Into the Fire

There have been innumerable discussions about the fiction written for God. Each writer has a specific life experience (see recent Charis Connection post by Angela Hunt), and each writer or reader has both an opinion and a desire as to what they think and what they hope to find in a book written for God (see Rebecca Luella Miller’s recent posts at A Christian Worldview of Fiction).

It is not debatable that the Presence of God is everywhere. We tend to shut him out of places we don’t want Him to be . . . the location of our sinfulness, the places where the lost congregate, for some even the marriage bedroom is off limits to the Lord. But He is everywhere, all the time, throughout the ages, from the beginning to our “ends”, even in the thoughts of man.

I cannot remember being unaware of God. When I was a small child, I had a tiny walk-in closet in my bedroom. I can recall a time when I was in my bed and spoke to the Lord Jesus asking Him to come out of that closet but telling Him He didn’t have to if He didn’t want to—that I would understand if He didn’t. This was from a child who never attended church. Well, He chose not to, and I really did understand. I asked from a place of longing, that desire to see Him, experience His miraculous Presence, even though I accepted the fact that He could hear me. Time passed. I lost the closeness of that moment. And I never met Jesus Christ until I was 30 years old.

During the time between the child and the woman, sin was spawned slowly and meticulously in my life, pushing over the innocence and longing, and eventually changing it to a searching hardness and an emptiness. When I turned 20 after a year of college and a year of working, I’d saved my money, talked a friend into doing the same, for the express purpose of heading to Europe, London primarily. I was pursuing a British actor I’d seen in a Michaelangelo Antonioni film, believe it or not. While I was chasing after him, he was in the states chasing after a starlet in Hollywood who he married while I was in London trying to meet him. Before I became aware of that, I searched for and met his personal manager who invited me and my friend to a party which we attended. Long story short, the actor married the starlet, I learned of it while we were in France, I got drunk for the first time (got sick, cried, and passed out in a matter of about 20 minutes), and end of story. On the final day of our nearly 3 month stay back in London, I went to say goodbye to the personal manager and in walked the actor who I’d traveled all that distance to meet. He greeted me and that was that.

You’re probably wondering what any of this has to do with the opening paragraph. And I will get there, I think. The thing is I just finished Head Game by Tim Downs. I’ve read both of his bug man books (Shoo Fly Pie and Chop Shop), and I’ve read The Plague Maker. The only one of those four novels I could identify as Christian fiction is The Plague Maker which clearly and profoundly displayed and proclaimed the gospel in one character. In the bug man novels I cannot find even a true visual of God even with the scant and obscure character of a pastor/priest. (I apologize—it’s been well over a year since I read those books.) The bug man was one of the most innovative and unusual characters I’ve ever had the pleasure to discover. Truly fascinating. And the stories were just as intriguing. Tim is a very good writer—in my opinion. However, the bug man books ended with sadness and a certain hopelessness, and God was nowhere to be found. I don’t want to ruin Head Game for anyone who has yet to read his new release, but suffice it to say, it doesn’t end with hopelessness, but the hopefulness is not really based on anything but the human spirit, I guess.

I’m not singling out Tim Downs for scrutiny of any kind here. I would more than likely read his next novel as well. I cannot criticize his approach to writing, nor do I want to. What I’m saying is that for those who think you can point to God’s presence and the salvation message by casual references to Him by a quick prayer or a hastened thought in the time of serious conflict, you might be right, but you won’t necessarily point a reader to His Son with these offhand directions. The Christ in Christian. The reason for “Christian” fiction. It’s not enough to gesture in the direction of Jesus. Somehow, the Truth of who He is will not be gleaned by the average lost soul. Take it from one who knows.

In high school we had to read The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. (It was Stephen Crane, wasn’t it?!) I hated it, but I also had no idea of the “Christ” symbolism because I had no idea what Jesus had done. I had no reference point to catch the symbolism, and, believe me, I loved symbolism. I remember Marsha Macy standing up and explaining the symbolism in answer to a question, and it blew me away. I had no idea of what she was talking about. Not until some 14 years or so later.

Because we know Jesus, we sometimes think the lost also have a knowledge of who He is and what He did, but even back when prayer was still in schools and life was less vicious, all I knew was His name. I didn’t know the power of that Name, the history behind it, the eternal ramifications of not knowing more than I did.

But, I would also state here that no one, great writer or prolific author, can save a soul. That’s God’s department. He requires us to be His witnesses. A witness tells the truth about something or someone. He requires us to live for Him. We are both His children and His servants. And because we are His servants, we are to serve others as well. Because we are writers, we must tell the truth through our fiction, by His direction, in the unique style of His creation in us, and with His stamp of approval upon it. That is the goal, the optimum objective.

Perhaps you’re one of those who doesn’t want to write “Christian” fiction. Or maybe you think it’s enough to include flash references to God or Jesus, and, if God wants to use it, no doubt He will. I guess because my life strayed so far from that little girl who longed to see the only Jesus she knew come forth from that closet, I remember the impact of hearing the Truth for the first time, when suddenly all the time I’d wasted became so painful, and how life became “truly” meaningful for the very first time.

Just something to think about when you write . . .

Dear God, it hurts to remember who I was for so long, but your Presence was always there. I just missed it. Thank you for rescuing me from the shambles and artificial life lived without you. I love you, Lord. May I honor you with every word I write. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.