Reflecting God’s Creation-Work in Our Writing

Man was created in God’s image and as such it is a certainty that writers, members of the race of men, are also created in his image. There are many things that go into the meaning of ‘God’s image’ but I want to dwell a little on that aspect in which the role of man as creator is akin to God who is The Creator.

Whatever one’s profession or craft may be, there is always some creativity that goes into it. Whether it be slinging garbage into a garbage truck, preparation of a dinner for a family of five, or the swinging of a bat to hit a ninety mile-an-hour fastball, there is creativity. Certainly, there are common rules one must abide by - put the garbage in the back of the truck, not the front; bring the water to a boil to cook the potatoes; keep your head down and eyes on the ball. But within the framework of those rules, there is also room to put your own stamp on it. I would surmise that slinging garbage could take on a variety of styles, but it is likely that room for creativity in that area is limited. But still there is room.

When it comes to writing, there is a vast panorama of possibilities. I think the fundamental reason is this: a story, from conception to completed work, has intrinsic parallels to the creation-work of God. God conceives of all creative possibilities at once and has done so eternally. At the time of creation (that is, that time when there was absolutely nothing but the Triune God himself, and then by divine fiat, there was something) God sovereignly chose to bring into being only some of those ideas. There was choice on his part; not an arbitrary choice, but a choice based on wisdom and knowledge so deep and mysterious, we cannot understand it except in a very small way. The actual bringing into existence was by speech – God spoke and it was. God’s word is a creating word, that is, it cannot help but bring into existence what is spoken.

The writer, the image-bearer of God, analogically creates; his creation-work parallels God’s. All writers analogically create. Whether Christian or pagan, they cannot help but do this because they cannot help but reflect God’s image.

The writer conceives of many possibilities as he contemplates the makings of his story - the world, the characters, the events and the interaction of all three with each other. He chooses some among the multitude of possibilities and abandons others. Our creating is merely analogical to God’s and as such, there is an incomparable difference between God’s creating and ours. God did not have to think about the possibilities in the sense of discovering them – they were always present in his mind. But we have to think of them, conjure them, so to speak, based on what we know and experience. These possible ideas are borrowed and temporal; God’s ideas are original and eternal. But regardless of the difference between our creating and God’s, there are still similarities, and the ideas behind the stories are just a part of it.

The writer, in a manner, brings into existence a world wherein his story unfolds. Obviously, by existence I do not mean in actuality. But we do bring about a world with which the reader of the story resonates. One might say that, in a certain way, the writer brings into actual existence an imaginary world. That sounds contradictory, but it really is not. I, along with millions of other readers, have found myself in the midst of such an imaginary world because the story itself has drawn me into it; through my imagination, I enter that world, and the events and characters take on a sense of reality. I can see it in my minds eye so vividly, that it feels real, it feels like I’m right there, observing and sensing what the imaginary characters themselves see and feel.

In God’s creation-work, the world was brought into existence by his powerful word. In our story-creation, the same thing happens, analogically. Our words create a fantasy existence which the reader experiences through his imagination.

God’s word is powerful, bringing about a handiwork that declares his glory. It is breathtaking. It is profound. God’s creative word places us physically within that handiwork, making us an integral part of it. We interact with it. Our story telling should mimic the divine word; it should produce a tale of fine artisanship, so powerful in the telling (and reading) of it, that the reader is drawn into it and experiences it.

As Christians, the world we create through our words should glorify God. This is done not only by transmitting unveiled biblical truth (there is no other kind of truth), but doing such in an imaginary world whose intricate parts are woven together through superb literary craftsmanship.

God created all-powerfully producing a magnificent creation marked by precision, order, and design. For God, this was effortless, the mere speaking of it into existence. We want to create an imaginary world that similarly exhibits precision, order, and design, but unlike God’s effortless speech, the creation of such a world takes exacting labor on our part. The writer must throw every ounce of care he has into constructing phrases, sentences, paragraphs that knit seamlessly a believable world. This does not mean flowery or witty. It means realism. The world must be imaginatively real, as vivid as the one the reader walks into when he opens the front door and steps out. It takes careful development of character and voice, of events and their interrelation to other events and characters. It cannot be shoddy, superficial, wooden, hackneyed, or stereotypical.

Perhaps, Christian fantasy by its nature has the most fertile possibilities available. It possesses great opportunities, and as image-bearers of God and saints by his grace, we must produce the very best, excelling beyond our secular peers. In my estimation, an undesirable portion of current-day Christian fantasy for the young falls far short of such a standard. The Christian fantasy writer for the young must create an imaginary world in which the reader cannot help but slip into, where the biblical truth is unequivocal and without fuzziness, exhibiting intelligence, skill, and craft. It should be timeless and enduring, fascinating the youthful reader on into adulthood. As a corollary of this, it should appeal and charm the reader of any age. But most of all, as the material universe itself exclaims God’s glory, our fictional world should likewise point back to the Ultimate Creator and exalt him:

The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.
Day to day pours out speech, and night to night reveals knowledge.
There is no speech, nor are there words, whose voice is not heard.
Their voice goes out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world.
Psalm 19:1-4 (ESV)
TCB

On Fantasy Christ Figures

I'm reading a Christian fantasy novel by a well-known (among Christian fantasy lovers, that is) and award-winning author whom I won't identify for now; I'll just refer to him (the old-fashioned generic masculine that could be either male or female) as Author-X. Someday, perhaps, I'll name names, but not now.

