The Second Shelf: In Defence of Christian Fiction (and Non-Fiction)

Posted on May 8, 2013 by

I recently attended a meeting at a church in my city. A large bookcase dominated one end of the small room, and my eyes were drawn to scan the titles stacked on its shelves as I waited for the meeting to begin.

Seeing this, a man at the table, a spiritual leader in the community for whom I have tremendous respect, asked me how many of the books on the top shelf I had read.

bookshelf

The titles were impressive: all non-fiction, theological treatises by well-known and well-respected authors, most from another era. Many were on my to-read list, but I had only actually gotten into one or two of them and I told him that.

I added, somewhat facetiously, that I had read most if not all of the books on the second shelf (the traditional “fiction level”). He responded with a wave of his hand and the words “I don’t really care about the second shelf.”

I let it go. As I mentioned, I have tremendous respect for this man, and his off-hand comment has not changed that. It has, however, gotten me thinking. We do tend to fall into one of two camps as readers of Christian literature: the fiction and the non-fiction. The readers of serious non-fiction often treat fiction dismissively at best, and contemptuously at worst. To be fair, fiction readers have a tendency to consider non-fiction books dry, boring and void of any application to real life.

In my mind, this should not be an either/or proposition. It’s more of an eye/foot/hand one: each of us has been given different gifts and all gifts are needed in order for the body to function as a strong, healthy whole.

God has placed the parts of the body

Not only that, but a lengthy theological treatise that contains no stories will quickly be put down by all but the most devout and academic (read: self-denying) of readers. We are created for story. By God’s design, our wandering attention can be instantly captured and brought back to a speaker who launches into a relevant anecdote, as any pastor will tell you. So a work of non-fiction, to demonstrate the applicability of its teaching and to retain the attention of its reader, must by necessity include stories. Jesus knew this, and demonstrated it over and over as he spoke to the throngs of people who crowded around him, desperate for his teaching.

On the flip side, good Christian fiction, to have any impact whatsoever, MUST be rooted in and informed by strong, Biblically-sound theology. Otherwise it is not useful for anything beyond offering its readers an hour or two of mindless diversion.

The two camps are not, or at least they shouldn’t be, at war. Neither should be scornful of the other. Authors of both non-fiction and fiction, if they are believers working together for a common cause:  to bring glory to God and advance the kingdom, need to recognize their need for each other, develop a respect for what the other has to offer, and support and encourage each other in their endeavor to bring light into a world in desperate need of it.

Press on, my friends. Press on,

Sara

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It Takes a Community: Lessons from a Cautionary Tale

Posted on April 5, 2013 by

Your book is your baby.

your book is your baby

And just as it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a community to shape a book.

So here, should you be interested, are the lessons to be learned from “Unhappily Ever After: A Cautionary Tale” (see previous post):

Never shelter or protect your work from outside influences and opinions. Strive to develop a thick skin and to remain open to any and all feedback on your writing. Commit to at least carefully considering all comments and suggestions before deciding whether or not you will take them. Resist the urge to be defensive, as defensiveness vastly diminishes the possibility of growth and improvement – in your writing and in yourself.

Seek out anyone who can teach you anything about the craft. Read books and sign up for classes, workshops, conferences and webinars. Take every opportunity to sit at the feet and learn from those with more knowledge and experience than you. learning to writeFailure to sharpen your skills ensures that you will never produce anything good, let alone truly great, which should always be the goal of a writer.

Employ the services of a good, qualified, objective editor who can dig deep into your work to remove anything that doesn’t belong there. Yes, the treatment can be excruciating. But after you have recovered (and I would strongly urge you to avoid self-medicating as a means to get through the process), I promise that you will be forever grateful for what the surgeon and his scalpel have done for you.

Engage in stimulating conversation – with those who share your point of view and with those who don’t – to develop your ability to think and reason. Find peer mentors. Join or start up a writer’s group. Writing can be a lonely, solitary, discouraging occupation. Do not isolate yourself. Attend writer’s conferences to interact and build relationships with those who understand the highs and lows that accompany the gift. Each time you will leave encouraged, inspired and motivated, knowing you are not alone.

Force yourself out of your comfort zone. Play. Splash through puddles. Make snow angels. Volunteer to work with people whose life experiences are completely outside of your frame of reference. Encourage those in all different occupations or with various hobbies and interests to share their stories and passions with you. Read. Travel. Enjoy new foods. Assuming the adage “write what you know” is valid, determine to increase your knowledge of the world around you so that always, always your writing may grow steadily richer, deeper, more meaningful and more impactful.

splashing3

Climb a mountain to view the sun rise, watch good movies, visit Disney World, stare up at the night sky through a telescope, or sit back and watch children at play (or better yet, jump in and play with them) in order to increase your capacity for imagination and wonder.

