Night of the Living Dead Christian, by Matt Mikalatos. March 2012 CSFF Blog Tour, Day 2

Night of the Living Dead Christian has a mix of reviews on Amazon.

The lowest rated review was a single two-star in which the person simply said he could not get into the book, which happens, of course. I’m sure there are many out there who would find it hard to get into the Harry Potter books, though I suspect they are related to Charles Winchester III.

I read several of the three star reviews. They generally came down on the favorable side, but often just barely. Questionable use of zany humor, an odd presence of werewolves and zombies, and an incoherent flow of the story were some of the reasons proffered for the unenthusiastic ratings. Regardless, there is one thing that they all seemed to get from the story, and that was the need for transformation.

I agree with that. Transformation, and more precisely, transformation that comes only from Christ is the essential message of the book.

But there are some serious problems. In a post for a previous blog tour I argued that a novel is robustly Christian only if it brings the salient truths of the gospel into the story (October 2011 Tour, Day Three – The Bone House. I restricted the scope of those truths to the reformed doctrines of grace defined by the acronym, TULIP (Total Depravity, Unconditional Election, Limited Atonement, Irresistible Grace, and Perseverance of the Saints). I believe the doctrines of grace are a correct and therefore biblical understanding of what the gospel is. As such, they are the measuring rod for what makes a story Christian. In my estimation, Night of the Living Dead Christian fails to meet that standard.

The failure is at the point of Total Depravity. Total Depravity is simply this, that every person born into this world is a sinner. Each of us are conceived in sin (sinners from the moment of conception) as David testifies, “Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me”, Psalm 51:5. There is nothing good in us, nothing that seeks after God or his ways. There is nothing in us that enables us to seek him because the spiritual things of God are things the natural man is incapable of understanding, 1 Cor 2:14. It is not that he tries to understand them but for whatever reason, fails to. It is that the things of God are foolishness to him and he does not want to have anything to do with them.

The werewolf Luther Martin, the character that the story centers on, is not like this. We catch this early on, in the werewolf’s own words:

None of use desire to remain wolves. All of us desire to remain wolves. It is the nature of the werewolf to be both man and wolf, and for many years I was satisfied – no, pleased – to be both man and wolf. (p 47)

The imagery (or allegory, if you will) of a werewolf as representing the unconverted man is wrong. Here is the picture: the base, amoral animal nature of the wolf represents the bad of human nature while the intelligent, sane and moral nature of the man represents the good. But the sinner from birth does not have a good side. In fact, a werewolf like the one in our story, who has two conflicting natures at war with each other, can only be true of the Christian, for the Christian alone is the one who has been freed from his sin which seeks to regain mastery over him –

For the desires of the flesh are against the Spirit, and the desires of the Spirit are against the flesh, for these are opposed to each other, to keep you from doing the things you want to do (Gal 5:17).

Luther Martin is no such Christian. Though he grew up in the home of a Lutheran minister, he rejects any claim to be a Christian. He paints some of the integral doctrines of the Christian faith in farcical terms. The reformed doctrine of Unconditional Election is treated this way, as well as the significance of the atonement:

Thus we come to the likewise ridiculous Christian sentiment that he [God] has “chosen” or “elected” us to be in relationship with him, and that he loves us and adopts us as his progeny. It is like saying I have tipped over an anthill and selected certain ones of them to be my children. Not merely that, but I have chosen to sacrifice my human child so their accursed anthill can be spared destruction, and that I am making this handful of ants the heirs of my vast estate – of my house, my car, my food, my clothes, my money. Certainly this comparison does not even begin to scratch the surface of the ridiculous claims of the Christian faith. (p 156)

This underscores that the gospel is foolishness to the sinner, and Luther Martin is such a sinner. Matt Mikalatos’s use of a werewolf to represent the condition of human beings without the grace of God in Christ is simply wrong.