It's Author-X's first novel and that may explain the low quality of the writing. I cannot count the times I have had to lay the book down out of disgust or despair, often both. I suspect that the author's debut novel came at a time when Christian fantasy was an even less appreciated genre than it is now (gone are the days of Lewis and Tolkien). Because it was new and different, it was also exciting. But, in my opinion, the writing itself falls well below an acceptable level.

We authors of Christian fantasy must strive to be the best, better than our secular peers. With J. K. Rowling in the mix, that is an extremely difficult task. Not that we should seek to mimic her style, but we can study her and perhaps find something useful.

I am in the third quarter of the book, and I'm beginning to find something else that is disturbing. I may be completely off the mark, and might find after more reading that my first take on the matter is simply wrong. It has to do with one of the characters that has unmistakeable features of a Christ figure. To be sure, there is no one-to-one correspondence between the fantasy figure and the Christ of the Bible. Perhaps if there were, I wouldn't be so concerned; I would expect that the figure would be more closely aligned with the Christ of sacred scripture, and presented in the way the authors of the gospels wrote about him.

But I find Author-X's character romanticized, handsome, always smiling, playful, all too ready to reach out and stroke another in an effort to comfort, or show concern. Here is the reason this bothers me, and what I say here not only goes for any literature that seeks to portray Christ in any detail, but also (perhaps even more so) for cinema.

Christ is the revelation of God.

John 1:18 succinctly puts it this way,

"The only begotten Son, who is in the bosom of the Father, He has declared Him."

The word 'declared' is the same Greek word that theologians and biblical scholars use to describe the manner in which the text of the Bible is examined so that, as much as is possible, its meaning is elicited accurately and fully. The word is exegete. Christ exegetes the Father, unpacks the character, nature, judgment, will, power, etc. of the First Person of the Trinity. When Philip asked Christ to show them the Father, Jesus responded,

"He who has seen Me has seen the Father; so how can you say, 'Show us the Father'?", John 14:9.

Everything that Christ did was revelatory of the Father. His body language, facial expressions, speech, choice of words, etc. was all revelatory. John was very careful to bring that out in his gospel and it is no wonder that he begins his first canonical epistle with a reference to his (and the other apostle's) familiarity with these things:

"That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled, concerning the Word of Life...that which we have seen and heard we declare to you, that you also may have fellowship with us..." I John 1:1,3.

If we attempt to portray Christ, whether in the imagery of our fantasy writing or on the stage or in cinema, do we not run the risk of conveying something about him (and therefore, of the Father) that is simply not true, possibly even blasphemous?

I remember watching the movie, Ben Hur, as a youth, and how Cecil B DeMille handled the appearances of Christ. There was never a shot of his face, and if the Christ figure was viewed in full, it was always from behind, motionless (except perhaps a slow turning of the head as he watched Ben Hur from a distance just before the Sermon on the Mount), giving little to decipher about the incarnate Son of God.

Beautiful!

I think as Christian fantasy writers, we ought to steer clear of such dangerous territory. Let's not make the King of kings and Lord of lords reveal anything more than what the written revelation of God reveals.

Fast-Paced Is The Fashion, Unfortunately

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In Phyllis Wheeler's review of The Oerken Leaves she begins the section on what she thinks of the story by saying

This book has a classic, slow-paced feel, especially at the beginning. So it’s not particularly fashionable. But I like classics, don’t you?

Let me say up front that I am not criticizing Phyllis's review, or think that she has missed the mark on what is and what is not fashionable. I am taking her word for it, and it is the state of fashion that I am confronting, not Wheeler.

Now by fashionable, I take it to mean that what is in fashion is a story that moves from one scene to another quickly, or a story wherein changes in the action follow closely on the heels of each other.

Fashionable implies that in the estimation of the world of readers of fantasy, this is the only thing worth reading right now. Now I think fast-paced has its place, especially if the reader is looking for a change of pace. But surely, as fashionable as it may be, can fast-paced really be that good? It seems to me that a steady reading of nothing but fast-paced novels would be like choosing the roller-coaster for every ride at the fair. Let me see if I can convey to you how drastic the picture is. It would be like arriving at the park at dusk and going straight to the roller-coaster and ride it all night until the park closes at which time you make a bee-line exit. No elephant ears or pizza; no cognizance of little kids tugging their parents this way and that to get as much in as they can before Mom and Dad call it a night. It misses out on the heady feeling when stuck at the top of the ferris wheel while the whole dazzling world of light and color below comes at you like the opening scene of an oscar winning movie. You have no chance to stroll past the barkers wondering what it would be like to do what they do. You missed out on the balloon busting dart throw, or the side step around a hotdog which someone had the misfortune of dropping. I could say more, but you get the idea.


