the knights of God, that there is something in the universe more mystical than darkness, and stronger than strong fear.

Knights of God are generally assumed to be competent.

Chesterton trusted God, and the “knights of God,” to keep the darkness at bay. But who kills Gaiman’s dragons? His paraphrase of Chesterton was meant to sum up the experience of Coraline, a young girl who had to face a strange world, and the monsters in it, with only her own wit and resilience. In this story, and many like it, what is more mystical than darkness, and stronger than strong fear, is the self.

Coraline’s victory comes after all of the adults in her life are defeated. Why could Coraline count on herself when her relatives couldn’t? If we were faced with the same situation, how could we make sure we came out as resourceful Coralines and not hapless fairy tale grown-ups? Calling the story’s assurance into question this way is narratively out of bounds and not at all charitable, but quite difficult to avoid once you’ve thought of it.

This happens over and over. People need faith, and when they cannot have it in God, they will have it in something, even if this faith does not stand scrutiny.

Is the Doctor a good god?

Take Doctor Who. People have faith in Doctor Who. Not just as entertainment, but as an idea. Sometimes this idea is that life is worth living and people are worth loving even when the universe is big and scary and dangerous and at the end rewards the just and the wicked alike with a big fuzzy soup of heat death. As Craig Ferguson put it, “the triumph of intellect and romance over brute force and cynicism.”

Not pictured: the triumph of intellect and romance.

Precisely why this triumph occurs, and who can be trusted to provide it, is an exercise left to the viewer, and one that arguably has its roots in bad taste.

But we shall proceed anyway.

The problem begins with how the audience is supposed to relate to the Doctor. The human companions provide a natural audience viewpoint, making their protector a good fit for a “knight of God.”

But, the Doctor could never be a knight of God. Gods in the universe of “Doctor Who” are nothing but trouble, at best the benign illusions of primitive peoples and at worst active deceptions by malevolent powers.

Though he would never accept the label, The Doctor is closer to being a god himself, facing every conflict with an overwhelming technological advantage and hardy alien physiology that makes the Christ parallels too gauche to reference directly. But the Doctor exists in a universe, and for an audience, which believes it is too grown-up for gods. Surely the message isn’t that we are supposed to sit back and wait for God by another name.

So, perhaps we are meant to become The Doctor ourselves. After all, it is his intellect that saves the day, and his panache and resourcefulness that we might be inclined to imitate.

But this, too, is hardly a comforting aspiration. Whether it’s a wand in the shape of a screwdriver or knowing just which button to push, The Doctor’s intellect is so far beyond our own that the writers generally have no choice but to depict it as magic.

This abstraction often undermines the show’s claim to a more romantic view of the universe. To the people on the receiving end, it makes little difference whether they were destroyed by a word salad of Star Trek particles or a common cruise missile. When The Doctor wraps his enemies in chains and drops them down a shaft, the fact that his bindings are made from impossible sci-fi metal doesn’t save him from looking like a common Mafioso.

You come to me, on the day of my regeneration, and ask for mercy?

The story’s writers even go so far as to make The Doctor’s intelligence utterly impossible for a human. One of the companions temporarily gains his brainpower through a science miracle, only to have to seal it up later because it was too much to handle. On this point, the writers could hardly be clearer: even if through some inimitable fluke you managed to become as smart as The Doctor, you could never handle it.

I suspect, even in Chesterton’s imagination, that the inspiring figures of the “knights of God” were not meant to inspire in perfectly logical ways. Fairy stories don’t require real dragons to invoke real fear, and their knights are still quite inspiring as romantic abstractions rather than diligently rendered historical feudal lords.

But the dragons in “Doctor Who” aren’t always fictional. On the edges of “Doctor Who”’s treatment of the universe is the Lovecraftian notion that the universe is dark, vast, and full of forces utterly indifferent to human flourishing. While we are not asked to believe in literal Daleks, we are left open to the possibility that something equally dangerous is out there, or here already, and we’re only wrong in the particulars.

