Why The Best Made Up Stories Are True

As a pastor, when I get into conversation with people and they hear I’m writing fiction, or that I read a lot of fiction, I usually get one of the following responses:

• “Huh.” Translation = That’s pretty weird.
• “Oh that must be…fun?” Translation = I can’t think of a good pastor reason you’d do that so... maybe it’s more fun than it sounds?
• “So like Pilgrims Progress or The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe? Translation = You must be writing straight allegories because I’m guessing that all a pastor is allowed to do?
• ”Why don’t you just write Christian living books instead? Why fiction?” Translation = Is this really a good use of your time as a pastor?

I totally get all the responses.

I think many writers and readers run into some of the same challenge explaining why they do what they do, to people who don’t do much of it. And I have probably wrestled with the same questions more than they might think:

• It does feel pretty weird to write down made up stories. Truly.
• It doesn’t always feel like fun. It feels like what it is — work.
• It can feel at times pointless to sit and write fiction and only to afterwards write a sermon and then wonder if the fiction really matters in the end
• It can seem, given my one brief life passing quickly by as I raise three kids, that everything I give my time to these days must not just matter but really matter.

So why write fiction? Why read it? And how can I explain it briefly and not over an hour on a winding rabbit trail of Psalms, Tolkien, Chesterton, and Flannery O’Connor references?

I think I finally have a short answer: I love made up stories because the best made up stories are true

Philippians 4:8 says it this way: “Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.” (ESV)

In that letter, Paul is encouraging the church to occupy their thoughts and minds intentionally, rather than just drifting from thing to think. They’re to stockpile, to fill their minds, with good things.

But notice what they’re to fill their minds with: the true, the honorable, the just, the pure, the lovely, the commendable, the excellent, the praiseworthy.

These are virtues. That’s a word we don’t use much anymore. They are timeless values and qualities that carry in themselves glimmers of the good character of God.

So when we read a true story of a young boy saving his little sister from a dog attack at the cost of great pain and great hurt, something in us goes “Yes, that’s it, that’s beautiful, that’s courage.”

But when we read the story of Frodo and Sam and the terrible Ring of Power they must carry and cast into the fire, when they keep going at great cost and great hurt, something in us goes, “Yes, that’s it, that’s beautiful, that’s courage.”

In other words, the virtue being held out there is true, even if the story is not. The story sets that virtue out so that we can see it and prize it and treasure it and pursue it. There is no such thing as a hobbit or ring of power. There is such a thing as courage to be prized. And so, in that way, the story rings with truth that is eternal.

Or perhaps, by contrast, the virtues are set out. The terrible Ring of Power, pulling people into selfish unholy desperation and destruction for the sake of power, corrupting all it touches is not real. There is no such thing as a ring of power. But there is such a thing as the corrupting black hole of craving power and a story that says, “This is ugly and terrible no matter how many people prize it.” In this way, the story is excellent and just by saying, “Run from this evil.” That is praiseworthy. The story then rings with truth that is eternal.

And this is why reading fiction is such dangerous business. It should not be done thoughtlessly or mindlessly. For every story holds out virtues. Every story has heroes and villains. Every story says, “Listen to me now, here is the thing to hate and the virtue to prize.” Be very careful, then, what whispers in your ear. For soon, you will become like the fiction you read or watch or listen to.

Yet, it can be a glorious gift. I’m preparing to walk with my oldest son through J.C. Ryle’s “Thoughts for Young Men” which is a call to reject weak, frivolous, life and pursue good and true things. But at night we’re usually reading a rollicking fantasy book like Wingfeather or Percy Jackson. In good rollicking adventures like that they underline what Ryle is saying. “Be courageous!” Ryle says. Then the fantasy book says, “Isn’t courage a glorious thing? Look here at it.”

So I will continue to write made-up stories. I will continue to strive that they be true. I will continue to read them. And I hope you will too.