One might counter by saying that any allegory is going to breakdown at some point and that you cannot expect a one-to-one correspondence between the allegorical character and the real-life one which it represents. I agree, but the werewolf was chosen because, in Mr. Mikalatos’s theology, the sinner is not totally depraved, just as the werewolf is not totally animal.

That is a serious flaw in the theology that underlies Mr. Mikalatos’s novel, and it has serious implications. I will address this more in my third post.

Thanks to Saltriver (Tyndale House Publishers) for kindly providing a copy of Night of the Living Dead Christian for review on the March 2012 Christian Science Fiction and Fantasy Blog Tour.

Matt Mikalatos’s Web Page
List of CSFF Blog Tour Participants
Night of the Living Dead Christian on Amazon.

Night of the Living Dead Christian, by Matt Mikalatos. March 2012 CSFF Blog Tour, Day 1

Matt Mikalatos, the author and first person protagonist, has assumed the responsibility of neighborhood watch. On the particular evening in which the story opens, Matt comes across Dr. Culberton, the stereotypical mad scientist who, especially at this first encounter, has a remarkable resemblance to Dr. Emmet Brown of Back to the Future. Culberton is assisted by his android, The Hibbs 3000. Together they are in search of werewolves, not to kill, necessarily, but to study and cure if possible. Their mission, in the words of Culberton, “is both a spiritual and a scientific endeavor.”

Though I have never read Imaginary Jesus, what I have heard, especially in the endorsements for that novel, Matt Mikalatos (the real one, that is) is noted for a zany humor, which not only makes the reader laugh but also facilitates the conveyance of the message. Obviously, I am not against humor, I like to laugh as much as the next person, and because of that, I have a fondness for some zany characters that some might raise an eyebrow at – Spongebob Squarepants, for instance. Humor can do many things for a story, the most important of which is to enhance its friendliness. In Night of the Living Dead, it often worked well, but sometimes it got in the way. With such a humorous tone, I think a reader’s tendency is too often to look for the next laugh and miss the message. A rereading of the book might be necessary to scoop up what eludes the first time round. It also poses several general questions about humor’s contribution: Is it natural? Does it underscore? Does it detract? Can it be overbearing? Can it be monotonous?

But it is not the humor that I am concerned about.

Monsters wend their way in and out, representing loosely allegorical situations and phenomena of the way Christianity is perceived and practiced. For me, and it may be because I’m rather thick-headed when it comes to allegory, I did not make what probably should have been obvious connections until the author was kind enough to tie pieces together at the end. The fact that I wasn’t getting it as I was reading was a little frustrating, but I knew that was mostly on me, and I was pretty confident that the author suspected there were some boneheads like me out there, and that he would help us out.

Regardless, it is not the allegory that I am concerned about.

I did not miss the most obvious connection, and that is the werewolf the story settles onto, and more particularly the quest for a cure. The predicament of the werewolf was that he became something that he could not help to become, something vile and violent and offensive, which destroys the most intimate human bond he had – his marriage. To be cured is something the werewolf wants to do, and at the same time, does not want to do. That antinomy serves as a premise that underlies the theology of the novel. The werewolf is the quintessential allegory of the book. The message and theology of the story center on him. If you understand the werewolf, you understand what the novel is trying to say about the gospel.

I think many are of the same mind as Chris Fabry (Almost Heaven), whose endorsing remark succinctly states what the reader of NLDC is faced with. Chris writes:

“Matt Mikalatos gets what the gospel is all about. It’s not about reform or spiritual cosmetology. We’re dead, we’re monstrous, we’re enemies of God. But because of his great mercy, he desires a relationship. He wants us to become like him”

I agree with the part about our condition as dead and enemies of God, but the werewolf of Mr. Mikalatos’s story is not really like that. The second part about what God desires is iffy as well. How so? And what is at the root of the theology of Matt’s book? Those are things I want to get into with tomorrow’s post.

Thanks to Saltriver (Tyndale House Publishers) for kindly providing a copy of Night of the Living Dead Christian for review on the March 2012 Christian Science Fiction and Fantasy Blog Tour.