A steady consumption of fast-paced novels, like the continuous ride of the roller-coaster, will sooner or later become monotonous and boring. Not merely because its the same beat over and over (anything done repetitively will become monotonous and boring in time) but because fast-paced does not allow for the reader to imaginatively become a part of the story. Before the reader can achieve any sense of participation at any given point, he's forced to move on. He doesn't get to know the characters because he has little time to notice them. A good story draws the reader into the middle of it, where he can see and hear and feel the fictional world as though he were part of it. The reader lives in the story through the proxy of one of the characters, or as an enthused silent partner, or perhaps both; but he is there, in the thick of it, in on every little detail and caught up in the experiences - delight and despair, feast and famine, greed and generosity, rags and riches. You cannot do that with any depth and quality unless you get to settle down and rub elbows with the characters. And you can't rub elbows if you and the characters don't have the opportunity to stick around with each other.


But I think it is worse than that. Fast-paced makes for poor writing, or perhaps because one is a poor writer, fast-paced is what works best. No real character development is possible. No iridescent blossoming of plot. No animated interaction between character and character or character and his circumstances. It tends toward bland narrative (reporting of events, thoughts, and speech) rather than vivid story-telling (which draws the reader in so that he imaginatively experiences it). Story-telling requires good, quality writing, but the fast-paced tale does not. That is why the classics (Lewis, Tolkien, Clemens) and those surely destined to become classics (Rowling) are slow paced - the writing made it that way and is a quality that few authors are able to match.

Outlandish Imagery In Fantasy

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In my article The Literary Genre of Fantasy and Its Use in Imparting Christian Truth, I discussed how fantasy has an inherent ability to convey Christian truth, akin to the way imagery and symbolism does so in the last book of the Bible, the Apocalypse. In the article Why Do Some Not Like Fantasy? I proposed that one’s dislike for fantasy may arise from a low view of any story whose world is so bizarre that one simply cannot relate to it. The implication is that fantasy has not the stuff which makes a story credible and familiar.


Frankly, that may not be a completely baseless protest. Fantasy could become bizarre to the point of repulsion, though I suspect that is rare, even in the poorest specimens of what is construed to be fantasy. Even the good stuff may likely have some points in it in which the characters or circumstances become so ludicrous that you want to throw the book down. But even here, it may not be so much the creatures of the story that are at fault, but the writer’s inability to bring them to life and yank the reader into the surreal with a vibrantly painted verbal picture that has rhythm, remarkable imagery, exquisite syntax, and good grammar.


One example from a classic. For me, Reepicheep, the gallant mouse of Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia held such a repulsion that I never liked him and doubt if I ever will. Not because Lewis did such a poor job in making Reepicheep life-like, but probably because he did it so well; the imagery of this little mouse disarming men a hundred times its size and weight is simply too absurd. Even so, it did not make me throw the book down - or even gently lay it aside. I kept reading because everything else made up for it.


There are two ways that I can think of by which a fantasy approaches outlandishness - absurd characters and equally absurd circumstances.


This can be a problem in any fiction, but fantasy is more susceptible. A character may be so weird, either in appearance or behavior, that one is not sure what to make of it. Granted, that may be the thing that piques the interest and keeps the reader moving on to find out more. And that is a sign of not only good fantasy but good writing. But if there is not some progress in the unfolding of the role of this odd personality, frustration sets in followed by anger and apathy. Well, perhaps that is laying it on a little thick, but even a smidgeon of all that does not bode well for a gracious opinion of the story.


Gollum of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings is such a character. As I recall, Bilbo first meets him in an underground lake. Gollum is such a repulsive yet intriguing character that he immediately steals the attention. As the story unfolds, one yearns to know more about him and his alter ego, Smeagol; and because a little was divvied out here and there, the attraction not only remained, but grew. His schizophrenia was so vivid and his features so luminous that when you saw him on the big screen, you found yourself saying, “That’s exactly how I thought of him!”


But it could have been different. If there had been no unveiling of Gollum’s history that explained his appearance and lot as encountered by Bilbo and Frodo, we all would have been left scratching our heads and wondering what Tolkien was thinking. But Tolkien unearthed it for us in a masterful job of developing the miserable creature’s life, all along the way dropping hints that there was something crucial in his existence that would have a profound impact on the way the tale would end.