Carefully define what success means to you. Understand that a book that moves or has a positive influence on a single reader has accomplished every bit as much (or more) than a book that spends weeks on the New York Times Bestseller list.

If you have never seriously considered spiritual things, open your heart and mind to the possibility that something greater than yourself exists and is the source of the creativity flowing through you. Nothing short of acknowledging and being grateful to the giver will allow you to appreciate and use the gift to its fullest extent, so that it may accomplish the purpose for which it was given.

When you have done all of these things, then, and only then, pack up your manuscript and set off into the world of queries, synopses, proposals, submissions, agents and editors. If you start down this road too early, before you are fully prepared and adequately equipped, you will not survive. You will be beaten down, defeated, discouraged and left sitting in a ditch, alone.

Brace yourself for rejection. View it as an important rite of passage. Paper your walls with it. Remember those great writers who have gone before you and who had to work for every step forward while being pushed two steps back. Allow yourself to feel the sting of criticism and rejection. It will help you to grow. It will strengthen your resolve. It will send you back to your manuscript to make it better and stronger. It will prove that you still care.

And if you learn nothing else from this tragic tale, take this with you: if you believe in your story, and have done everything in your power to make it the best it can possibly be, never, never, never give up until you reach the end of your journey.

end of the road

Press on, my friends. Press on,

Sara

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Unhappily Ever After: A Cautionary Tale

Posted on April 2, 2013 by

Once upon a time, a woman gave birth to a son, and carried him deep into a forest to raise him on her own. Not wanting him to have any influence in his life other than her own, she had sent away his father and now she set up a home for them in a tiny wooden cabin far from any other human beings.

The boy grew up small and pale-skinned, for she kept him inside and away from the shaping forces of sun, wind and rain. His health suffered from the lack of elements, but the woman refused to acknowledge this need in his life and continued to coddle, protect and shield him from the world outside their heavily curtained windows. She taught him herself, believing that no teacher, however learned or experienced, could offer her son what she could.

When he was ill, or injured, she provided medical care from her own hand and sparse knowledge. Because of this, he often remained in bed, suffering needlessly from some ailment. An ailment that might have been easily treated or prevented had she allowed him access to the care of those who had studied modern medicine, or the art of natural healing remedies. As a toddler, he once climbed up onto a chair and then lost his balance and fell off, breaking his left arm which, poorly set, grew twisted and nearly useless as he approached his teen years.

The boy had no friends, of course. Family members were barred from visiting, so he never experienced love, physical touch or interesting conversation from anyone other than his mother. What he did receive from her was so limited in its scope and variety as to be almost completely ineffectual in shaping his mind, character and personality.

He rarely laughed as he had no frame of reference for humour or fun.  He never knew what it was like to run and play in a field of wildflowers, or splash through a muddy puddle, or lie, spread-eagled, on soft, cold snow leaving the imprint of an angel behind him when he scrambled to his feet.

Shortly after the boy turned eighteen, his mother died, leaving him on his own to face a world he had never experienced or known. Filled with fear and trepidation, yet somehow sensing there was more to life than the extremely limited existence his mother had allowed him to experience, the boy filled a bag with provisions and set off to explore the world beyond his door.

pathway

The sun beat down on his tender skin until it stung and burned so badly the slight pressure of the shirt rubbing against his flesh caused him relentless pain. His muscles were weak and atrophied from disuse, so that the few belongings he carried in his bag weighed heavily on his back and shoulders. Still, not knowing what else to do, he pressed on, as the sights, smells and sounds pressing in around him filled his senses almost past bearing.

He was ill-prepared for what he encountered on his journey. Every thought in his head had come from the same source, and his knowledge and experience were so extremely limited that his viewpoint on the world was narrow and shallow. Those few people he encountered who attempted to engage him in conversation quickly gave up as he had little or nothing to offer by way of insight or empathy.

With no knowledge of how to survive on his own, the boy struggled along for weeks, alone, hungry, weak and exhausted. Finally, he stumbled into a ditch, dropped his cumbersome bag to the ground, cradled his crippled arm to his chest, and slumped down in the thick grass, a lonely, dejected waste of a mind, body and soul.

The End

I know what you are thinking – that’s a horrible story! And in terms of writing quality you may be right. However, if it will ease your mind any, I’ll tell you that I do have a point and a purpose in crafting the tale. A point and  purpose I will be happy to share with you if you do me the honour of dropping by again this Friday.

In the meantime, do yourself a favour and go outside today. Run in a field of wildflowers or splash through a muddy puddle. If you live anywhere near where I do, you will also, unfortunately, be able to lie down and create your own snow angel, something I would highly encourage you to try if you haven’t done so recently. Have fun and I’ll see you at the end of the week, point and purpose in hand.

Press on, my friends. Press on,

Sara

 

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Into the Light

Posted on March 31, 2013 by

A new dawn. A new world. A new hope.

