Pro Potterum

I wrote this a couple of months ago, for an aunt who objects to Harry Potter. It's partially in response to an article she sent me, by Doug Phillips of Vision Forum, which argued that not only HP but any story containing magical/supernatural abilities used by good characters was evil. But it also outlines my own understanding of literature, especially fantasy literature, and why it's good and valuable.

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As it happens, I disagree not only with Doug Phillips’ position on the Harry Potter books, but also with his entire philosophy of literature. So instead of responding point-by-point to his article—which I’m afraid would only confuse the issue, since we’re starting with such different assumptions—I’m going to outline the way I approach literature in general. Once I’ve done that, I can explain why I think the Harry Potter books are worthwhile.

The first question we need to ask is whether stories are valuable in themselves, or whether they’re valuable only as vehicles for moral or spiritual messages. Or, to put it another way: does God care about literature?

It’s abundantly evident that beauty is important to God—and by beauty, I mean not only that which is pretty or attractive, but anything which is well-crafted and intricately detailed. Creation itself “pours forth speech,” telling us what kind of God created it. He chose to create a world full of extravagant beauty: a world with flowers and stars, sunsets and oceans. He also filled the world with careful, detailed craftsmanship: the complexity of photosynthesis in a single blade of grass, the tiny scales that make patterns on butterfly wings, the small-but-wise ant.

The importance of beauty is evident not only in general revelation, but also in special revelation. For instance, God instructs Moses in the proper design for the High Priest’s robes, explaining that the purpose of these garments is “for glory and for beauty.” In the Psalms, the prophets, and the Song of Songs, He chooses to speak to His people through some of the most beautiful and carefully-crafted poetry ever written.

He also chooses to reveal Himself through narrative. The concept of story—of a beginning and middle which lead to a satisfying end—is woven into the fabric of the world. We interpret both our own lives, and the entire sweep of history, in terms of story. And the Bible itself is not only full of stories (from the story of creation to the parables to parts of John’s Revelation)—but the entire Bible is the story of God’s love for the people He created.

All of this leads me to the conclusion not only that stories matter, but also that excellent craftsmanship matters. We want to create because we are made in the image of a Creator-God; and when our creations reflect the beauty, the detail, the craftsmanship that He put into creation, they glorify Him.

Thus, I disagree strongly with Doug Phillips’ statement that plot details or excellent writing are irrelevant. I also disagree with his suggestion that stories are reducible to their “message.” Many evangelical Christians think of stories this way; but if we read stories only to find a “message,” which can be extracted and stated separately from the story, why should we read stories at all? Why not simply start with the message, and save time?

In the best stories, the message and story are the same thing. Take the best story of all: Christ’s incarnation, death, and resurrection. In a sense, you could say the “message” of this story is God’s love for us, and of course you’re right—but how do we know what His love means? Through His actions; through His words; through His life and through His death. The message is inseparable from the story, and you can’t talk about one very long, or very meaningfully, without talking about the other.

When we look at fiction, we find much the same thing. The best works of fiction usually don’t have a simple, straightforward message. Instead, they challenge us, raising questions about ourselves, about God, about the world. They help us to see things we would otherwise overlook, and question things we take for granted; they help us see the world through other eyes, enriching the way we look around us. They don’t always provide answers, but they help us to ask the right questions.

One of my favorite novels of all time, Crime and Punishment, tells the story of a murderer. Rather than offering the obvious “message” that murder is wrong (which we all knew to begin with), it asks us to identify with the murderer—thus making us aware of the depths of sin within ourselves, and our need for redemption—and also reminding us that redemption is possible for everyone, even those who we think are beyond hope.

And that’s only a small fraction of the layers of meaning in the story. To do it any sort of justice, I would have to read you the novel.

This complexity is one of the things which makes fiction so powerful: it engages our intellects, emotions and imaginations; it incarnates truth and beauty . . . and, sometimes, it incarnates falsehood. And because stories are powerful, dismissing anything—Harry Potter or The Da Vinci Code or anything else—as harmless because it is “just a story” is mistaking the entire nature of fiction.

On that point, at least, Doug Phillips and I agree: “it’s just a story” is not an adequate or helpful defense of any work of fiction.

Given all this, then, how should we approach fictional works that involve magic?

First, we need to ask what Scriptural prohibitions of witchcraft are forbidding. As I understand it, these passages are forbidding wrong and dangerous interactions with the spiritual world: calling on demons, or trying to obtain powers properly reserved to God.

Second, we have to ask whether this prohibition applies to most magical stories. Generally speaking—and there are exceptions—magical stories posit imaginary universes with different physical laws. For instance, there are many magical stories where people can fly—with the aid of magic carpets, fairy dust, etc. This is, for whatever reason, a fairly common human desire (nearly everyone I know dreamed about flying as a child).