Beyond that, loneliness, listlessness, selfishness, even the universe’s crippling vastness and inevitable ignominious end—there is no suggestion that we are meant to believe these bogies are limited to the screen.

Where, then, is the place for faith? In waiting for The Doctor we know will never come? Or in trying to become that which we can never be? These questions will be asked, but, in the realm of The Doctor, they will never, ever be answered. Silence will fall.

Christians are pretty terrible, and even worse because they make Christian culture.¹

Let’s face it: Christians just aren’t very good artists. Instead of exploring truth, we make propaganda. Instead of chasing creative excellence, we rip off other stories. And sometimes we even make our version of “art” only so we can sell stuff to children and adults.

Don’t believe me? Don’t lie. Everyone already believes me, because you can find these kinds of written pieces everywhere on the internet! (Look, there goes another one.)

So what if we drop yet another un-creative, Christian addition into this creativity pool? It only fits with our theme, ironically! Let’s look at the top six ways Christian culture ignores the best of human creativity—truth-telling, originality, and artistic expression—and is just the worst:

1. This TV kids’ cartoon that is the preachiest and most religious ever

This cartoon ran during the 1990s. It featured a team of kids who get special powers. They’re aided by a messianic figure clad in suspicious attire. These kids travel the planet to preach the one true message of salvation that can stop evil and save the world.

Who needs their message most? Maybe it’s the villains who are so over-the-top ridiculous. They’re caricatures. They have no complex motives like you’d see in the best non-Christian storytelling. They’re just eeeevil! Well, with that kind of simplistic, shallow portrayal of other human beings, you know there must be Christians involved. Just the worst!

2. Blatant Pixar ripoffs that teach hilarious moralistic lessons

Some Christians can’t stand it when the world has better stories than them. But what can these subpar “creators” do? Why, rip off the world, of course. In this case, a bunch of unoriginal evangelical believers working in low-rent sort-of-animation studios just up and stole from Pixar films, such as Up, Ratatouille, and of course Cars.

The results are as terrible as you’d expect, by all internet accounts. Such as this one thing, made by Christians. Here a rebellious teen car runs away from home, smokes cigarettes, and learns valuable lessons about not doing those things, plus peer pressure.

Come on, Christians! Why can’t you do better?

3. Disney knockoffs that steal princesses and other movies just to cash in

The world creates great stories, but Christians are just the worst at original things. That’s why only Christians rip off famous movies such as Disney movies.

Here we see the wild Christian who just wants to push religious values, instead of valuing art. Instead of making his own culture, he appropriates Disney culture of princesses and fairy tales. These Christians can’t even release this shlock to theaters. They have to go direct-to-video.

Just the worst.

4. This terrible new movie with no story, only sermonizing

Sure, Christians are all about truth. But why do they talk about it all the time in everything they make? Why do they cut creative corners and drone on and on about their beliefs, even when no one is listening? Yet somehow they keep getting money for these new “artistic” projects that don’t care for story, but repeat the same boring sermons over and over.

With this example, you probably didn’t even know it had released to theaters even now. This kind of faith propaganda, over story, is worse than inconvenient. It’s just the worst.

5. Cutesy, kitschy, or even offensive products that don’t reflect reality

“Jesus junk” is altogether terrible. You’ve probably seen this stuff at your grandparents’ house, even if they’re not Christians. Usually it’s plastic or ceramic figures, called “collectibles” because “collect” is all you can do with them. They have these cutesy faces and/or some kind of tie-in to Route 66, Christmas, or Elvis Presley.

In fact, there are too many varieties to list here. So we can’t even share a photo. We also avoid showing examples, because some of these things repeat “retro” notions like sexism and racism. Clearly only Christian culture can be responsible for this sort of thing. But only other Christians eat this stuff up.

6. This kids’ movie with cute animals preaching their fake religion, and this YA movie series about a woman with no other personality or goals and so she only lives for the affections of a kinda-rapey monster man

7. BONUS: this breakfast cereal

Christians can’t leave well-enough alone. Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes brand cereal is fine on its own. No one needs to come along with some kind of “Jesus”-ified improvement. It only turns out terrible, as you can see below (the cereal clearly made by Christian culture is at the far right):

Amazing. Christian culture is just the worst!