Matt Mikalatos’s Web Page
List of CSFF Blog Tour Participants
Night of the Living Dead Christian on Amazon.

Contract With the Reader? What's the Intrigue About That?

Sally Apokedak, a participant of the Christian Science Fiction and Fantasy Blog Tour, recently published a blog titled, Contract With the Reader in which she challenges others to submit the first 150 words of their story’s opening. The purpose is to allow peers to review and critique the writing from the perspective of whether or not they fulfill the ‘contract with the reader.’ Unfortunately, the blog does not provide a precise definition of what that contract is. Rebecca Luella Miller responds in a comment, "If I’m understanding correctly, the contract is more about tone, character, and conflict."

What is this contract? Ed McBain (an accomplished author whom Stephen King thought highly of, and that’s saying something) wrote an article, Nature of the Beast, in which he delineates what he means by a contract with the reader, and is well worth a look. He states the contract as follows:

I know all the rules of mystery writing, and I promise that I will observe them so long as they provide a novel that will keep you fascinated, intrigued, and entertained. If they get in the way of that basic need, I'll either bend the rules or break them, but I will never cheat the reader. Never.

He goes on to explain how that contract works from the perspective of a mystery writer, that is, what it will take for him to keep the reader “fascinated, intrigued, and entertained.”

It was interesting to read the observations made on Sally’s post in response to the several 150-word entries, and it seems to me that most of them were off point. They questioned POV (too omniscient for some), were preoccupied with whether or not the reader could discern the genre, made judgments about the pace the story would likely take on, worried over bringing the character to life, and so on.

I think it is much ado about nothing. Now, I’m not disparaging the importance of the opening, the initial paragraph(s) of a story. They are extremely important. Really, they’re a matter of life or death, figuratively speaking, of course.

What must they do?

Hook by intrigue. Whatever the purpose the author may be investing in these initial lines for the rest of the story, they must above all intrigue the reader. In contradistinction to the concerns expressed by many over the 150 word entries, intrigue is not dependant on signaling what kind of story you’re getting into, introducing the protagonist or antagonist, promising action and fast pace, jerking the heart strings, and so on. It is simply coherent writing that begins a story from point zero, where absolutely nothing is known, and creating an impression that has enough fascination that will keep the reader going because it’s not boring.

I've grabbed two books within arm’s reach, C. S. Lewis's, Out of the Silent Planet, and J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, and in them I find the first 150 words hooking the born reader from the start. They aren’t action-packed scenes; they don’t dazzle with wondrous description, offer any certainty of the importance of the characters, or relate interior monologue. They start out small, as they must, but they pique the interest.

Consider Lewis's Pedestrian. He’s just evaded a drenching by taking shelter under a tree, and is concerned to get to a place where he can stay the night (as evening is coming on) having been denied accommodations in the town he just passed through. The POV is omniscient, the Pedestrian is the protagonist, but we have no clue that that is so, yet. We can't tell if this is going to be a mystery, a fantasy, or a historical novel. Who cares. It's intriguing! It's slow, but again, who cares? The intrigue is the hook and the bridge to what follows.

Rowling's opening starts out with the Dursley's. They’re probably important, but there is no certainty as to what role they will have. All we know is that they are a bunch of fuddy-duddies who, if we knew them, would never expect them to be involved in anything strange or mysterious. Now, that in itself is a strong hint that the story's going to be about the unusual, but you don't know if it is going to be fantasy, science fiction, or simply a series of ordinary events that taken together turn out to be extremely odd. She devotes much to a description of Vernon and Petunia (though we don't know their names yet), which props up their persona as prim and proper, ne'er-do-wrong, snobs. They’re intriguing characters, and you can’t help but keep reading to satisfy that gnawing eagerness to see what’s going on.

Regarding the first 150 words, regardless of what kind of contract you think you have with the reader, the thing you must do is intrigue him with the first sentence or two, and build on it.