In the chapter The Evil Within (read the excerpt from The Oerken Leaves in the article Why Do Some Not Like Fantasy?) Brutus encounters a lumbering lizard in a pond whose spring-like atmosphere turns into a snowless, wintry tundra. Not much is said about the lizard’s appearance except that it is brownish, has yellow eyes, and a snaky willowy tongue. The connection with the lizard first comes to the reader as he, with Brutus, watches from across the pond.


There is something wary about the little beast, but that doesn’t become certain until the change in the air and wood, and especially of the pond, which has turned into a stinking, murky soup, belching out a stench that causes Brutus to shudder at what foul things may be at the bottom. The lizard must have had something to do with it - that is where it had been lurking while Brutus drank. The lizard begins to slowly advance in Brutus’s direction, always keeping his yellow eyes fixed on him.


Is this an absurd picture? Well, yes it is, but it is also intriguing (at least I hope the reader finds it so). What is going on? Is there something in all of this that we can relate to; is there a point of contact?


Let’s continue to watch...


The episode builds to a climax, where Brutus is irresistably drawn to the reptile, fascinated by its willowy tongue, impelled by a fancy ‘so utterly illogical, and yet unexplainably logical’ that he reaches out to it and is stung by a lashing on the back of his hand. A searing pain fires through his hand, and Brutus finds relief only by plunging it into the stinking muck of the pond. As relief comes, Brutus is left to ponder what happened, and a revelation of sorts takes place – Brutus sees and feels the evil within himself. Brutus is struck with nausea so severe he vomits. The cause: he is overwhelmed by his despicable behavior, having given in to the ‘wicked beauty’ of the tongue (is there not a beauty in wickedness that draws the heart so prone to evil? And is that not the opposite of the renewed heart of one saved by grace in which the “beauty of holiness” [2 Chron 20:21; Ps 29:2, et. al.] has burst, and a longing to be holy is planted which never leaves).


And yet, though sickened by the realization of his own evil nature, Brutus does not turn from it. Instead, he begins to rationalize away what the creature had done, symbolized in the mark left by the sting. This mark initially strikes Brutus to be a brand or seal which claims ownership, affecting him in such a way that he senses that worst of all that he is would come out.

This brief episode in our fantasy has conveyed to us some of the most fundamental yet profound truths revealed to us in the Bible about our human condition. We Christians all must take a hard look - examine ourselves - as Paul exhorts (2 Cor 13:5). Out of our hearts proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies (Matt 15:19). How deceitful our hearts are, even after a work of grace has been done within. We must fight against it (Gal 5:17). We cannot rationalize, as Brutus did. We face a foe who seeks to devour us, 1 Pet 5:8. We must resist though we “groan within ourselves, eagerly waiting for the adoption, the redemption of our body,” Rom 8:23, until the evil within is eradicated in that day when we are sanctified, body, soul and spirit, at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ (1 Thess 5:23).

Why Do Some Not Like Fantasy? Also, An Excerpt From The Oerken Tree

Why Do Some Not Like Fantasy?

Also, An Excerpt from The Oerken Tree

Thomas Clayton Booher

If you ask the question “Do you like fantasy novels?” you’re going to get a variety of answers. Those who don’t like to read may ask, what is a fantasy novel? They are to be pitied. But for the rest of us who do like to read, there is a wide response. At one end of the spectrum, there are some who can’t get enough of fantasy. But at the other end, there are those who absolutely loathe fantasy.

The fantasy-loathers may not be able to say precisely why, but it probably comes down to viewing fantasy as merely make-believe, and the protestor prefers a story whose setting is in this world. The story doesn’t have to be true, just realistic and believable. Fantasy is neither, he says. I wonder if the same person ever liked the story of The Three Little Pigs or Little Red Riding Hood as a child, and if so, what happened to him? When or why did he fall away from this youthful pleasure? True, as one gets older (I’ve had over sixty years experience in that area), one’s taste changes, and literary preferences are no exception. But usually a change in taste does not mean an abandonment but rather a refinement.

I don’t get excited over The Three Little Pigs much anymore (except when reading the story to a little one, which is an interesting phenomenon itself), but I still like fantasy. J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit was my first introduction (as it should be) to the realm of Middle Earth, and I was absolutely delighted. I was such a fan of Bilbo that when he took a rather insignificant role in The Lord of the Rings, I was very disappointed, if not a bit miffed with Tolkien. It took about the whole first book of The Fellowship of the Ring before I began to warm up to Frodo.

So why does the world of Bilbo and Frodo have such an appeal to me? Is it not just make-believe, after all? Except for allowing one to ‘escape’ and let his imagination go (which perhaps makes the fantasy-loather a little suspect in the imagination department), what use is it? I have to admit that the imagination factor is a big plus for me, but there is still something else that charms me.

I like fantasy because it ingeniously portrays reality.

“Uhmmm,” the fantasy-loather murmurs, “isn’t that contradictory; fantasy portrays reality?”

“Yes,” I say, “fantasy portrays reality. Look at the greedy, schizophrenic Gollum.”