The publishing landscape has changed drastically since I first started working full time as a writer back in 2002. Then traditional publishers ruled the roost, and Christian houses associated with the Evangelical Christian Publishing Association bowed to the dictates of the almighty Christian Booksellers Association (CBA). Almost all Christian book stores were beholden to the CBA and what “they” said their customers wanted. And general market book stores cloistered books published by Christian houses, even the fiction, in a “religion” section.

Christian speculative fiction was in no man’s land. Christian publishers didn’t want it. In fact, one editor told me that his house would never publish fantasy. Ever. General market houses weren’t looking for stories, even speculative ones, that had an overt gospel message. Self-published books did not have a good reputation, but that was often the only option left open to Christian speculative writers.

Now, a mere fifteen years later, things are different. Radically different. That editor I mentioned who said his house would never publish fantasy? He’s acquired at least two fantasy authors that I know about. In addition, Amazon. Now there’s an outlet for self-published books that did not exist before. And e-books. Publishing no longer requires a company; e-readers have made stories by anyone available to the public.

I could go on about book store closures, both general market and Christian, and about the proliferation of small presses that do not adhere to the strictures of the CBA. I’ll just mention the shrinking number of traditional Christian publishers, some no longer putting out fiction and some bought up and re-imaged as an imprint of one of the general market publishers

But perhaps most revolutionary has been the ease of and the more positive attitude toward self-publishing. Now, quite realistically, anyone can publish a book, and we’re not just talking about e-books.

Many people have opted for self-publishing with the dream of becoming rich. A few people have, in fact, sold so well that they have garnered attention from the media, and have made their authors a good deal of money. After all, there are no middlemen.

But is such selling success the norm? Not at all, just as every traditionally published book won’t make it to the New York Times best-seller list.

So why self-publish? You have no public relations arm of a traditional house getting the word out about your book. You have to do that yourself. But the reality is, even with traditionally published books, the PR offered an author is minimal. Mostly authors are expected to do the work themselves.

So if authors are to promote their own book anyway, the thinking goes, why not self-publish?

Why not?

Not so long ago, book awards were not open to self-published works. For example, a few short years ago, self-published books were not eligible for the Pulitzer Prize, for the Christy Award, or the Carol Award. As late as August 2013, The Guardian ran an article entitled “Why is self-publishing still scorned by literary awards?” that noted

Most literary awards are closed to self-published books. Entry criteria for the Booker prize state that “self-published books are not eligible where the author is the publisher or where a company has been specifically set up to publish that book”, while the Bailey’s women’s prize for fiction stipulates that books must come from a “bone fide imprint”.

Four years later, that article is obsolete.

Less than a decade ago there were actually perceived publishing wars between authors, as addressed in a Forbes article produced five years ago. The author, David Vinjamuri, had this to say about the attitude of authors in the general market:

There is something very odd about this war of words between successful authors on different sides of a tectonic shift in the publishing world: it doesn’t exist in many similar industries facing the same sort of technological upheaval. You don’t hear Christina Aguilera or Adam Levine knocking indie bands. Instead they joined a show called “The Voice” which aims to capitalize on the credibility of indie artists by finding journeyman artists and giving them a shot at major label contracts. Indie filmmakers are revered, not reviled, partly because they eschew the studio system and its constraints on artistic expression. And the art world seems keenly attuned to the idea that the next Georgia O’Keeffe might be producing revolutionary work somewhere out of their sight from “Publishing Is Broken, We’re Drowning In Indie Books – And That’s A Good Thing”)

But things have changed!

For example, self-publishing co-ops have come into being that help authors with things like editing, book covers, formatting, and promoting. The end result is a good product, and the author reaps the benefit of books sold.

Still, promotion remains the fly in the honey pot of self-publishing success. How can a writer distinguish himself from all the other books—traditional, small press, and self-published—that are out there?