Now after the Sabbath, toward the dawn of the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. 2 And behold, there was a great earthquake, for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. 3 His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. 4 And for fear of him the guards trembled and became like dead men. 5 But the angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. 6 He is not here, for he has risen, as he said. (from Matthew 28, ESV)

empty tomb

 

Death is conquered. Despair is turned to hope. Relationship is restored for all who believe. The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light.

He is risen, my friends. He is risen indeed.

Sara

 

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The Second Day

Posted on March 30, 2013 by

What will happen now?

Drops of dew cling to blades of grass. Fog shrouds the earth like the gauzy cloth they had wrapped around their master hours before, burying their hopes and dreams behind a huge, grey, immovable rock.

Everything is still. Not even the slightest breeze rustles the leaves, or stirs the thick, stifling air. As though the earth, like all of them, holds its breath. Waiting.

mist 2

What will happen now?

Memories of the day before assault them. They shudder. A day filled with slashes of red and suffocating, unnatural dark. The clanging of metal against metal and the laughter – the screeching, mocking laughter. Sights and sounds they will never be able to erase from their minds.

They tremble. They bury their faces in their hands. They wait for the pounding on the door, for rough hands to drag them away to the same fate as the one they had followed. The one they had believed in. The one they had given everything up for. For nothing.

They weep, shoulders heaving, reaching for one another in a desperate – and vain – attempt to find comfort. Comfort needs hope, so there is no comfort anywhere, in anything.

Except maybe in the faint, whispery echoes of the words he had spoken to them. Talk of the third day, of the temple destroyed and rebuilt. Words they didn’t understand then and cannot begin to comprehend now. Whispers they try to reach for, to grasp, but that dissipate in their numb fingers like the morning mist on the sea.

They sit, knees drawn to chests and backs pressed to cold, damp walls. They mourn. For him. For themselves. They wait. They try to draw in one painful breath after another, pushing back thoughts that it would be better to just stop trying.

What will happen now?

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Enter the Darkness

Posted on March 29, 2013 by

It was now about the sixth hour, and there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour, while the sun’s light failed.

And Jesus uttered a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.

And when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, “Truly this man was the Son of God!”

cross

Yes, hope and joy come on Sunday, but for today, enter into the darkness and just settle there …

.

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Why I Do Lent

Posted on March 24, 2013 by

For the last thirty-three days (plus Sundays!), I have been walking around in a fog. Because this isn’t that unusual a state for me, it’s possible most people haven’t noticed, but for this time period, at least, there actually is a reason. I have temporarily given up coffee.

Image

My last, glorious, life-infusing cup was Tuesday, February 12th, at approximately 10 a.m. Assuming that sniffing the bag of coffee grounds in the cupboard – or the aroma wafting from the stranger’s cup on the table beside mine in the restaurant – doesn’t count, I haven’t cheated and had so much as a sip in all that time. And although it has just about killed me (and those poor souls who have to live with me) I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Lent isn’t a tradition I grew up with. Several years ago, though, my husband and I decided to implement the practice with our family. The result has been a powerful time of preparation for the highlight of the Christian calendar: Easter weekend. My kids take this very seriously. They deliberate – sometimes for weeks – about what they believe would be the best thing for them to give up, what one thing they will miss, what favourite food or drink or activity that will actually sting a little (or a lot) if it is removed from their lives. And once they have decided and Lent has begun, nothing can persuade them to partake of that thing. I have learned a lot about commitment from watching them.

The key is to think about why you are making the sacrifice. This is not a meritorious activity; no brownie points will be earned with God or placed on the scales to offset any accrued guilt. Neither is it in any way comparable to the sacrifice and suffering of Jesus Christ.

It is, however, a grounding, a focal point. We live in a culture that does not value self-sacrifice or self-denial. If we want something, we just go to the refrigerator or to the store and get it. Giving up something that brings us pleasure (or, in the case of coffee, helps me get through the day) has a way of drawing us back to that which we wish to focus on. When I stumble into the kitchen in the morning and remember that I cannot pour myself that all-important first cup, I stop and think about why I am not having that cup, and say a prayer of gratitude for what Jesus was willing to give up for me.

I can’t grasp the magnitude of his sacrifice, but I can let the realization that he willingly suffered so that I could have hope and a future wash over me. I can fall to my knees in humility as the truth of that fills me fresh every morning. If a little self-denial can remove me from a world of noise and distraction and busyness and bring me to that place, even for a few minutes at a time, I will gladly participate in it.

This is Holy Week. The knowledge of that did not just strike me in the last few days, or when the kids came into the service this morning waving palm branches and singing. I try to keep Christ’s sacrifice for me uppermost in my thoughts all year through, but have been particularly reminded and brought back to the cross daily for the past 33 days. And if such a miniscule sacrifice can bring to mind and heart a remembrance of the greatest sacrifice of all, it is truly a price worth paying.

Press on, my friends. Press on,

Sara

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