Turns out that in Gollum’s case, the greed and schizophrenia go hand in hand, and though I’m not a psychologist, I’ll bet there is a basis for that in this world. Gollum’s mental, psychological, emotional, and physical decline are blended so well together, that the whole picture tells us something about where such greed leads us. It is a dehumanizing process that blurs and contorts the image of God. Even if Tolkien didn’t have that in mind, the fantasy world itself had an intrinsic force (not to mention Tolkien’s genius) that allowed the truth about greed to strike us powerfully. I really, really get that when I see Gollum.

It is suggestive of what Paul writes: “For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil, for which some have strayed from the faith in their greediness, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows” (1 Timothy 6:10, NKJV).

And of Solomon: “So are the ways of everyone who is greedy for gain; It takes away the life of its owners” (Proverbs 1:19, NKJV).

I hope to talk about this as it relates to The Oerken Tree. In anticipation of that, here is an excerpt:

Note: Brutus, the bad guy, arrived in a new world a few days previously and was held at Yellow House, the governor’s mansion. He escaped and is on the run, trying to get to a place called Ferguson Farm. After a little visit in a nearby town, he is now walking on a trail that will take him to a neighboring town, Puddle Bottom West, where he can catch the ‘magnerail’ all the way to Kittanning and the farm.

He [Brutus] was making good time. The trail was easily traversed and at the pace he was keeping he would be in Puddle Bottom West in thirty minutes. Plenty of time. And it looked like he was the only one on the trail.

He came to a sharp bend. The trees on the left were tall and as he came around, on the right, there was a pool of water a little way off the path. Brutus suddenly felt thirsty and the black licorice fizz had left a strong aftertaste.

Brutus didn’t like the idea of drinking anything that didn’t come out of spigot or bottle, but his mouth seemed to be getting drier by the second. It wouldn’t hurt to take a look, there were a couple of hours at least. Brutus stepped off taking a grassy path to the pond’s edge.

The water was clear with a sandy white bottom. Brutus tossed in a stone. It fell so quickly the pool must have been only a few feet deep.

Brutus thrust in his walking stick, and it struck the bottom before half the stick was submerged. There was no sand; the bottom felt hard like stone. A rock jutted out of the water near the center. Lily pads floated idly here and there, and grassy banks came down to the edge. Except for these, Brutus might have thought the pool was man-made.

He squatted down and put his hand in the water. It was cool. Brutus took a handful of water and splashed it over his face. It felt very good. He reached in again scooping out enough with both hands giving him a few swallows. He did this a second time, then a third. One more time....

What was that?

There was a disturbance on the far side. Brutus looked that way. Nothing. Just a lot of grass, even some flowers. A warm breeze swept through his hair.

Nothing. One more scoop.

Brutus reached in again.... He felt it that time, like something slid against his hand. Brutus jerked it out of the water. Something caught his eye.... across the pond. It was reddish-brown and had legs and a lithe tail, and was clambering slowly up the side of the bank, through the grass. It looked wet and slippery, like it was covered in toadskin.

Brutus fell backward. He glanced to his left and right to spot anything along the water’s edge that might resemble the creature.

A shadow passed over the pool and Brutus looked up; the sky was sullen, the blue gone.  The expanse above that little body of water harbored a gray, dismal mist. Brutus looked back down. The pond had changed.

A shiver swept over Brutus. The air had chilled, as if the door of a deep freezer the size of the sky opened above. There was no wind, no rustling of leaves or branches. Just stillness, like a cold wintry forest plunged into deep silence where no living animal moved or bird took flight.

Brutus began to shake. The air frosted his breath as it billowed from his nose and mouth. Only the pond escaped the freeze. It sloshed with a muddy liquid. Here and there a bubble rose to the surface and ejected a stinking, vaporous fume.

Brutus sat on the bank surrounded by stench and gloom. There was no place to go, no rock to hide under, no hole to climb into. An eerie feeling, not panic, began to gnaw within. He wanted to jump to his feet and run, but the thought scared him, as though it might attract a hundred other beasts.

Then, without warning, a suggestion formed in Brutus’s mind. He was urged as if by an inner voice to move closer to the lizard. This fancy, so utterly illogical, grew stronger and stronger until it gave way to desire.

Brutus worked himself to his hands and knees and began to crawl slowly along the bank above the murky pool. The lizard continued to fix its gaze on him as its eyes followed his movement. Brutus crawled a dozen feet or so when the reptile unexpectedly began to push itself slowly toward him. The back of his neck seemed to prickle and Brutus halted his movement, but the lizard continued to edge - closer, slowly, smoothly, its eyes fastened on him.

The lizard had moved to within a few yards and stopped. It’s willowy tongue slurped in and out, whipping about with a soft cracking sound. It was the only sound that carried over the frosty tundra of the pond’s bank.