One answer, among many others, is to utilize Spec Faith’s library, both as a reader and as a writer. Books here, whether self-pubbed or traditional, are on an even footing. All they need are reviews to point other visitors to the ones to buy.

Another answer is to get involved with the Lorehaven project to introduce book clubs to churches. As someone involved in the process, you might be able to insert self-pubbd books into consideration.

But in the end, what does self-publishing accomplish? The number one answer to that question is, it breaches the barrier that used to exist, preventing many good writers from getting their work into print.

Will it make an author rich? Will it provide a living wage? Maybe, but the percentages of such are low.

Will it give books a chance that would otherwise have none? Absolutely. If a book has what publishers perceive as a “niche” audience, they were not inclined to publish them. If some content crossed some forbidden line, those books were not picked up either. But with self-publishing, the risks—and the rewards—are all the authors. So publishing, which once seemed like an endeavor by only a select few, decided by self-appointed experts, is now open to anyone willing to put in the work. The level of success is up to the author. And the definition of success is also up to the author.

Frayed

DarkTrench Shadow Book One by Kerry Nietz

INTRODUCTION—Frayed by Kerry Nietz, winner of the Realm Award Book of the Year.

ThreadBare is a debugger. He’s property, one of the Imam’s vast pool of implanted servants. He lives in a smelly, greasy garage on the boundary of the battlefield known as Delusion. All he wants is to complete his tasks, exceed his rival BullHammer, and stay alive. Possibly get a promotion.

When an atypical chore brings Thread into contact with Sandfly and HardCandy, things get complicated. Day by day and task by task he struggles with the life he’s always known. Ideas plague him, brutality vexes him, and women distract him.

Then there’s the list of offline debuggers, those who’ve quietly disappeared. Through datamixes—dreamlike records of their lives=–Thread tries to uncover the truth. Where did they go? What does it all mean? And what can one forgotten debugger do about it anyway?

FRAYED by Kerry Nietz — EXCERPT

2000 AH, Day 34, 12:04:07 a.m.
[Great River Stockyard]

I’m lowlevel. I’m nobody.

I’m also jittery, but I can’t help that. I’m in a graveyard. A technological wasteland. The sky is dark, as it would be in any scary tale. There is no rain, but there are flashes along the horizon. I don’t know if they are moving toward me, or away. The stream, the information current that flows through the implant in my head, says the trouble is over. The storm has passed. But I don’t think it ever does. Not in the today. Not in the Imam’s world.

“Thread?”

The message itches my implant, but I ignore it. Bull is trying to start again. Happens every time he’s near. The competition. The quest for significance.

I simply keep moving forward. Try to focus on the problem. To find one particular problem, I mean, and fix that. I’m surrounded by them. I’m in an expansive stockyard. Behind me is the Great River—if I listen close, I can hear its billowing torrent.

Ahead and around me are the shells of dead machines. Most of them are driftbarges. Barges are heavy, lumbering conveyances. There’s nothing pretty about them. They have triangular control sections in front and back, and a self-loading bay in the middle. They take product all over the country, all on their own. Oh, and they hover.

Except none of these do. They’re dead, dead, dead. I’ve counted at least a dozen so far. I’m searching for the beginning of this mess. For something that is moving aside from me.

“Come on, BareBare, I know you’re out there. I can feel your slippery implant from here. Speak up. What do you say? Are we competing or not?”

“I’m busy, Bull,” I send back.

Hazers, why do I attract them? No matter where I go. No matter what I am.

I touch the side of the barge to my right. It is smooth, wet, and ice cold. Sickly even. I pull my hand back and try to rub the moisture away. Feels like there’s some oil on it too. Sticks. Doesn’t wan to leave. I move ahead.

I smell the next barge before I see it. Something about its refrigeration unit has to be bad. That would be in the bay section somewhere, I think. I rarely work on barges. The storm brought all of us out. All the debuggers. Masters’ orders!

Usually I work on the nasty stuff—the stuff that kills people. They’re big and heavy too, of course. This disaster is an opportunity for me. To do something different. Maybe get noticed.