Is this sort of thing wrong? It seems to me that it’s comparable to scientists finding ways to do things that seem physically impossible—again, like flying. When a writer imaginatively changes the physical laws of the universe, they’re able to write fun stories and create fascinating scenarios that couldn’t take place in a “realistic” story—and there’s nothing wrong with that, as long as they don’t alter the moral law of the universe.

This, I think, is a vital distinction. There are certain moral laws, which are inherent and unalterable, laws which God wove into the fabric of the universe, and which are reflected not only in the Ten Commandments, but also in the laws of nearly all societies throughout history. Humans know, without having to be told, that murder, adultery, theft, and so forth, are wrong; and we know that there is a God whom we should worship.

So as soon as a literary work starts questioning or undermining the moral law, there’s cause for concern—and, in many cases, we may be better off not reading it.

It’s worth noting, though, that in my experience you’re more likely to come across this in “serious” novels for adults than in magical stories for children. In most fantasy stories I’ve read, the authors aren’t posing questions about moral law. They’re asking things like—what if people could move objects with their minds? What if people could use magic, instead of technology to make housekeeping more convenient and transportation faster? There’s nothing inherently wrong with these questions—particularly when the stories are in line with moral law.

Thus, finally, we come to the Harry Potter books. Given everything I’ve said so far, I think three questions are all we really need to ask about them.

First, does the magic in the Harry Potter books involve demons or other spiritual forces?

No; it’s limited to imaginatively changing the physical laws of the universe, and doesn’t involve anything remotely resembling demonic activity.

Second, do the Harry Potter books contain literary beauty?

Yes; their excellent craftsmanship is evident in careful plotting, realistic characterization, a wide vocabulary, and knowledge of great literature. And last, but by no means least, they’re fun to read.

Third, do these stories ask important questions, reflect truth about unalterable moral laws, or give insight into what it means to be human?

Yes to all. Despite their fantastic setting, the stories deal very realistically with death and grief. Themes of courage, loyalty, forgiveness, and self-sacrifice run throughout the series. The lines between good and evil are clear and distinct, and evil is portrayed as utterly unattractive, gradually destroying the very humanity of the evildoer (a very Lewis-ish idea, incidentally).

Of course, there are other questions about Harry Potter, particularly from a parents’ perspective; and I do think Christian parents should read the books and discuss them with their children. But I think the ideas I’ve discussed are adequate to explain why the books are not only appropriate, but valuable reading for Christian adults and older children.

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So there you are: my attempt at playing patrona to the boy-who-lived. Unfortunately, my aunt wasn't convinced . . . I think I"ll let my mom try next.

assorted wacky quizzes

Look! I'm almost half a geek!

49% Geek

. . . so if I marry someone slightly-more-than-half-a-geek, does that make us a whole geek? Purely academic question, of course. The quiz gets points for including a "Firefly" question (albeit a very easy one).

Also, I'm corrupting the youth. My blog is unsuitable for anyone under 17:

Why? 'Cause I've used the word "death" ten times, "dead" nine times, "pain" four times, "murder" thrice, "kill" twice, and "limbs" once. Weird criteria, but it's still better than the infamous "curse boxes": it didn't mention the word "God" :-). Though I'll admit I'm confused about why limbs are bad . . .

For anyone who was worried, my scientific knowledge is demonstrably at the eight-grade level . . . .




. . . and, what's more,

51%

These aren't "Buffy" or "Alias" zombies, though . . . any flicker of altruism, attempt to help loved ones, or cooperation with other people decreases your chance of success. I think I'll stick with the "Buffy" kind: they're slow, they're stupid, and we always defeat them and save the day.

Oh, and according the "personal self-scoring temperament test" (discovered via Sylvanus' blog), I have a melancholy temperament.

That means I have the same temperament as Hamlet. And that makes me cool, no matter how many zombies kill me. :-)

Ice-cream is my enemy, sparrows are my friends

What? you exclaim. How can that be? I thought you *liked* ice-cream!

I did. That was before I spent several consecutive weeks scooping it for hordes of inconsiderate tourists. Also before I had to dig through large freezers to find a 3-gallon container of a particular flavor of icecream; before I had to lift a 9 lb., 10 oz. jar of maraschino cherries; before I drank too many leftover milkshakes at work; and before said dipping-of-ice-cream resulted in a minor hand injury.

In other news, things are not looking bright on the job horizon. I have something almost-lined-up for the fall, but it's long evening hours at minimum wage. Not ideal. And while it will keep me in school this semester, there won't be much left over to put toward *next* semester . . . .