Here's Lewis's first sentence:

The last drops of the thundershower had hardly ceased falling when the Pedestrian stuffed his map into his pocket, settled his pack more comfortably on his tired shoulders, and stepped out from the shelter of a large chestnut-tree into the middle of the road.

No power-packed action or breathtaking description. Simple, picturesque, and curious.

Here’s Rowling’s first sentence:

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.

My reaction: a smile and the thought, Whoa, this ought to be good.

Here are more examples where I think intrigue is at the heart of the opening lines. Some give a strong sense of what the genre is. Only two give it with any certainty.

Janner Igiby lay trembling in his bed with his eyes shut tight, listening to the dreadful sound of the Black Carriage rattling along in the moonlight.

--Andrew Peterson, On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness.

From a snug in the corner of the Museum Tavern, Douglas Flinders-Petrie dipped a sop of bread into the gravy of his steak and kidney pudding and watched the entrance to the British Museum across the street.

--Stephen R. Lawhead, The Bone House.

It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office, reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind.

--J. K. Rowing, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton.

--J. R. R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring.

Most everyone in Utah remembers 1896 as the year the territory became a state. But in Adenville it was celebrated by all the kids in town and by Papa and Mamma as the time of the The Great Brain’s reformation.

--John D. Fitzgerald, The Great Brain.

This is the story of an idea and how it played about in the minds of a number of intelligent peoples.

--H. G. Wells, Star Begotten.

Keryn Wills was in the shower when she figured out how to kill Josh Trenton.

--Randall Ingermanson, Double Vision.

“On a post. In a pond.”

Delaney said the words aloud, not because anyone could hear him but because the words needed saying.

--George Bryan Polivka, Blaggard’s Moon.

The year 1866 was marked by a series of remarkable incidents, and a mysterious phenomenon that excited people everywhere.

--Jules Verne, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.

Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin.

---A. A. Milne, The Complete Tales of Winnie the Pooh.

The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms.

---Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows.

February 2012 CSFF Blog Tour, Day 3 The Realms Thereunder, Ross Lawhead

At least one member of the blog tour (none other than RLM) found the episode of Daniel in Elfland the most interesting. Frankly, there is so much that one can choose from. I also found the tale delightful. It was an interesting twist in the book. Daniel does not go back to the zany subterranean world of yfelgopes, cranky wizards, and blind women on an island in a dried up ocean, stone cities, and such. The contrast could not be starker.

As soon as Daniel arrives he is aware of a potent difference, even from the normal world he had come from; it seems to be the expansiveness of the place (and as we learn later, the time too) - there is the sun in the sky, a forest on the distant horizon, a lone mountain on the other, and a vast uninhabited, unobstructed green meadow. One has the impression that there is a powerful presence there, not apart from but immanent in the world. How immanent?

Daniel heads for the forest (a contrast to the stone under-world of Niðergeard) where he is approached by Kay Marrey who informs Daniel he is in Elfland - the Faerie realms. Daniel’s experiences in this land are loaded with anticipation for the further unfolding of the story itself. Kay explains that in the Faerie realms, objects have ownership. To put it in unvarnished terms, the inanimate has personhood! The paper that Daniel was given at St. Michael's church, just before he passed through the lych-gate into Faerie land, turns out to be a leaf. 

   Kay reached into the front pocket and pulled out the slip of paper that Daniel had been given. Except now, when Kay held it, Daniel saw that it was a leaf. A large yellow oak leaf.

   “Where did that come from?” Daniel asked.

   Kay Marrey held it upright by the stem, between his thumb and forefinger. “You were given this, yes? In your world. Did you know what it was?”

   “At first, I thought it was money.”

   Kay nodded. “It is a leaf of a different wood. It was taken to your world as a way to mark and snare you.” (p 115) 

Interesting. Given that the material stuff of Elfland holds the immaterial quality of ownership, it looks as if the leaf was used by someone not to merely send Daniel to that world, but to make him a permanent vassal there. Why? And how did the one who passed it to Daniel in this world, at the church, get it? That’s important as we learn that person's identity to be one of those critters that Daniel runs into at the beginning of the novel, who obviously would be entirely out of place in Elfland - not a native inhabitant. Are there insiders there cooperating with outsiders?

