Mark's Letters

In the best adventures there is a delicate dance of freedom and providence. But often we are tempted to see God like a father dancing with a daughter whose feet can’t touch the ground. The little girl is swept up by God and need do nothing as he swings her across the ballroom. Certainly this kind of dancing is comforting. Nothing depends on us—and that’s a relief. God’s control is complete. There is no danger of us stepping on toes or missing a beat.

But maybe we are called to be more like a bride dancing with her bridegroom. Even though she follows his lead, her feet must touch the ground and she must move to the music. She may miss a  few steps and smash a few toes, but unlike the little girl, the bride gazes into the eyes of the bridegroom. Instead of the dance being a picture of the father’s sovereignty as he swings his daughter through the air, we see a picture of a relationship: mutual love, willing obedience, and even shared suffering. The longer they dance together, the more they move as one.

There are probably times when God sovereignly lifts and carries us, but the flow of Scripture suggests the centrality of relationship. Sloth, and perhaps some bad theology, can make us want to stay the passive little girl forever. God’s desires our growth. We are called to move with Christ to the music of the Holy Spirit as we obey, pray, and lose ourselves in the Bridegroom’s love. The world is our ballroom and together our dance manifests the beauty and love of God. Daddy’s little girl is all grown-up.

The best adventures treat characters as free moral agents faced with real decisions. In The Lord of Rings, the most successful adventure story of the 20^th century, the plot hinges on the choices of the characters. The whole council of Elrond is about deciding what to do with the ring. A wrong decision is made when Gandalf first attempts to lead them over the mountains to Lothlorien. Aragorn, in the midst of great danger, takes time to decide whether to follow Frodo into Mordor or pursue Merry and Pippin into Rohan. Eomer must judge whether Aragorn is to be trusted. Boromir, Faramir, Galadriel, and even Gandalf must decide whether to use the ring’s power. Frodo decides to show Gollum mercy despite Sam’s objections. Choices drive the plot and Tolkien emphasizes again and again that no good outcome is guaranteed; that they are pursuing “a fool’s hope”. It is hope and morality, not pragmatism, that drive decisions.

In a pivotal scene of Treasure Island, the captured Jim Hawkins is allowed to talk alone with Doctor Livesey after promising not to attempt an escape. Despite the urgings of the doctor, Jim steadfastly refuses to break his word to Long John Silver. Silver later tells Jim he had noticed his decision to keep his word and pledges to protect Jim from the other pirates. When the main characters are given freedom of choice, their moral character matters. The pity Frodo shows Gollum matters, not just for the final plot twist, but for Frodo to maintain the moral character needed to resist the ring’s power.

In adventures, decisions are the razor’s edge which determine the direction of the plot and fate of the characters. Therefore, it is no surprise that adventure stories became unfashionable in the 20^th century. At the end of the 19^th century, western culture was awash in deterministic theories that denied or reduced the possibility of free decisions. Karl Marx insisted that history was governed by large and impersonal economic forces—not the decisions of leaders. Sigmund Freud began exploring the many ways in which what we think are free decisions are actually the result of subconscious urges and neuroses. In the 20^th century the behaviorist theories of B. F. Skinner insisted that all decisions are the result of our past conditioning. Later Francis Crick argued that all that we are and do is the result of genetic determinism—that we are a bio-chemical machine. Because of the dominance of these reductionistic theories, many literary critics regard the idea that characters can freely choose good or evil as naïve and unsophisticated.

In literary naturalism, the main characters are victims of their environment: the economy, society, or the stifling conventionality of the middle class. Life acts upon them but they do not freely act upon the world around them. Zola, Stephen Crane, and Theodore Dreiser presented characters who are victims of not only their environment but social and economic injustice. Part of the irony of literary naturalism is its insistence that we are not free moral agents and that we should all choose to end social injustice. Of course, part of the rejection of adventure is founded on the conviction that only the upper classes—the knights—have the luxury of going on adventures. For the poor, naturalists point out, the next meal is an adventure. Naturalist writers, therefore, have both political and philosophical objections to adventure novels.