In happier news, the world is full of books. And surprising numbers of these books, of all sorts and varieties, colors and qualities, are available free of charge through libraries. (Known in French-speaking lands as "Bibliotheques," a word which has a more distinguished ring to it.) This is particularly happy news when you're a poor starving college student, who is starting to hate the *smell* of icecream, as well as what it does to one's extremities--but I digress.

A couple of months ago, I discovered that our small-town library has a surprisingly good selection of sci-fi/fantasy books, which I've enjoyed exploring. So far I've tried Heinlein (*not* impressed, despite his reputed brilliance), Ursula LeGuin (fascinating), "The Sparrow" (disturbing), and a couple of others. My favorite so far, though, is Madeleine L'Engle's "The Arm of the Starfish," which Rosalind recommended to me years ago. Not sure why it's taken me this long . . . though I didn't like "Swiftly Tilting Planet" much, and that made me hesitant to try L'Engle.

This one, though, is really good--and makes an interesting thematic contrast to "The Sparrow," an acclaimed sci-fi novel by Mary Doria Russell (another book I've been meaning to read for the past couple of years).

[Note: if you haven't read "Starfish," go read it. It's only 243 pages--won't take you long. "The Sparrow" I leave to your discretion . . . it gave me (mild) nightmares. But I am going to talk about plot details of both, especially "Sparrow," so be forewarned.]

"The Sparrow" opens by introducing us to a Jesuit priest who is the only survivor from the first voyage to an inhabited planet. He has returned in disgrace, accused of horrible crimes, maimed, and unable or unwilling to discuss his experiences with anyone, including his Jesuit superiors. The story progresses along two timelines. In the present, his superiors try to find out the truth of what happened. In the past, we go back to the beginning and learn how the voyage came about, and what happened on the planet. The two storylines finally converge near the end, as the priest finally "confesses" the last details of his story to his superiors, and we learn that he is a victim, not a perpetrator, of crimes.

What makes the novel interesting is the priest's spiritual struggle. Someone who has always struggled to feel the presence of God, he felt God called him to this distant planet--and in the early days there, when everything was going well, he felt closer to God than he ever had before. The meaning of the title finally becomes clear near the end of the novel, when he comments on God's omniscience. Perhaps not a sparrow can fall without him knowing--but that's no comfort to the sparrow. It still falls.

Looking back, we realize that the entire novel is about this struggle, about the desire to love a God who is silent and inactive in the midst of our suffering.

Curiously, Russell does not dwell on the suffering of Christ, despite the fact that most of her characters are Jesuits. It is alluded to, but not discussed as one would expect, since this is a central aspect of their faith. (Russell herself is a convert to Judaism, as she explains in an afterward.)

"The Arm of the Starfish" alludes to the same passage of Scripture, but from a different angle. Early in the novel, the protagonist, Adam, is thrown into a confusing situation, and has to make a decision about whom to trust. He is drawn to people on both sides, and neither side will explain enough for him to understand his position. At this point, one of the characters says to him:

"I chose the difficult side, the unsafe side, the side that guarantees me not one thing besides danger and hard work."

"Then why did you choose it?" Adam demanded . . . .

"Why? I'm not sure I did. It seemed to choose me, unlikely material though I may be. And it's the side that--that cares about people like Polyhymnia O'Keefe [a child who was kidnapped] . . . It's the fall of the sparrow I care about, Adam. But who is the sparrow? We run into problems there, too."

Much later in the novel, after Adam has chosen his side, he has to make another difficult decision--whether or not to help someone who has betrayed him and harmed people he loves. In making this decision, he finds an answer to the earlier question:

"If you're going to care about the fall of the sparrow," he says, "you can't pick and choose who's going to be the sparrow. It's everybody, and you're stuck with it."

In context, this page of the book made me cry . . . but even out of context, I find it challenging.

Rather than contradicting each other, though, I think the two books complement each other. Here's the passage in question (or see Luke 12: 6-7 for a parallel):

"Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of mroe value than many sparrows." (Matt. 10: 29-31)

Russell focuses on what the verse suggests about our relationship with God--and on the tension between "fear not," and the reality that God allows (or perhaps causes) the sparrows to fall. L'Engle focuses on what the verse suggests about our relationship with others--if God has such passionate concern for the world that he cares even about falling sparrows,

Russell brings out the subtle implications of the verse--we're being compared to the sparrows, and the sparrows do fall to the ground. What we're promised is *not* safety from all harm; we're simply promised that nothing will happen to us apart from the Father.

L'Engle also brings out something less than obvious--what the passage implies about our obligations to others. If God's mercy encompasses even sparrows, who are we to offer mercy only to some?