There is something about Elfland that is disturbing, however. The notion of ownership by the inanimate is disturbing enough. But it goes even deeper. This comes out when Daniel reveals to Kaeyle (the stoic charcoal maker) and his wife, Pettyl (love that name!), that he has made an arrangement with the merchant, Reizger Lokkich, by which he would return to his (and our) world. Kaeyle is doubtful. 

   Kaeyle ... said to him. “Daniel, don’t do this new deal. Stay with us for the next few days and take the surer, more natural route home.”

   “No, I have to get back soon. I’ve heard my friend’s voice calling me--twice now. I just feel--I need to get back as soon as possible. She needs me.”

   “It may not be in the plan that you reach her so soon.”

   “Plan? What plan?”

   “The plan of the universe. The natural order that instructs all things, that guides the hearts of all living things.” 

Daniel is skeptical of the ‘Plan.’ Pettyl tries to explain. 

   “Don’t think of it as a plan--think of it as all of the created worlds working in an ideal state. Nothing is set, but things have a best course. Within this we may stay on our course, or travel a different one. If we go this other way, then we have made things disordered, and it may be difficult to correct after that. More, it may knock others out of alignment.” (p 308) 

This has the feel, though not the humor, of Dr. Emmett Brown warning Marty McFly that if they’re not careful they might disturb the space-time continuum and destroy the universe.

What is behind this? Deism? Panentheism? Open theism? Daniel follows the logic. 

   “...it seems to me like the universe needs a little helping hand to correct things. And if I can, then why shouldn’t I? Is it the ‘ideal state’ that good people suffer?”

   Daniel felt his blood warm and skin tingle. Things were falling into place now; it was getting clearer. “I was brought to this point by the universe--by God. This has happened to me before. Here I am, further away from my ‘ideal state’ than I’ve ever been. I’ve been put in an almost impossible situation, once again, and I know that I have the ability to win through and set things right. If there is a universal plan, then there’s no way I’m not a part of it. I’m probably the only one in this world who can fix things and the universe knows it--that’s why it brought me here. First I’ll fix this problem and then I’ll go back and fix my own.” 

There is a confusion of a personal God with an impersonal universe. Daniel is quite confused here and though there is a soul-zinging moment of clarity for him, an epiphany, and as dramatic as it is, it is an epiphany of delusion. I’m not chiding Mr. Lawhead at this point. On the contrary, it has great potential to bring the truth of the Triune God into bold relief. This is the precarious nature of Christian fantasy. It can sound like the author is advocating a pagan, non-Christian world-view, but he is not. He is setting it up for the truth to come thundering in, in due time. We will see what Mr. Lawhead does with this opportunity.

Thanks to Thomas Nelson for kindly providing a copy of The Realms Thereunder for review on the February 2012 Christian Science Fiction and Fantasy Blog Tour.

Ross Lawhead's Web Page
List of CSFF Blog Tour Participants
The Realms Thereunder on Amazon

February 2012 CSFF Blog Tour, Day 2 The Realms Thereunder by Ross Lawhead

There are several places in Mr. Lawhead’s novel that impinge directly upon the metaphysical and theological. Fantasy does that. Especially Christian fantasy wherein it is difficult to avoid conveying at least a minimal message to the reader. Perhaps even a subliminal one. As this is done by using the make-believe to tell us something about what is real, some Christians oppose fantasy: 

It becomes very difficult to separate fantasy from reality, especially in the minds of children. There was an interesting article in The Newhall Signal (newspaper) in light of this. Noting one of the teachings of the popular fantasy games, "Death is usually seen as a temporary state with characters returning 'from beyond' to play again..." -- from Christian Fantasy: Biblical or Oxymoron? 