Although it certainly true that the average person during the Middle Ages could not gear up like an Arthurian knight and wander aimlessly in search of adventure, we should note that in many fairy tales it is the common folk who have adventures. Boys who sell a cow for magic beans kill giants and any girl can become Cinderella. George McDonald, C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, and G. K. Chesterton all wrote eloquently about the important truths expressed by fairy tales. Any person may suddenly find themselves in a fairy tale that demands they decide rightly. In a fairy tale evil is real but limited, and at any moment goodness, joy, or truth may pounce upon the humblest character.

We, however, are not forced to choose between fairy tales and science. All reductionistic theories that deny people freedom of choice represent the triumph of half-truths. Marx is right to point out that much of history is driven by economic self-interest. And much of who we are and what we do is a product of our environment and conditioning. Subconscious and unconscious impulses do influence us. The instinct to survive is strong. But all these theories over-reach when they claim to explain all human behavior. Over all these conflicting riptides of influence, there is a self which makes free decisions. So although all these theories provide writers with insight into the motivations of characters, for adventure to be possible a writer must create morally free characters.

Free moral agency isn’t important just for heroes. It is essential for true villains. If we embrace a purely sociological or biochemical explanation of a villain, he or she ceases to be truly evil. The villain may still be frightening, but has been reduced to a case study in social pathology—is now pathetic more than evil. Although writers can certainly outline influences on a villain, for an antagonist to be truly evil, he or she must consciously choose evil despite knowing what is good. Sometimes the descent into villainy may be many small steps—small decisions made over a long period.

It is ironic that reductionistic theories that deny freedom of choice claim to be realistic and scientific. Yet, even those presenting these theories cannot live by them. Freud did not present his theories as the product of irrational subconscious resentment toward his father and Judaism. B. F. Skinner did not present his theory as merely the result of his environment and conditioning. Francis Crick did not admit that he was genetically determined to believe in genetic determinism. Adventure novels ring true, seem more realistic, to average readers because we all live as though we must take responsibility for our actions. We struggle daily to decide rightly. As G. K. Chesterton insisted, the adventure novels written for boys grasp this truth better than most modern novels. Chesterton was right to trust the commonsense of the man on the street more than the reductionist theories of 20^th century intellectuals.

This commonsense insistence on human freedom and responsibility explains why readers continue to love adventure novels—why Lewis and Tolkien’s works continue to be popular in books and film. Adventure novels, rather than being escapist, express the most fundamental truths about the human existence: the universe has a moral structure, character matters, evil exists, and we must choose good over evil. Tolkien and Lewis offer us the opportunity to escape the delusions and dark fantasies of those who reduce humans to animals, pawns, or lab rats. London street urchins who read Stevenson’s Treasure Island saw that their character and choices put nobility and heroism within reach. If the choices and character of hobbits matter in Middle-earth, then our character and decisions matter today.

Another key ingredient of adventure is having to work within limitations. In many instances, the greater the limitations, the greater the adventure. Chesterton asserts that Robinson Crusoe owes its eternal vivacity “to the fact that it celebrates the poetry of limits, nay, even the wild romance of prudence.”  Had David been a giant Israelite lumbering out to fight Goliath, the story would be interesting but less adventurous. The adventure of Treasure Island owes much to Jim Hawkins being a boy facing ruthless pirates. Pressing up against personal limits and overcoming external limitations are often as much a part of the adventure as battling an enemy. Tolkien wisely gives his lead characters, the hobbits, no supernatural powers. Even Superman with all his powers must beware kryptonite.

The popularity of survival shows on television testifies that limitations are inherent to adventure. The shows focus on how to build a fire without matches, to provide shelter without a tent, to float down a river without boat, to find water in a desert. They tell us how to make use of whatever we find or whatever we had when we got stranded. The first step in a survival situation is to take inventory of supplies. Chesterton celebrates this by declaring that the best thing in Robinson Crusoe is “simply the list of things saved from the wreck.” He goes on to claim, “The greatest of poems is an inventory.”