Both insights ultimately point us back toward the cross. The answer to Russell's question is that God himself chose to become one of the "sparrows"--and in light of this truth, Adam's conclusion is still more striking. For the person we choose to help (or not), to save (or not to save) from falling, might be Christ himself.

So everyone is the sparrow--and that includes old friends you don't know how to talk to, annoying customers, people whose opinions frustrate you, people whose personalities clash with yours. You're can't dismiss any of them as uninteresting, uninformed, unfriendly, unlikable, unkind, unworthy of your time.

Not even inconsiderate tourists who want icecream.

of cows, communists, and oddly-named pies

or Old News, which I meant to Post Some Time Ago, but which I Hope will still be of Interest to my Gentle Readers (if indeed any still Remain after my late lengthy Silence)

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May 24th-28th, 2007

Movies in theaters make me happy. I went to see Spiderman 3 a few weeks ago; it was enjoyable, but not as good as the last two. The story felt crowded, with too many characters and plots, and the character development left something to be desired. (I was particularly annoyed with a moment late in the film, when a major revelation is made in a way that feels contrived and retcon-y.) But despite the flaws, it's still a good movie in the best superhero franchise to date (and *far* better than a certain deplorable movie from last summer.)

But my favorite summer movies so far aren't blockbusters, and may not be coming to theaters near you. They're about communists and pies, respectively, and are very much worth checking out, if you can.

Last week, I caught the German film The Lives of Others on its last night in Rivertown. We only have one theater that shows foreign films, and each film is only there for a week--which has regrettably caused me to miss several films I wanted to see (like last year's "The Science of Sleep"). "

The Lives of Others is a film about life in Communist East Berlin, told through the eyes a secret-police agent who is whole-heartedly committed to the regime--and through the eyes of the the playwright and actress he spies on. The two artists have made compromise upon small compromise to live in peace, to avoid the silence imposed on their bolder (or more foolish) friends . . . and yet, though they don't know it, they're still suspected.

As the writer struggles with his compromises, the Stasi agent hides in the attic, a patient spider in a technological web, waiting for the one treasonous word that will damn his victims. Yet he's gradually drawn in to the drama he's witnessing, gradually comes to care about the people he's spying on--and, without understanding his own motivation, begins his own series of compromises. He ignores a small detail here, changes a small detail there, hiding suspicious things from his superiors, but assuring himself that he'll catch them in the end.

The turning point, for both the writer and the spy, comes after the writer learns of a friend's death. He hangs up the phone in silence, and turns to the piano, playing to honor his friend's memory, to mourn for him, to protest the regime that destroyed him, to seek comfort in his own grief and confusion. There are no tears. But as he plays, thinking he's alone in his flat, the spy sits in the attic, listening . . . and is so moved by the beauty of the music that he weeps.

(Unfortunately, this is a movie for older viewers only . . . if it weren't for a few scenes, this would be an excellent movie for older children, making Communism something more than a word in a textbook.)

Yesterday, I went to see the independent film "Waitress," an intelligent, funny, and surprisingly moving film that transcends the chick-flick genre. Written and directed by Adrienne Shelly, it tells the story of a woman trapped in a terrible, emotionally abusive marriage who discovers that she's pregnant. I know--it sounds like a dark, depressing drama. But it's not. While it never makes light of the abuse, the story is told with a deft, light touch, an array of delightfully quirky characters, and lots of pie.

Jenna, the eponymous waitress, has a knack for making unusual pies, which she names after events in her life. There's "Falling in Love" pie (made for her friend Dawn before a date); "I Don't Want Earl's Baby" pie (invented after her positive pregnancy test); and "I Can't Have No Affair Because it's Wrong and Earl Will Kill Me" pie. This last she invents after realizing that her gynecologist is attracted to her--and that it's mutual. The doctor, incidentally, is played by Nathan Fillion. (Yes, that strongly influenced my decision to see the movie; but it's well worth seeing for its own sake. Our favorite ship captain is just an added bonus . . . whipped cream on the pie, extra chocolate in the filling, sugar and a cherry on top. Or, um, something.)

Anyway, I'll stop there; but you should go see it, if you can, or rent it later. And then you should eat pie. Because pie is good.

Oh--I almost forgot the cows!

For those of you who may or may not know, I've been looking for a job for quite a while, and have successfully acquired one. I'm now working at the Purple Cow, a sandwich-icrecream-coffee place in Chipley, about 15 minutes from home. Its name gives me great delight.

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Herewith endeth the Old News . . . there may possibly be Newer News sometime in the near future. (If so, it will most likely involve starfish, sparrows, affairs, and books-I-want-to-like-but-can't.)