Theology Central

The Bible certainly distinguishes sources of the supernatural. Some supernatural events are caused by God. Others are caused by Satan and his forces. Satan is the prince of the power of the air and the god of this age. He and his demons can do things that are beyond natural explanation. Supernatural events that come from God must be acknowledged, and God must be honored for them. Supernatural events that come from demons are to be avoided and even censured.

The Bible distinguishes the sources of these events, but it does not always reflect that distinction in the terms that it uses to designate them. As we have seen, words like signs, wonders, and miracles can be used to designate either supernatural deeds that come from God or supernatural works that come from dark forces. The terms themselves do not identify which is which.

The Bible is equally ambivalent about the term magic. In Acts 8:9 and 11, a character named Simon is described as one who “used sorcery” or “practiced magic arts.” The Greek verb for practicing sorcery is mageuo and the noun for sorcery is mageia. The kinship of these Greek words to our English word magic should be clear. In fact, Simon is sometimes called Simon Magus, because a magus or mage is a person who practices magic. In Simon’s case, these words are obviously referring to occult arts. Simon did not work wonders in the power of God but through the manipulation of other, darker powers.

Yet the plural of mage (magi) is also used as the title of the wise men who sought Jesus after His birth (Matt 2:1). This label is in full keeping with similar Old Testament usage. In Daniel 2:2, for example, magicians are ranked with sorcerers and astrologers. Yet Daniel himself—surely a godly man—is recognized as the “master” or “chief” of these magicians (Dan. 4:9; 5:11). To the Babylonian court, what Daniel could do was indistinguishable from magic, though Daniel was always careful to give credit to the true and living God.

All of this shows that our insistence upon a narrow distinction in words between “magic” as the work of Satan and “miracle” as the work of God is more finical than the Bible itself. Of course, we are welcome to define our own special vocabulary if we wish. We may insist upon a distinction between magic and miracle in our own usage. Nevertheless, we must not try to pretend that we are more righteous than the Bible. We are not permitted to judge the way that the Bible uses words simply because it does not measure up to the way that we have chosen to use the same words.

What is true about judging the Bible is also true about judging other literature, including fictional stories and especially fantasies. Simply because their special vocabulary differs from ours does not mean that they are evil or immoral. Fantastic stories also have the right to define their own technical terms. The question is not whether they use words like magic (or wizard, witch, or any number of such expressions). The question that we have to ask is what they mean by those terms. When reading fantastic literature that uses such words, we must ask whether those words really designate things that the Bible condemns. They may and often do, but sometimes they do not.

We are not permitted to judge the morality of a work of literature by asking whether it includes things that it calls magic, witches, wizards, and so forth. What we have to do is to look at the things to which those words refer. We must decide whether the things that those words designate are the same things that the Bible condemns, or whether they are something else altogether. For example, the Bible does not tell us what Galadriel meant when she talked about magic. The only way we will know that is by looking at what magic is within Tolkien’s Middle Earth.

A writer of fantasies may invent characters who exercise all sorts of remarkable powers. Perhaps those characters can become invisible; perhaps they can levitate; perhaps they can alter the atomic structure of one element into that of another. To invent such characters is no more objectionable than inventing a talking tree. The writer may choose to call these wonderful activities magic, and he may choose to call the characters who do such things sorcerers, magicians, wizards, or witches. If so, then the wizard or witch of the story is not the kind of wizard or witch that the Bible condemns in real life, any more than a talking grapevine is the kind of grapevine that God created in Genesis 1.

A story does not become immoral just because it has characters who exercise remarkable powers. It does not become immoral because the writer calls these remarkable powers magic. It does not even become immoral if the writer calls the characters who possess these powers wizards or witches. We must ask what words like magic and wizard mean in the world of the story, not what they mean in the real world. We must discover the author’s own usage.

There may well be a difference between “literary magic” and real magic. Therefore, we need to evaluate literary magic on a kind of sliding scale. At one end of the scale is real-world witchcraft, while at the other end is a kind of “magic” that is purely fanciful and perhaps even farcical. A writer of fantasy may put magical activities into the story at either end of this scale, or somewhere in between. The closer the magic gets to the end of the scale that resembles real-world witchcraft, the more objectionable it becomes to Christian sensibilities. By the same token, some kinds of literary magic should be completely unoffensive to thoughtful Christian readers.