Part of the glory of limits is the clarity it provides. As we inventory what little we have, we are able to see clearly the value of each item. Lost in the woods, we see three matches as pure gold, a pocket knife proves precious, and every drop of water becomes the nectar of the gods. I did not truly see or know water until I hiked in the desert to a small water fall surrounded by palms. I suspect David had never delighted more in the weight and smoothness of a stone than when he slipped it into his sling.

 Not only do we see things more clearly when faced with scarcity, we become more thankful. The poetry of inventory often is a psalm of thanksgiving. The limits of a situation often change our relationships to the world around us. The discontent bred by ambition and greed is replaced by humble thanksgiving for each thing we have salvaged. The lost hiker receives huckleberries like a sacrament and thanks God for the slightest trace of a trail home.

Sometimes we are challenged to see humanity in a new light. This was certainly true in Crusoe’s rescue and relationship with Friday. In post-apocalyptic novels and movies the limitations are often the absence of government, law and order, and basic civility. The loss of humanity in post-apocalyptic stories can help us see the true value of friendship and kindness. The limitations of the post-apocalyptic world allow writers to explore what it means to be human. These stories explore and clarify the most basic of social relationships.

And in literature we often see limitations joyfully embraced by heroes. Beowulf, for instance, vows to use no sword or weapon against the monster Grendel. This self-imposed limit turns out to be fortuitous since Grendel is protected by a spell that makes him invulnerable to all weapons. Crusoe and Friday are outnumbered by the pirates and young Jim Hawkins thwarts the plans of the pirates in Treasure Island. In the epic Song of Roland, Oliver, Roland, and Bishop Turpin hold out against hordes of Saracens. In Shakespeare’s Henry the Fifth, the English “happy band of brothers” defeats a much larger French army. The limitations faced by heroes magnify their virtues and increase the glory of the victory or the sacrifice of the hero.

 The adventure of limits, internal and external, is also central to the biblical narrative. Sarah and Abraham, despite their ages, gave birth to children and nations, Joseph rose from serving as slave to ruling as the Pharaoh’s viceroy, Gideon routed Midianites with an army of 300, and Samson battled Philistines with the jawbone of an ass. The incarnation, in which God himself accepts limits, is the most startling example of the adventure of limitations.

 In his letter to the church in Corinth Paul explains that God chooses to work within limitations:

For consider your calling, brethren, that there were not many wise according tothe flesh, not many mighty, not many noble; but God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong. I Corinthians 1:26—27

 In adventure stories and the biblical narrative the limitations overcome by heroes testify that good, even when disadvantaged, is stronger than evil, that character matters more than weaponry. Some may claim this is unrealistic, untrue to historical events, yet we all believe that this is way life ought to be lived.

 It is not surprising that when philosophic naturalism came to dominate western culture this David and Goliath motif was dismissed as a childish fantasy. At its heart, this wild poetry of limitations is a celebration of a moral universe and a divine providence. Without God and a universe tilted toward goodness, realism demands that Goliath crushes David, that Grendel devours Beowulf, that Saracens quickly dispatch Roland, that orcs eat the hobbits, that Crusoe is eaten by (or eats) Friday. The enduring popularity of the poetry of limits testifies to the human instinct that the universe is moral and that God is just. While elite intellectuals and academics may reject adventure for pandering to popular taste, Chesterton would urge us to trust democracy by valuing the opinion of the common man and giving tradition (all those who came before) a vote. People cheer for David and Frodo because God has woven adventure into the human heart. God has given us all a faith that right must triumph over might.

Introduction: Two Boxes As a boy, I kept adventure and God in two separate boxes. I was passionately devoted to adventure: Zorro, Robin Hood, Tarzan, Lone Ranger, Kidnapped, Treasure Island, Jules Verne’s novels. In my adventure box I also had long summer days exploring the Walla Walla River where Kirby and I bent and wove willows into “forts”, talked to the bums under the bridge, and snagged trout from fishing holes. We climbed the huge sycamore trees and zinged their hard green balls at one another in battles that ranged through the yards of our neighborhood.  In the field across the street from my home, we lobbed the uprooted stalks of cut corn at each other. They exploded in a delightful burst of dust and dirt clods when they landed. My childhood was filled with violence. We built forts and played war for days on end. Every stick was a sword, every ball a grenade. My adventure box was packed and overflowing. No one has ever been better at being a boy.