I’m not sure what a fantasy (roll playing?) game has to do with the fantasy of literature, but the implication is that, especially for children, the ability to discern between fantasy and reality is difficult. In the article cited above, this point is made in the context of a broader assumption that fantasy contributes to a distorted discernment of the real. 

While God told us to continually communicate truth to our children (Deut. 6:5-7), today's culture trains children to see reality through a global, earth-centered filter. This "new" mental framework distorts truth, stretches the meaning of familiar words, and promotes mystical "insights" that are incompatible with Christianity. – ibid.

 I’ve written a brief article defending the case for the literary genre of fantasy and its use in imparting Christian truth, and it is not my intent here to present an apologetic for it.

But however one may come down on the issue, the writer of Christian fantasy has to concede that, by definition, the story must proffer elements of a world-view that simply does not exist. For me, as a writer and supporter of Christian fantasy, not only do I not see that as a contradiction of Christianity and biblical truth (the only kind of truth there is), but that it is well suited to do exactly the oppostie, convey biblical truth in a way that cannot be done through regular fiction or non-fiction. This places a great responsibility on the Christian writer to ensure that the story-world he creates (reflecting his Creator’s image in doing so) does not by negligence promote a non-Christian, pagan perspective of reality.

Freya, a key character of Mr. Lawhead’s novel, who has experienced the ‘reality’ of a fantasy world, struggles with the attitudes of those who would pooh-pooh that which they do not understand and have not experienced. After causing a scene by confronting the veracity of a lecturer’s position who began her talk with the opening words: 

“‘The Matter of Britain’ is the name that we give to the works that form up the early pseudo-histories of Britain...” (p 18)

 Freya wrestles with her conscience and motivation on the matter: 

“Why did she do it. What did it matter what people thought and believed, even if it was a lie? What right did she have to burst the fragile bubble of unreality [italics mine], what does it matter if they live a lie? Ignorance is blessing. It was futile to try to wake people up, so why did she do it? (p 22) 

Interesting this – an illustration of the educated scholar rejecting what cannot be proven historically or in the lab. The fantasy world created by Mr. Lawhead is part of a larger reality that includes both worlds, the one we live in and the one that only a few from our world have had the privilege of experiencing. And those who have not experienced it are unbelievers to the core.

Did Freya have the right ‘to burst the fragile bubble of unreality?’ Absolutely, because she knew the truth, she had experienced it first hand. She not only had the right, but the obligation.

Is this not what the Christian is to do? Is he not obligated to burst the bubble of unreality of those whose eyes have not been opened, and perchance God would use that bursting to open their eyes. Taking it into our arena as Christian writers of fantasy, should there not be at least some motivation to take that special gift God has given us and use it to manifest the real through the fantastic, in particular, the reality of the most fundamental biblical truths that center on Jesus Christ and his gospel?

Thanks to Thomas Nelson for kindly providing a copy of The Realms Thereunder for review on the February 2012 Christian Science Fiction and Fantasy Blog Tour.

Ross Lawhead's Web Page
List of CSFF Blog Tour Participants
The Realms Thereunder on Amazon

February 2012 CSFF Blog Tour, Day 1 - The Realms Thereunder, by Ross Lawhead

The two characters, Daniel and Freya, in the first book of the Ancient Earth trilogy, are played out in two different worlds (modern day England and a presumably Middle Ages fantasy world), at two different times (present day and eight years prior), and of two different ages (as teens and then as young adults in their early twenties). Ross Lawhead could have told the story in a more sequential manner, perhaps with book one strictly as the story of the fantasy adventure eight years prior. I suspect he may have contemplated that when the tale first started rattling round in his head, but as one thinks upon it, there are good reasons as to why it came out as it did.

For starters, there would have been no way around the fact that Daniel and Freya are not native residents of the fantasy world, that they had their origin in modern day earth, and that Lawhead would have had to get them from here to there anyhow. So there would have been an unavoidable merging of the two worlds from the start. Once there, if he had kept them there for the duration of the book, how much more he would have had to spend on that world. Which would have been appealing, seeing that the extra attention would likely have given the world more substance and development, and it probably would have made the story ten times easier to follow. But after having had the experience of tracing the back and forth of his father’s novels (The Skin Map and The Bone House) I really did not have much to complain with this regard.