If a writer glorifies or advocates an activity that the Bible condemns (such as real-world demonic activity), then the story is immoral. If a story were to induce its readers to practice the kind of occult arts that the Bible condemns, then it would clearly be contrary to Christian virtue. If, however, the story merely uses the language of magic to describe something that exists only in the invented world, and if that thing is substantially different to what the Bible condemns, then the story may be completely innocent. Depending  on the point of the story, it might even be useful for Christian readers. Whether it is or not will depend not so much upon whether the writer uses words like magic as upon the story’s point and how well it is made.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

Let All the World in Ev’ry Corner Sing

George Herbert (1593–1633)

Let all the world in ev’ry corner sing,
“My God and King!”
The heav’ns are not too high,
God’s praise may thither fly;
the earth is not too low,
God’s praises there may grow.
Let all the world in ev’ry corner sing,
“My God and King!”

Let all the world in ev’ry corner sing,
“My God and King!”
The church with psalms must shout:
no door can keep them out.
But, more than all, the heart
must bear the longest part.
Let all the world in ev’ery corner sing,
“My God and King!”

Many Christians who do not see a problem with fantasy per se are nevertheless troubled by the presence of magic in some fantastic writing. In the Christian view, real magic has exactly one source: Satan and his demons. To trifle with any form of magic (even the ubiquitous Ouija Board) is to invite demonic activity and to pollute oneself by contact with unclean practices. The Bible is very explicit that Christians must avoid all involvement with witches, sorcerers, mediums, necromancers, and other practitioners of the “curious arts” when they are engaged in the pursuit of those arts. Of course, we recognize that complete non-contact is neither possible nor desirable, for “then ye must needs go out of the world” (1 Cor 5:10). Nevertheless, Christians must never get caught up in such occult practices.

Some Christians believe that this biblical warning against all occult practices implies a direct prohibition of any fantasy that includes elements of magic within its legendarium. We can understand why some believers might think this way. We have already seen that fantasy must not invert morality. Fantasies that glorified stealing, murdering, or committing adultery would be deeply immoral. Why should stories that glorify magic be any different? Consequently, it is possible to find Christians blasting the Harry Potter stories as an expression of occultism. Some even object to J. R. R. Tolkien’s Middle Earth or C. S. Lewis’s Narnia because these imaginary worlds include wizards, witches, and enchantments of various sorts.

While we can understand this argument and even sympathize with it to some extent, it is too simplistic to be compelling. The problem with it is that the English language uses the words that designate occult practices to cover much more than just those practices. To focus on only one term, think of the word magic. In Christian discussions we like to reserve this word for one form of supernatural power, namely the power that comes from demonic sources. We do not typically use the word magic to refer to the signs and wonders that were done in the power of God by the apostles and prophets.

This distinction, however, is only a matter of our preference. It is not built into the term itself. Ordinary English uses the word magic in a broader sense. For example, the Cambridge English Dictionary defines magic as, “the use of special powers to make things happen that would usually be impossible.” Similarly, the Collins English Dictionary offers this definition: “Magic is the power to use supernatural forces to make impossible things happen….” Part of the Collins definition is tautological, because any “impossible thing” (i.e., an event that cannot be accounted for naturally) is necessarily supernatural. Any power that can cause such events must be understood as supernatural.

By the above definitions, biblical miracles could be called magic. Christians may prefer the word miracle. We might wish to restrict the use of the word magic to invoking evil powers. This restriction, however, is not built into the word. In general, the word magic simply designates events that cannot be explained or produced by non-natural means.

Let me illustrate this point. Suppose we wanted to write a fantastic story. We might begin by imagining a powerful seer. Marvelous deeds seem to follow him. He provides a destitute woman with a bottle of oil that will not run dry. When he places a curse on his enemies, they are torn to bits by savage animals. He causes an iron object to emerge from the sunken depths of a river and to float on its surface. He throws salt into a foul well, and the water turns sweet and drinkable. He walks through the middle of a river on a dry path. He neutralizes poison in a pot of food. He removes a dread pestilence from one man and places it upon another. He strikes his enemies with blindness.

These are feats worthy of an epic hero. If these marvelous deeds occurred in the world of Homer’s Odyssey, or in Baum’s Oz, Tolkien’s Middle Earth, Lewis’s Narnia, or Rowling’s Hogwarts, we would surely call them magic. But they don’t occur in those fictional worlds. Instead, these are actual events that occurred during the activity of Elisha the prophet. Since these deeds are recorded in the Bible, we hesitate to call them magic. Instead, we prefer to call them miracles. The fact remains that they are the same events, whichever label we put on them.