 My God box was full too. I attended church three times a week, Vacation Bible School, and church camp in the summer. If we had revival services, our family was their every night. I grew up knowing the Bible stories better than my Sunday school teachers. It is here where the story often recounts the discovery of rampant hypocrisy in the church or explains how all this was just a bunch of brainwashing. Nope. My parents lived their faith, God answered prayers, and the biblical world view simply made sense to me. My parents encouraged me to ask any question and never suggested that faith and reason were at odds. So I was a believer—head and heart. I think I even loved God, but the church stuff seemed all about sitting, being quiet, sitting some more, not squirming, being nice, feeling guilty, praying at the altar. I loved adventure more.

In my thinking these two boxes had nothing to do with each other. Yeah, stories about David killing Goliath or Samson committing genocide against the Philistines were a little adventurous, but such stories never seemed directly connected to me being a Christian. Occasionally missionaries would tell a good snake story. And even though I caught lots of snakes at the river, missionary adventures seemed distant and irrelevant.

 Yes, I knew I had been saved by grace, not works. But after salvation, the Christian life seemed all about duty—a long list of bad stuff not to do and boring stuff to do. It had nothing to do with the adventures that thrilled my heart and captured my imagination. Although I found more joy in the adventure box, I never doubted that the God box was most important.

I should add here that periodically God has taken me on adventures. In high school I, and other Christian teens, started a Christian Coffee House (Fort Agape) and ministered to teens and street people. In graduate school my roommate and I started a Bible study for graduate students which grew quickly and impacted many lives. My wife and I adopted four boys—a huge adventure. So I did indeed discover that following God is an adventure. But it was not until I became an adult that I began to suspect that adventure and God might belong in the same box.

As an adult I discovered God and adventure together in my boxed set of The Chronicles of Narnia. I had read Tolkien’s The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings in 7^th grade, but had not realized Tolkien was a Christian. Just when I was ready to dismiss adventure as limited to children or children’s literature, I came across knights in Thomas Malory who regularly wandered off into the woods in search of adventure. Next I discovered G. K. Chesterton’s Orthodoxy which argues that modern literature has forsaken adventure because it has forsaken orthodox Christianity.

Long after the names of their critics have been forgotten, J.R.R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis continue to be read and become house-hold names. Neither are included or even mentioned in most anthologies of modern British literature, but over fifty years after their death, they are read more widely than most writers of their generation. I began to wonder why. Maybe it had something to do with being Christian and writing adventures.

I believe it is because they wrote adventures and that the very structure of adventure corresponds to all of our human instincts about the nature of life and the human condition. In short, adventures appeal to us because they are true. And although the structure of adventure may not always reflect how life is, readers sense that such stories reflect how life ought to be. And they both put Christian faith and adventure in the same box.

Secondly, adventures are true because they reflect essential truths of the Christian faith. The writing of well-crafted adventures, whether by Christians or non-Christians, is a redemptive act that declares important biblical truths about life. Examining the ways the structure of adventure is Christian not only helps us understand the redemptive nature of adventure stories, but helps us understand why the cultural gatekeepers of the last century dismissed adventure stories as childish or antiquarian. A theology of adventure can help writers make their adventure stories Christian and their Christian lives an adventure.

 The Shipwreck: At the heart of adventure is an abiding, even if vague, sense that things aren’t what they ought to be. Often it is a sense that something precious has been lost and must be found, that we are on journey but not yet home, or that an evil exists that has not yet been defeated. Adventure grows from a conviction that the world is not quite safe, that something has gone wrong, dangers lurk at the edge of the shire.