Brutus extended his hand toward the lizard, not knowing why, yet not disagreeably. A soft slap-slap-slap registered faintly in the air. The beast was still for a moment and then stirred, pushing itself once more into a lumbering crawl over the frozen grass above the mud-swamp as the deep gnawing eagerness to meet it grew in Brutus’s thoughts. The reptile plodded inch by inch, its spindly feet buried in the grass and its nose nudging the chilled mist.

The slapping noise was more distinct now, and the creature seemed to climb out of a swirling frost a few feet away. Brutus closed his eyes and stretched his hand outward, toward the nasty little thing, sensing its movement again while the slap-slap-slap grew louder.

Brutus opened his eyes and looked at the thing; it was leathery skinned and yellow-eyed, its tongue whipping the air and tasting the scent of his hand now merely inches away. The tongue retreated and the creature advanced an inch more as its triangular head stretched forward and its black, unblinking eyes seemed to cast a spellbinding wave that taunted Brutus to respond in kind. Brutus stretched again, and the muscles along his flank and abdomen grew taut and uncomfortable.

The hand hung before the reptile, palm down, its back exposed, the slapping tongue now within an inch. Barely breathing, Brutus continued to stretch, closer and closer until he came to feel the disturbance of the air against his skin.

The tongue struck.

A loud cracking noise stung the air. A fiery sting pricked his hand. Brutus wrenched it away and fell on his side. With knees to his chest, Brutus cradled the wounded appendage and wailed. The hand swelled, so engulfed in pain it forced his eyes shut. A waft of the stench-ridden pond burned his nostrils and cleared his head. Thrashing his legs and clawing with his free hand, Brutus dragged himself to the edge and plunged his arm deep into the foul liquid.

There was relief. Slight relief, but certain, nonetheless. Brutus held the wounded limb there a considerable while not daring to remove it in spite of what little nasty things may be lurking about the bottom. Wondrously, the pain eased, and Brutus ventured to withdraw his hand.

It was swollen dripping thick, stinking gray drops of water. On the back was a cherry-colored welt about the size of a dime. A nasty welt. Brutus felt around the edges gingerly testing its soreness. Teeth clenched, he made to daub it with a fingertip but recoiled fearing even a little disturbance might bring back a rush of agony.

In all of the pain and bellowing, the creature had slipped from his mind. Brutus reeled around with the fist of his unwounded hand clenched, but the reptile was gone. He surveyed the area; there was no sign of it. The little beast had stung him and lumbered away. He must have made such a stir he frightened it back to where it came from.

And yet, Brutus wondered. He played the episode back in his mind. Certainly he was a fool to think the thing was friendly. Just the recollection of those eyes and that tongue....

Brutus felt uneasy, a small knot growing in his belly. The eyes were a watery yellow, an orange-yellow, and hypnotic; but it was the thought of the tongue he couldn’t avoid. It was.... Fascinating! Riveting! Yet ghastly. Brutus shivered. That gray-white tongue, for all its splendor and allurement, was a very, very dreadful thing, a scary thing, a thing of pitch black horror. Brutus began to sob - he knew why.

The tongue was repulsive, and yet he gave in to it as though the revulsion itself was a rare jewel to be desired above all jewels. He wanted it. He had to have it because its loathing was its fascination, its beauty. He loved its malignity.

Deep in his heart there was nothing good; somehow, he always knew that. He cared little for anyone but himself. That never bothered him and didn’t bother him at that moment. But this was as if he had an encounter with something blacker, much blacker - pure evil. The epitome of all that was contrary to good resided in that beast with the yellow-orange eyes and the slippery, whipping tongue. He had come face to face with it and was drawn to it.

His stomach wrenched again, harder. He stepped away from the pool, fell to his knees and vomited. He condemned and forgave himself all at once. How could even he have given in to such wicked beauty? It was tantalizing! It was a beauty that evoked the deepest admiration. Wickedness had a beauty of its own, so enticing, so easy to coddle. The unholiness that resided in that foul creature was magnificently profound - deep, scary, wondrous, thrilling. Brutus held up his hand. Prominently embossed on the back was the mark of that little beast.

Brutus’s mind began to thrash around, confused and anxious. What was the meaning of that mark? He brought his hand closer and held it, trembling. He studied it closely. The presence of the horrid blemish was a violation, unwanted and forced upon him, marking him like the branding of a cow. Brutus closed his eyes - he had to think, understand. What had happened?

There was no evident explanation, and the beauty he saw a moment ago gave way to a menacing thought that kept coming back; that this sallow-eyed lizard had done something to him.... something that he couldn’t undo. It wasn’t a change of heart for deep within Brutus felt no different. It hadn’t added anything, it just affected something that was already there, like a seed that only needed a little nurturing nudge to sprout.

Brutus felt the fool. His eyes flashed open; the cursed creature had allured him, deceived him. Vile thing! By the poisonous contact of the tongue it had laid claim to him, marking him exclusively for its own pleasure.