We Christians often dislike using the same word to designate the supernatural activities of both God and Satan. This perplexity is understandable. Similar outward acts may come from very different sources. Different sources may produce apparently miraculous results. Some fantasy writers are aware of this problem. That is why Tolkien has Galadriel say, “For this is what your folk would call magic, I believe; though I do not understand clearly what they mean; and they seem also to use the same word of the deceits of the Enemy.” In the normal use of the English language, the word magic is not a technical term that specifies good or evil.

The same is true of other biblical words that designate the supernatural. Words like miracle, sign, and wonder are used to describe deeds that are done in the power of God. They are also used to describe deeds that are done in the power of Satan. For example, in Acts 2:22 Peter preaches that Jesus’ claims were authenticated by “miracles and wonders and signs.” In 2 Corinthians 12:12 Paul says that the ministry of the apostles was authenticated by “signs, and wonders, and mighty deeds.” These are the very same Greek words that Peter uses for the miracles of Jesus in Acts 2:22. This combination of terms occurs at least one other time, in 2 Thessalonians 2:9. This verse describes the marvelous deeds of the antichrist. In other words, the Bible itself uses the same terms to describe supernatural things done by God and supernatural things done by Satan.

The Bible uses words like sign, wonder, and miracle for both holy and unholy deeds. But what about words like magic or magician? Are those words ever used to describe holy acts or godly people? That is the question we shall address in the next essay.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

Jesus, Thy Saving Name I Bless

Charles Wesley (1707–1788)

Jesus, Thy saving name I bless,
Delivered out of my distress,
Thy faithfulness I prove;
I magnify Thy mercy’s power;
My refuge in the trying hour
Was Thy almighty love.

Snatched from the rage of cruel men,
Brought up out of the lion’s den,
And thro’ the burning flame:
Jesus, Thine outstretched hand I see,
Might, wisdom, strength ascribe to Thee,
And bless Thy saving name.

Hereby Thou favorest me, I know,
Because Thou wouldst not let the foe
My hunted soul destroy;
Better than life Thy favor is,
’Tis pure delight, and perfect bliss,
And everlasting joy.

Saved by a miracle of grace,
Lord, I with thankful heart embrace
The token of Thy love:
This, this, the comfortable sign,
That I the first born church shall join,
And bless Thy name above.

Over the past couple of essays we have seen two biblical examples of fantasy being used in fable. Can we learn anything about fantasy by studying these examples? I believe the answer is yes; these biblical fables offer several lessons.

The first is fairly obvious: fantasy goes beyond what is possible in the real world. In the real world we know that thistles and trees do not reason, speak, or hold councils. To represent them as doing these things is an exercise of the imagination. Imagination is the capacity that enables human beings to invent or perceive realities that they have never experienced before. All works of literature depend on imagination, but none more than fantasy.

The biblical fables create imaginative worlds in which thistles can make marriage plans with trees, and in which trees can elect kings. The imaginative world of these fables is like the real world in some respects—both worlds have thistles and trees. The imaginative world is also unlike the real world, for thistles and trees behave differently in the world of the biblical fables than they do in the real world. In other words, the thistle and the cedar in the fable resemble real thistles and cedars, but they are not identical.

Consequently, the imagined realities of the invented world must be understood on their own terms. If we simply dismiss the story because we know that thistles and cedars don’t talk, then we are going to miss whatever value the story might have to offer. Within the world of the story, we must accept things that we know would be impossible in the real world. If we encountered a talking tree in real life, we would attribute it to hallucination, trickery, or, in extreme cases, perhaps to demonic activity. To make sense of the invented reality, however, we must reject these same assumptions. We must begin by supposing that within the invented world, such things can happen.

By the same token, we must not read into one invented world the categories that arise from a different invented world. For example, the world of Western mythology also mentions talking trees. In the myths, these trees act and talk because they are inhabited by tree-spirits, or Dryads. A person who was familiar with mythology might be tempted to read Dryadic activity into the talking trees of the biblical fables, but this would be misreading. The biblical stories must be read on their own terms, not on the terms of other imaginative worlds. The worlds of biblical fable and Western mythology must be kept separate. To confuse them would inevitably lead to misunderstanding.

The fantastic elements must be accepted as the premise of the story. To participate in the imaginative world, we must suspend our disbelief. We must forget that trees cannot think or talk. If we question how such things might be, we will get stuck at the front door and miss the point of the story.