We see this in the classic adventure stories of Robinson Crusoe and Swift Family Robinson.  The ship has wrecked. Something has gone wrong; we are left with remnants from a better time, and the challenge is to survive and perhaps thrive. In his work Orthodoxy, G. K. Chesterton describes his sense of the human situation: “Man has saved his goods: he had saved them from a wreck.” Chesterton goes on to identify original sin as the shipwreck from which we are trying to survive and from which we are retrieving fragments of truth, beauty, and goodness that wash ashore in human culture. When Chesterton explains how Robinson Crusoe moved him toward Christian orthodoxy, he does not cite the conversion of Crusoe, but rather the wreck of the ship:

“And my haunting instinct that somehow good was not merely a tool to be used, but a relic to be guarded, like the goods from Crusoe’s ship—even that had been the wild whisper of something originally wise, for, according to Christianity, we were indeed survivors of a wreck, the crew of a golden ship that had gone down before the beginning of the world.”

The shipwreck on the island corresponds to Christian theology in a number of significant ways. One of the most obvious is that no matter how ingenious our barricades and tree houses, the island is not our home. We can enjoy the discovery of a freshwater spring, the taste of the breadfruit, the results of our heroic labors, but ultimately we are looking for our rescue—our salvation. Although the island may offer tastes of paradise, there is much more than just a serpent in the garden—there are pirates. One cannot simply wait to be rescued; real battles against evil must be fought. Our courage will be tested. Nature certainly challenges our character—our perseverance, discipline, and self-possession. But there are also external enemies—pirates and cannibals. 

At first glance, there may not seem anything especially Christian about this view of reality. But Christians describe the world much like a shipwreck on an island. We have lost something. Our present situation is a detour. We are sojourners here—we are headed to another place. This world contains the remnants of paradise but is over-run by pirates.

And like Robinson Crusoe we are salvaging as much as we can from the wreck of humanity. Despite the fall of humankind into all kinds of evil, humans are still created in the image of God. Despite the corruption of sin we still have a conscience that awakens us to good and evil; we still have reason that helps us see the creation’s testimony to a creator. And we have been left with longings that swing our compass needles toward God.

This perspective is quite the opposite of what dominates much of our culture today. In fact the idea that humans somehow stand apart from nature as strangers and sojourners is attacked as speciesism. We are told to feel totally at home in this world. All struggle is to be regarded as the natural processes of nature, and death as part of the “great circle of life.” According to this philosophic naturalism, nothing is truly evil; we have no enemies except our own ignorance and our own refusal to accept the cosmic harmony of all things.

Even though our culture has widely accepted these adventure-killing views, popular culture suggests we still long for adventure. The continuing popularity of The Lord of the Rings and Chronicles of Narnia in books and movies reveals that the human longing for adventure is still strong. G. K. Chesterton, C. S. Lewis, and J.R. R. Tolkien are notorious dissenters to the naturalistic philosophy that declared the literary death of adventure. They assert that children’s literature or the cheap adventure novels of the time (called Penny Dreadfuls) are truer pictures of the world than much modern literature.

Although not a confessing Christian, Robert Louis Stevenson rebelled against the pessimism and determinism of his time, recalled the toy theater dramas of childhood, and wrote the great adventure stories Kidnapped and Treasure Island. Chesterton points out that for Stevenson this was a genuine rebellion:

“Stevenson seemed to say to the semi-suicides drooping around him at the café tables; drinking absinthe and discussing atheism; ‘Hang it all, the hero of a penny-dreadful play was a better man than you are!'”

The glory of the shipwreck metaphor is that, like Christianity itself, it is both pessimistic and optimistic. It is pessimistic in that it insists we are wrecked, stranded, with few supplies, but yet optimistic because survivors are grateful for life itself, for salvaged goods, and the hope of future rescue.

Of course the popularity of shipwreck and post-apocalyptic tales doesn’t prove that humanity was really wrecked long ago in the garden. But it might be wiser to trust the instincts of a child who longs for adventure than the musing of modern philosophers. It is at least possible that we long for adventure because such views ring true to how life should be lived. Our instinct that death is wrong and life too short may be a faint memory of a ship bound for eternity.