No! No! Absurd! A dumb cold-blooded animal purposely setting him apart? Making him the target of a mysterious evil ambition?

Brutus shook his head in denial, and his eyes fell to the back of his hand once again. It looked bad, really bad. He feared it would give him away, that he would have to conceal it or else he would be known truly for the foolish person he must be to allow such a stupid thing to happen.

Reason. Common sense. He had to be reasonable. Brutus took a deep breath, let it out slowly. This made him feel a little better, his head a little clearer.

The red mark could be explained away. He need not fear it or fear that anyone would be suspicious of it. It would be gone in a few days, a week or two at most. He was a fast healer. Many a mishap had marked him, and they were all gone except for the faintest evidence of an unnoticeable scar or discoloration of the skin.

It made more sense now. The brute reptile was probably one that was commonly avoided and for good reason. This taught Brutus a lesson. Trust no one and no animal; trust no living creature. Oh, how deceptive this world was! Blue skies and potent flowers to dull the senses and hide its dangers. There was much he had yet to learn. Carelessness could be fatal. Other dark things could find him unaware. They could kill, or worse, crawl within and make a dark heart darker.

Brutus shook himself as if from a trance. He took a long, deep breath, eyes closed, and let his other senses assure him. The frozen chill of the air was gone and a warmth cuddled him. The scent of fern and pine was in the air and a bird chirped in the distance somewhere. This was real.... and warm.... and friendly.

Brutus opened his eyes; the winter barrenness of the wood had returned to its summer plentitude, and the stinking pool now sloshed with crisp, clear water. Another deep breath came followed by a slow, relieving exhalation.

He felt much, much better. His hand felt normal, except for the bit of a pinch where the mark remained. It seemed so trivial now. His imagination had run wild and exaggerated the whole encounter.

Brutus bolted. How long had he been there? He looked up into the sky. The blue was beginning to deepen. It was getting late. He might have wasted a good half-hour, maybe an hour. But there was time. Maybe. He didn’t really know how far he had to go.

Just a mile, perhaps. Not too bad, but once there, he still had to find the magnerail station.... and purchase a ticket.... and board. All of these thoughts rushed in, and Brutus almost whimpered.

He hurried back to the trail, and for an intense second was disoriented and didn’t know which way to go, left or right.

Then he sighted a post on the trail only yards away. On top was a flat board with gleaming white letters, PBW One Mile, next to an equally white arrow pointing further down the trail. One mile. Not far. He’d make it.

“Weird,” Brutus muttered, a chill touching the nape of his neck. Then a word from Broadman’s class intruded. . .  “Preternatural, actually,” Brutus said as if speaking to the pond and then stepped off.

The Literary Genre of Fantasy and Its Use in Imparting Christian Truth

Fantasy has fascinated me ever since my father gave me the Wizard of Oz as a youngster, sick in bed with the flu. I had no idea at the time of what fantasy was. Though my reading is not restricted to fantasy alone, I have always gravitated to it.

Christian fantasy has particularly interested me. Such fantasy has been written for all ages. C. S. Lewis's Space Trilogy ('Out of the Silent Planet', 'Perelandra', and 'That Hideous Strength') is obviously for the older reader. Yet, his ever-popular The Chronicles of Narnia, though written for young children, has a quality to it that satisfies the child-like imagination of the adult. No wonder. Lewis writes in his short essay On Three Ways of Writing for Children, "I am almost inclined to set it up as a canon that a children's story which is enjoyed only by children is a bad children's story. The good ones last." In the context, he means that the child will enjoy it not only when a youngster but ever afterwards, on into adulthood and the latter years. I agree with that. Such children's stories approach classic status over time.

Now a corollary of Lewis's canon is this: It should not matter when one reads the children's story for the first time; whether as a child or adult, he will like it. And because he likes it, the message in it has a better chance of getting through. The important point here is that fantasy is right up that alley of children's stories and as a consequence, a good fantasy will resonate with a readership of all ages. Christian fantasy, even when written for the child, becomes a very suitable vehicle for imparting Christian truth to young and old alike.


But let us step back a moment and ask the question, what is fantasy? Our subject is a certain flavor of fantasy, that is, Christian fantasy. But regardless of the flavor, one would expect the basic definition of fantasy to be the same. The understanding of what fantasy is will affect the author's story and the reader's expectations. We ask then, what is fantasy?


One might say fantasy is a story about a make believe world where magical things happen; a place where animals talk and behave much like humans, as beavers and lions (The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe) or moles, water rats, badgers, and toads (The Wind in the Willows). You may encounter wizards and witches who cast spells, both good and evil (Harry Potter, The Wizard of Oz, The Lord of the Rings). You will run into objects that are extraordinarily charmed, and have the power to disarm, such as an apple that puts one who eats of it to sleep forever (Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs); or to transform, such as a ring that slowly possesses the mind and will of the one who bears it (poor Gollum); or to rejuvenate, such as a hidden spring that gives longevity to the one who drinks from it (Tuck Everlasting). It is a realm where dangerous or bizarre creatures exist, such as dragons (Dragons in our Midst, Eragon), orcs and ring wraiths (The Lord of the Rings), sorns (Out of the Silent Planet), plant men (The Gods of Mars), and thestrals (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix).