Each invented world uses vocabulary in its own way. To make sound judgments about imagined worlds, we must base our thinking on each world’s own usages, those of other worlds—whether metaphysical reality or some other fantasy. The word bramble designates one thing in metaphysical reality, where brambles do not talk. The word designates a different thing in the imaginative world of Western mythology, where bramble spirits just might talk. The same word designates a still different thing in the world of Jotham’s fable, where it stands as an imaginative symbol.

The definition of the word bramble changes in each of these universes. In fact, all fantasy involves some amount of redefining. The author of the fantasy creates an invented world. She or he gets to say what definitions will govern that world. We know what a thistle is and what it can do in our world, but Jehoash gets to decide what a thistle can do in the imaginative world of his fable. We must not export our normal definition of thistle into his fable; we must learn what a thistle is in the fable by observing it within the fable’s own imaginative world.

What with all the redefining, inventing a fantastic world can take a good bit of effort. Why would a writer go through the trouble? What can fantasy do that ordinary discourse does not?

A fantastic story can be a powerful means of speaking to the real world. Sometimes the fantastic elements allegorize aspects of reality. Other times they operate as symbols for material or moral verities. Part of their value is that they grip our attention in ways that ordinary discourse does not. Beyond that, they permit us to adopt a kind of double perspective on reality.

By this I mean that they grant us a level of moral distance and abstraction that would not otherwise be possible. For example, when we first enter the world of Jotham’s fable, we do not particularly care what happens to the trees. While our curiosity is piqued, we are sufficiently disengaged that we can observe the events as more-or-less impartial spectators.

By opening this distance, fantasy also permits an author to isolate and amplify specific virtues and vices. By singling out these vices or virtues, the author can lead his readers to view aspects of human character in a particularly focused way, one that is not complicated by the all-too-frequent contradictions of the ordinary human condition. Readers are thus led to make judgments that commit them to moral positions before they quite realize what is at stake.

Consider Jotham’s fable of the trees. This story is not about forestry, but about the kingship of Israel. It intends to offer a particular perspective on the kingship. It presents the kingship as an inferior calling. No right-thinking tree would leave his useful calling to become a king. Only the bramble, the most useless and annoying of bushes, finds the prospect appealing. The irony is rich when he invites the other trees to shelter under his shade. How does an olive tree find shade under a bramble? How could anybody? Jotham is implying that Abimelech’s reign will be disastrous. When he finally identifies the real people who correspond to the characters in the story, the lesson is plain for all to see.

Something similar happens with Jehoash’s fable. He establishes the image of a thistle acting like the equal of a great cedar. The contrast is humorous, and the humor is even more pointed because the cedar never notices. An unnamed animal steps on the thistle and squashes the upstart. Jehoash isn’t just rebuffing Amaziah, he is laughing at him.

This is the power of fantasy. True, plenty of inferior authors merely play with fantastic devices. In skilled hands, however, fantasy can communicate more effectively than plain speech. It can smuggle a message past our guard. It can lead us to form judgments before we even know that we have committed ourselves. By transporting us out of ordinary reality, fantasy has the power to help us glimpse the moral dimensions of our world in their correct proportions.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

from The Sacrifice

George Herbert (1593–1633)

Hark how they cry aloud still, Crucify:
It is not fit he live a day, they cry,
Who cannot live less then eternally:
Was ever grief like mine?

Pilate, a stranger, holdeth off; but they,
Mine own dear people, cry, Away, away,
With noises confused frighting the day:
Was ever grief like mine?

Yet still they shout, and cry, and stop their ears,
Putting my life among their sins and fears,
And therefore wish my blood on them and theirs:
Was ever grief like mine?                                   

See how spite cankers things. These words aright
Used, and wished, are the whole worlds light:
But honey is their gall, brightness their night:
Was ever grief like mine?

As we have seen, the writers of Scripture had good reason for employing fantastic elements in their prophetic writing. The Bible also includes another kind of literature that uses fantastic elements. This kind of literature is called fable. To be clear, the biblical writers do not tell fables, but they do record fables that are told by characters within the text. In what follows I would like to examine two of these fables.

Before I do, however, I want to distinguish fables from parables. One mark of a fable is that it depicts animals, plants, or even objects that think, speak, and act as if they were persons. In some cases, these creatures possess some other marvelous property, such as the goose that laid the golden eggs. Fables also usually have some moral or allegorical meaning behind them. Thus, the fable of the goose is a warning against greed. The fable of the city mouse and the country mouse teaches that safety is better than extravagance. The fable of the tortoise and the hare teaches that persistence is better than brilliance.