Thankfully, the barge’s specifications are in the stream where I can reach them. As I approach the rear section, I use the teardrop in my head to search. The barge is an X-34 model. Really recent. It should be working. They’re supposed to be foolproof. I’m young, but I learned early that almost nothing is foolproof, no matter what they say.

The specs light up my vision center, filling my mind. I bring up a map of the barge, and standing about two meters from it, rotate the map so it outlines my machine. I search for the fridge unit. Map says it is in the exact center, about halfway up.

That means a bit of a climb—if I can get the thing to extend handholds for me. I sing out to the barge. It give me a soft, almost wounded, rely. There’s more than one system gone in this thing. I have an unsettled feeling. It won’t be quick. I wish it was quick. I need quick.

I ask for the handholds. There is some hesitation, but then they pop free of the barge’s side. Nice, except they don’t extend all the way.

I ask again. There’s a grating sound and the handholds ease out a little more. I can barely get my fingertips around them, but it will have to do. I climb a couple steps up, and balance there. It isn’t comfortable.

“Place is a zoo,” Bull streams me. “You do all this?”

Again, I ignore. Frowning, I ease the supply bag off my back. I lean into the machine for leverage and feel around in the bag for a roll of sheets. There should be a whole cylinder of them in there somewhere. Rails, balancing is awkward. I swear and heave the bag back on. I’ll try code riding first. It would be better to focus that way, anyway. Get my mind off the spooky.

“Still,” Bull streams. “Isn’t so bad. Can probably handle it myself. Four fixes to win. What do you say?”

– – – – –

AUTHOR BIO—Kerry Nietz

Kerry Nietz is a refugee of the software industry. He spent more than a decade of his life flipping bits, first as one of the principal developers of the database product FoxPro for the now mythical Fox Software, and then as one of Bill Gates’s minions at Microsoft. He is a husband, a father, a technophile and a movie buff. He is the author of several award-winning novels, including A Star Curiously Singing, Freeheads, and Amish Vampires in Space. You can follow Kerry at his web site or on a variety of social media sites such as Facebook or Twitter.

All “geeks” are fantastic story fans. But not all fantastic story fans are geeks.

And when we as Christians-who-are-fans speak of being “geeky,” or fully embrace the “geek” identity by name, we risk accidentally sidelining other family members.

Cases in point: my friends Mike Duran, Rebecca LuElla Miller, and Adam Graham.

After the Realm Makers conference, Mike shared his reaction:

I like a lot of the same characters and stories my fellow writers like. Star Wars. Star Trek. X-Men. Captain America. The Flash. Harry Potter. Vampires. Werewolves. I’m into all that stuff…. I’m just not SO into them that I want to dress up as a Jedi Knight, a Transformer, or a zombie and memorize the canonical histories of said characters.

Rebecca flashes back to the shifting definition of the term “geek” and notes:

My passion is more for making Christ known, and if that happens in a contemporary novel or a mystery or romance, then I am just as happy to tell others about those books. I have no burning desire to read a book just because it is speculative.

Adam points to real-world constraints on someone trying to be “into all things geeky”:

Even if you are the stereotypical doesn’t go to work and lives in parents basement eating junk food sort of geek, you can’t be into “all things geeky.” I’m certainly not into “all things geeky.” Like most geeky people (particularly those who practice the ancient art of employment,”) I’m a specialist.

I can empathize with this, more so in the past than the present. Right now, even the anime people have gotten to me. I’ve seen nearly every episode of every Star Trek series. I read more fantasy and science fiction. I’m getting comfortable with the whole “cosplay” thing. But back when I’d started, other fans were running rings around me.¹

Yet in all of our public thoughts on the label “geek,” I detect one common factor.

Everyone is asking the question, “Do I belong among Christians who are fans?”

Clearly, even in a group designed to find all the people with “different” interests, one very human problem recurs: people will still sense they are different from others.

Even in groups, conferences, and internet communities, the “cool” people seem to rise to the top. And “uncool” people—people who may prefer football over Star Wars, or prefer Christian “clean” fantasy over edgy speculation—will be left asking this same question:

‘Do I belong among Christians who are fans?’ Simple answer: Yes.