You can find all of this in fantasy, but it does not tell you what fantasy is; it just tells you what it is like. So, what is fantasy? Here is my definition:


Fantasy is a story whose setting is a world governed by natural and supernatural laws wherein ordinary and extraordinary, mundane and magical, worldly and otherworldly beings and objects interact with each other. By supernatural, I do not necessarily mean the supernatural as defined by the theologian, although as a Christian, I find it difficult to think of any other kind when I hear the word. Supernatural here refers to that which is not found in the ordinary workings of our existence; say a looking glass that one can step through, or a wardrobe that is a portal to a wintry, forlorn world. The key point, there is an interplay between the two so that the one is not a surprise to the other. The wardrobe's particular property to serve as an entrance to another world may come unexpectedly, but in the context of things, it fits in rather nicely, and one becomes quite accepting of it (including the reader as well as the fictitious character of the story).


So far, our definition identifies fantasy's world. But what happens in that world? That can be stated succinctly: it is a tale of conflict between good and evil. No surprise there. All stories have a conflict between good and evil however broadly or narrowly you define those two words. Good and evil may merely refer to what makes life easier or worse. For the Christian, however, it refers (at least it should) to the contrast between the holiness of God and the depravity of man. Fantasy, like all story-telling, cannot avoid a clash between good and evil, however mild or severe. For fantasy, I think it is more severe and central, and because of that, fantasy has an inherent quality that makes it a perfect vehicle for imparting Christian truth. After all, the great theme of the Bible is the cosmic battle between God and Satan and the final victory of God through his Son, Jesus Christ.


That is why it puzzles me to hear of "Christian fantasy" degraded as an oxymoron, that is, a contradiction of terms. Christian fantasy has been charged as a dangerous instrument of deceit. Here are some points argued by one who opposes Christian fantasy: (1) fantasy is anti-truth, (for example, animals don't talk, hence a lie); (2) fantasy subtly slips into reality thereby making it difficult, especially for young children, to tell the difference between truth and lie; (3) fantasy does not fit true godliness but moves the reader away from truth and therefore into a denial of God; (4) a love for God will oppose fantasy because the one who loves God loves only the truth. See the link Christian Fantasy is an Oxymoron.


If Christian fantasy had as its purpose to promote a lie, I would wholeheartedly agree. But Christian fantasy uses extraordinary, magical, and otherworldly elements to promote the truth. If you want to portray the evilness of evil, fantasy allows you to do that in its most horrific form (dragons, evil wizards and witches, ruthless and heartless orcs, evil emperors, and so on). Look into the bulbous eyes of Gollum, and you see the evil of greed personified. Contrariwise, fantasy allows you to portray good in its most sublime form. How can any child miss the love and sacrifice of Aslan who gives himself up to merciless mockery and brutal death for the despicable Edmund?


Now, taking this definition of fantasy, we can look at the last book of the Bible and regard it from that perspective. Please do not misunderstand me. I am not saying that the Apocalypse (otherwise known as the Revelation of St. John) is make-believe like the story of The Three Little Pigs, or Sleeping Beauty; or that John, the writer, did not actually experience the visions he wrote about. What I am saying is that John's visions of the four horsemen, demonic creatures in the form of locusts (bearing the face of a man, the hair of women, and the sting of a scorpion); the classic Red Dragon, the Beast, and the False Prophet (who form a counterfeit Unholy Trinity) are the extraordinary, magical, otherworldly things of fantasy. The point is this: the locusts, dragon, beast, and false prophet in themselves are not real; but what they depict is real - demons and a counterfeit trinity. These are symbolic of a reality that is far more pernicious than the symbol itself.


That brings us to another pertinent aspect of fantasy. Symbolism, to one degree or another, is an inextricable element of fantasy, and as such, follows the very pattern found in the Apocalypse. But more broadly, the images of John's Revelation are non-existent creatures that depict truths about the great battle between God and Satan, good and evil, the people of God and the godless world that has been localized in time and space on planet Earth ever since the temptation of man and his banishment from God's presence in the garden. Christian fantasy has such a broad setting: a universe in which this great battle is taking place and manifested in part through the interaction of mortal human beings with observable magical or supernatural elements.


For these reasons, Christian fantasy may serve quite appropriately as a tool in the hands of a Christian author to identify, portray, and communicate the great truths of God's revelation to man. In my opinion, after Lewis there came a dearth of solid, well-written Christian fantasy that continues even today. I would like to see that change.