Parables also teach lessons, but they teach these lessons without resorting to fantastic elements. A sower who goes out to sow is nothing special. We are not surprised by the action of leaven in a lump of dough. Even when parables contain unusual or even astonishing elements (a treasure in a field, for example, or a pearl of great price), these elements are the kind of things that might and sometimes do occur in real life. Biblical parables may contain exaggerations or improbabilities, but they do not contain outright impossibilities.

What about the story of Lazarus and the rich man? Should it be classified as fable, parable, a satire, an actual history, or something else? Students of the Bible have debated this question. The story, which Jesus tells in Luke 16:19–31, follows a string of parables. The last of those parables even begins with the same language: “There was a certain rich man…” (Luke 16:1). These factors could indicate that the story is a parable.

Other considerations, however, suggest that it might not be. Before beginning the story of the rich man and Lazarus, the string of parables is broken when Jesus summarizes His application from the last parable and then engages in a bit of dialogue with the Pharisees (Luke 16:14–18). During this section, Jesus rebukes the Pharisees. The story of Lazarus and the rich man underscores an aspect of Jesus’ rebuke and constitutes a warning against greed. Importantly, Jesus names a character in this story—Lazarus—which is something that He does in no acknowledged parable.

The most likely understanding of the story is that both Lazarus and the rich man were real people, and that Jesus is narrating a part of their story. This story includes elements that occur both before and after their deaths. The postmortem elements should not be viewed as any more fantastic than the antemortem elements. In other words, this story qualifies as occult literature in the sense in which I have used that expression. It grants a glimpse into the otherwise hidden world of souls during the intermediate state (the state between death and resurrection) for both saved and lost individuals. Most likely, the story is not a fable, fantasy, or parable. It is a straightforward narrative, parts of which ought to horrify us.

The account of Lazarus and the rich man is not a fable, but the Bible does record fables. These biblical fables are examples of how the Bible uses fantastic literature. Two examples of biblical fables are the fable of the thistle and the cedar (2 Kgs 14:9–10) and the fable of the trees electing a king (Judg 9:7–20).

2 Kings 14 opens with Amaziah becoming king of Judah. Upon ascending to the throne, he first brings order to his own kingdom. Next, Amaziah defeats Edom in battle. Flush with victory he sends messengers to Jehoash, king of Israel, challenging him to battle. Jehoash replies with a fable in which a thistle asks a cedar of Lebanon to give its daughter as wife for the thistle’s son. Instead, a wild animal tramples the thistle. Jehoash then makes the lesson clear: Amaziah is not nearly as important as he thinks he is and he should remember his place.

The contrast in size between the thistle and the mighty cedar is what makes this fable work. The effrontery of the thistle is comical, and the thistle’s weakness is emphasized by the fact that it is destroyed when an animal steps on it. No animal would ever trample a cedar of Lebanon. If Jehoash intended to get people to laugh at Amaziah, then he went about it the right way.

The other fable is found in Judges 9:8-15. As the story opens, the judge Gideon has died. His illegitimate son Abimelech treacherously murders all of Gideon’s legitimate sons (sixty-nine of them) except Jotham, the youngest. Abimelech is then proclaimed king of Shechem by his half-brothers on his mother’s side.

In the face of this travesty, the surviving son Jotham stands atop Mount Gerizim and tells a fable in which the trees meet to choose a king. The olive tree, fig tree, and grape vine all decline on the grounds that they already have important tasks to perform. Finally, the bramble bush invites the trees to shelter under its shade, threatening any who reject it with fire. Jotham then applies this fable to the regency of Abimelech, forecasting the betrayal and destruction that would follow.

These two biblical fables are instructive, not only for what they teach, but also for how they teach it. Both Jotham and Jehoash wanted to make a point. Both chose a fable as the ideal literary form for the point they wanted to make. By examining how these two biblical characters used their fables we can learn important lessons, not only about fables, but about the legitimate uses of fantastic writing in general. We shall examine those matters in greater detail in the next essay.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

from La Corona

John Donne (1572–1631)

By miracles exceeding power of man,
He faith in some, envy in some begat,
For, what weak spirits admire, ambitious hate:
In both affections many to Him ran.
But O! the worst are most, they will and can,
Alas! and do, unto th’ Immaculate,
Whose creature Fate is, now prescribe a fate,
Measuring self-life’s infinity to’a span,
Nay to an inch. Lo! where condemned He
Bears His own cross, with pain, yet by and by
When it bears him, He must bear more and die.
Now Thou art lifted up, draw me to Thee,
And at Thy death giving such liberal dole,
Moist with one drop of Thy blood my dry soul.