If you are a Christian, and a fan of any fantastic story, yes, you belong in the community of Christian fans. This is because you’re more than a fan, or a “geek,” or even an evangelist, or even a Christian. You have worth not just because “God made you special and he loves you very much,” but because He imprinted you with His very image, the imago Dei.

This means you were made to reflect God back to him. Yes, that reflection was broken by sin. But if you believe in Jesus your savior and want to love Him more than your own sin, then Jesus, the “image of the invisible God,”² repairs this image.

That’s good theology. And good theology alone can help fix our self-image problems: which include either self-exaltation or self-despising. As Narnia’s great lion Aslan would say:

“You come of the Lord Adam and the Lady Eve. … And that is both honour enough to erect the head of the poorest beggar, and shame enough to bow the shoulders of the greatest emperor on earth. Be content.”

Humans are united in this God-given ancestry. Redeemed humans are also united in Jesus’s family. We’ve become one in the Church. This ought to shape our questions of belonging.³

If we’re united as Christians and fans, should we use the label ‘geek’?

If Christians, who enjoy fantastic stories, gather together to learn and explore and simply delight in Jesus and His gifts of these stories, what should we call ourselves if not “geeks”?

Many websites happily adopt the label, such as Christian Geek Central and Geekdom House.⁴

For my part, I’m agnostic about the term “geek.”

To me, the label “geek” still holds a few bad associations:

1. Geeks may obsess about stories’ minutiae, and rank those who don’t as “lesser” geeks.
2. They may form cliques and celebrity-worship among themselves, just like any humans.
3. Geeks may value “weirdness” for its own sake, without recognizing that most of the human race has enjoyed supernatural or weird stories for thousands of years. In fact, this impulse is how we got our other (false) religions. So there’s no hipster-movement pride in enjoying fantastic stories. In fact, this is a mainstream human preference.
4. Geeks may value arguably shallow entertainment over transcendent ideas, and even over the transcendent Person, Jesus Christ. (And thus some in the geek community can fall right back into the kind of partisan, legalistic religion you’d think they’d rejected.)

But to me, the label “geek” also makes me think of good associations:

1. Geeks may take their enjoyment of long-form, complex stories, and turn this pursuit toward identical enjoyment of long-form, complex ideas, even biblical doctrine.
2. Geeks appropriate what used to be a negative label, or slander, and “redeem” it with joy. At cons and groups, “geeks” may welcome, and not reject, other strange people.
3. Geeks may understand and embrace the value of feeling peculiar, strange, or weird. This is a vital calling for Christians to follow, over the need to feel accepted, proper, or relevant.⁵
4. Geeks may find freedom, not legalistic religion redux, in their enjoyments. For the “Christian geek,” or Christian fan, they may see Jesus and the gospel made “fresh” by some of their favorite stories, and be drawn closer to biblical truth and His grace.

Among people who share my negative ideas, I wouldn’t use the label “geek.” I’d rather more people see that fantastic-story enjoyment is no novelty for this generation. It’s a shared human experience that unites us, and should draw us closer to our fantastic Creator.

But among people who share my positive ideas, I would use the label “geek.” I’d rather more people see that Christians should naturally feel strange and a little awkward for believing this faith and worshiping a resurrected Jewish carpenter from the first century. And I’d rather we feel united in “geeky” love for this Story-of-stories, above all others.

Sign up for updates about our new book-club-starting magazine at Lorehaven.com (soon to be integrated with Speculative Faith’s website).

Which leads me to answer Rebecca’s great thought at the end of her Monday article:

I think of this in particular because of the launch of the new magazine, Lorehaven which intends, among other things, to create book clubs among Christians in churches. I’m not sure “come join our geekiness” will win a lot of people to such an endeavor.

“Come join our geekiness” may draw a few people to a Lorehaven book club. But not all.

If you start a book club—watch for updates about how!—your group’s mileage may vary.