There are really two stories to be told. Though the main characters Daniel and Freya are in both adventures, the world-view and maturity of the two are starkly different in each; the early experiences had a discernable affect that continues into the present day. Freya was a happy-go-lucky girl while Daniel was a school-hater with an unhappy home life, and a yearning for recognition. The present day Freya is an obsessive, nervous college student trying to avoid the past; Daniel lives on the streets in order to carry out a mission that understands and faces the past.

In the early tale Daniel and Freya discover a hidden crypt of sorts in a church they are visiting on a school field trip. This houses two knights who have been lying there for centuries, who awaken and play a substantial part in the rest of the story. Not able to leave the church and return home from the crypt, Daniel and Freya are forced to follow the two knights, Egcbryt [ETCH brit] and Swiðgar [SWIDTH gar], back to their world. Through the friendship and protection of these two, the youngsters are spared the devilry and murder of yfelgopes [EE fehl GOHP as] and eventually arrive at their destination, Niðergeard [NI thur gayrd], a subterranean city under threat of attack by the armies of Gad. From there the tale goes on to reveal what they must do to return home and how they accomplished that. It is laden with trial and danger.

The later story of Freya and Daniel in their early twenties involves a return by Daniel to that other world, and of Freya having to contend with influences and entities from that world in this one. What happens to each has a direct bearing on the outcome of the other, which unites them in the end.

Along the way the reader encounters a number of tantalizing creatures and personalities: Ealdstan [ee ELD stan] a cranky ancient wizard in Niðergeard; a wood burner (charcoal maker) in Elfland; eight blind women on an island in the (now dried up) Sleeping Ocean, whose labor is a constant weaving of a tapestry on which the continuous history of the world is embroidered; Neiman, a despicable yet pitiable half-faerie who causes women to become infatuated with him; the merchant Reizzger Lokkich who has murderous plans for Agrid Fiall, a greedy, merciless moneylender; a young dragon and two dead trolls (feasted upon by the dragon), and more.

The writing is quite good, though there are a few places in which some lines made me cringe, being reminiscent of some of my least favorite Christian fantasy writers. The style was not consistent throughout, I thought. It assumed a manner at times (not persistently, though) that was more for young teens in those parts where the story was actually about young teens, that is, the earlier tale.

One of my favorite characters, who did not appear much in the book yet held key scenes, was Alex Simpson. Lawhead’s writing created a remarkably tangible crescendo and spike in the revelation of his role (p. 166); for me, that alone made the reading satisfying.

Thanks to Thomas Nelson for kindly providing a copy of The Realms Thereunder for review on the February 2012 Christian Science Fiction and Fantasy Blog Tour.

Ross Lawhead's Web Page
List of CSFF Blog Tour Participants
The Realms Thereunder on Amazon

Reading, Meditation, and Christian Writing

I suppose I am like a lot of Christians. I have a hard time keeping a regular, habitual practice of reading the Bible. Why is that so? I am a seminary graduate (Westminster Theological Seminary, MDiv, 1979) and if anyone should have regular Bible reading down by now it should be a seminary student.

The typical excuses I find cropping up with me - too rushed, not always convenient, too many other things that need to get done, etc., etc. Yet I do like to read, all topics and a variety of genre. I can sit for hours and persist in a novel. Biblical and theological books can hold my attention for a long time as well, even some of the heavier ones. But I find trouble devoting the same amount of time for the Bible, that is, to sit down and read, and read persistently!

I think, for me, the biggest problem, which should also be the biggest motivation (and it is) is that the Bible is not just another book. It is the inscripturated Word of God, the means by which God speaks to us today. It must be read carefully, prayerfully, meditatively. I don't do that with a novel, and the only time in which I come within a mile of doing so is if the novel is written in such a way that the great truths of the Bible are profoundly exposited either in the narrative, character(s), or action. Not many novels, even so-called Christian novels, are like that.

This reveals the first obstacle to persistent Bible reading. It is not easy because it is not entertaining. A contrast: The Harry Potter books. The ingenuity of J K Rowling and her superb writing ability (true, she doesn’t write in the same style as J R R Tolkien, but I would place her skill side by side with his) provided a series of books whose entertainment value, for me, has few equals. The Wingfeather Saga, by Andrew Peterson, is another. The latter is considered Christian fantasy while the former is not. Now I think the latter qualifies as Christian fantasy only in an anemic way, that is, it does not bring out the gospel prominently and forcefully. And whether that is good or bad is another question and deserving of an article in itself. But it is fascinatingly entertaining, far more so, and far better written than any other young adult (children’s) fantasy of the last dozen years or more. I love to read them (Rowling and Peterson) because they entertain and captivate; I find myself in the middle of the story, like a holodeck.

Not so the Bible. The closest I come to encountering such an experience are in the historical books of the Old Testament, the gospels, and Acts. Yet, these do not have the entertaining power and sway as do the modern day examples I mentioned above. Which leads to the second reason why it is so hard to read the Bible.

The Bible requires work, even the easier historical narratives. The work is this: I am a Christian and as such I want to understand what God is saying through the pages of Scripture in such a way that it changes me. I want it to make me pursue holiness and seek first the Kingdom of God. I want it to change my heart so that I love as I ought. I want to get a glimpse of the glory of God, and be transformed by it. To do that, I have to read the Bible carefully, even meticulously so that I get the meaning right. If I don’t understand what the plain words of the Bible are saying through the logical and grammatical construction that they come in, even the Spirit of God cannot help me. So, when I read the Bible, I do it slowly and carefully, making sure that I understand what it is saying. If I have to, I’ll stop, think about it (sometimes for a long time) consult a commentary or a sermon if available, check it out in the original language (again, if available), and then move on. Sometimes it takes me days to get through a handful of verses. Some passages, I keep coming back to time after time, still trying to sort out the meaning of it. It’s hard work, and hardly ever fun.

When I ponder (meditate) on Psalm 1, often I am convicted:

Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor stands in the path of sinners, nor sits in the seat of the scornful; but his delight is in the law of the LORD, and in His law he meditates day and night.

I confess, I do not go through the process I described above day and night. If I did I would neglect other things that I, as a Christian, ought not to neglect. But here is what I do find. The Scriptures follow me. After having painstakingly worked through a biblical text, I find that it keeps interjecting itself into my mind while I am away from it. Sometimes it comes in a verbatim recollection, more often in a paraphrased truth that is succinct and apropos. Often, I wish it were more often than not, without trying, I am analyzing my situation or a situation that affects me or others important to me, and I am doing it from a perspective that comes from the remembrance of scripture. In other words, I am thinking, meditating, applying the scriptures without their being open before my physical eyes. I think this is as much as what is meant by meditation as the traditional understanding.

Psalm 1 is one of those passages that I return to time after time, and the meaning of that word meditation is something that I am still working on, not merely a sterile definition of it but a flesh and bones experience of it. What does it mean for me (or anyone, David included) to meditate on the Law of God? It is important because it is the means by which I am going to prosper in this life; and to prosper (another word of the passage), I think, means to prosper in holy and godly living not in material things (the context of the first verse establishes that). In other words, my spiritual well-being and progress is directly related to a proper understanding of meditation and a proper practice of it, both in the immediate contact with the written page, and also in the mediate recollection of it as I confront daily life.


In light of all this, and harking back to the anemia of much of our Christian writing, it is better (though not an absolute requirement by God) if the Christian writer takes on the role of not only entertainer but also expositor. Entertain by all means, but in the doing of it, teach, so that the product of his pen analogously follows the profitability of scripture which is 'profitable for doctrine, reproof, correction, and instruction in righteousness,' 2 Tim 3:16.