Yet for my Lorehaven book club, coming this September, I doubt I’ll use the term a lot. I’d rather show I love these stories because they help me love my Savior. And I’d rather show that “being a geek” is no strange novelty. Rather, humanity’s natural-born love for fantastic stories should unite all persons who love Jesus more than such stories—whether or not they cosplay, swap superhero trivia, or act holier-than-thou in any particular fandom.

Everyone has their limit. Their breaking point. Some run at the first sign of trouble, while others stick it out for a while longer, hoping that things will turn around. Some people, no matter how bad it gets, no matter the grueling torture it takes to keep going just one second more, hang in there to the bitter end, collapsing in exhaustion not because they enjoyed the ride, but simply because it’s over. And then there are some people, like me, who shrug and say, “Nah, it’s not worth it,” and move on without much hand-wringing.

Let me tell you why I quit two of the most popular TV shows of the 21st century, Game of Thrones and The Walking Dead.

Copyright HBO

Let’s start with GoT. I never read the books. I never even heard of the series until one of my nerdier friends told me about this awesome new show they were working on. I’m a casual fantasy fan and I thought, why not give it a try. Like pretty much everyone else, I was hooked from the first episode. Sure, there was blood and butts and boobs, but it was an HBO series and I knew what I was getting into (at the time, I had recently finished The Wire and Oz, two very adult programs). I’ve always been a sucker for medieval-style stories and GoT had an impressive cast and massive budget, so what was there not to like?

However, by the third season, my attention was starting to wane. I was getting tired of the incessant glorification of promiscuity and supposedly empowering nobility of prostitution, along with a story that seemed to move slower than George R.R. Martin’s typing speed. It seemed like the stage was always being set with the promise of something unbelievably awesome, and something would happen, but it would only set the stage for something further down the road. I don’t consider myself an impatient person but I rarely have trouble walking away from something if I feel like it’s going nowhere.

So I quit GoT after three seasons. I cringed when I saw the “Red Wedding” and chuckled at the moment that made SJWs everywhere froth and foam, when the dark-skinned slaves of Yunkai hoisted blonde-haired, white-skinned Daenerys above their heads and called her “mother.” I was tired of White Walkers just walking and Tyrion Lannister drink and condescend and wax poetic. I don’t get twisted up by on-screen nudity or gore but when a show revels in these things, it’s not a hard choice to change the channel.

Copyright AMC

I stuck with The Walking Dead a bit longer. Six seasons to be exact. I live in suburban Atlanta so it was cool to see a show that was filmed in my backyard, and the lush Georgia scenery makes me want to get in the car and drive down some back roads. TWD lacks the pornographic aspect of GoT, and while the gore is pretty much at the top of the TV food chain (I still can’t believe the show was rated TV-14 for several episodes), it was mostly zombies that were getting grounded and pounded so it gets a pass. No, I left because of the show’s insistence on nihilism, repetition, and predictability.

Season Three of TWD was the last season that I really enjoyed. After that, it felt like it was just spinning its wheels. Like Rick and Co., the show was wandering around, trying to stay alive (creatively, not financially). When Negan showed up with his ludicrous persona and equally-ludicrous weapon, I knew I wasn’t going to stick around. When he ended up killing Abraham (a character of little consequence and abundant mustache) and Glenn (in accordance with the comic book), I bailed. Everyone told me that I would be back, but I made good on my promise. I don’t even know what’s been happening or who is still alive.

I wish I was able to stick around for these shows. They started out so strong, and many people would contend that they are still going strong. I’ve always been a plot-over-characters person and I won’t keep watching just to see my favorite hero or heroine kick butt or get together with their love interest. I want to know that something crucial is going to happen and I don’t want to be able to predict what is coming. Since becoming a writer several years ago, I’ve found myself increasingly able to see where storylines are going or even predict the next line of dialogue, and I’m sure most writers can relate.

I guess the moral of my story is: if you feel that you should bail, then bail, especially if your conscience is bothered. There are plenty of other great stories and shows out there. They don’t have to be uplifting or always positive, but they should be fun in some way. There’s no honor in entertainment drudgery.

And don’t get me started on Supernatural.