I’ve seen zombie apocalypses. Several of them now. None has quite been like any of the others. And frankly, those futures are just a drop in the bucket of the many others I’ve taken a glance at. Occasionally, I see the world through the eyes of a wealthy writer. When I’m really bored with tired and feel that I’m ready to leave homogenous Idaho, I land myself in Nepal, Thailand or my beloved Rwanda.
In my imagination.
Because that doesn’t sound horrifically cliche at all. Here, let me just throw this in for good measure:
Stupid platitude aside, I’m becoming more and more of an advocate for the imagination. Especially for those who would call themselves followers of Christ. There are a thousand-million reasons why we need our imaginations, ranging from a creativity that can step beyond the same tired metaphors and symbols to better understanding the disparity between what God said will be and what we perceive to be. But I don’t care about those things at the moment.
I’m going to share something with all of you- I have to repent nearly every single time I write. Yes, you can picture the obvious, angry person at the keyboard upset because I’m unable to turn a word or phrase in the same dramatic and still simple way that my hero G. K. Chesterton did, but it’s more than that.
I’ve seen the things that I have because in a way, our imaginations give form to those things that otherwise would have none. I was able to manifest undead, brain-eating ghouls long before I had any help from Walking Dead, Zombie Land or Michael Jackson.
Our internal ingenuities also help us to shape and understand ideas that are a little more abstract than hungry, dead relatives. They help us to see our philosophies and beliefs in action, too. Which is why I have to repent when I write.
One of my aspirations as a writer is to embody various pieces of theology in story to see my beliefs acted out in the lives of characters doing things like laundry, getting hammered (for some reason, I have a lot of party stories) and driving to work in the snow.
Stories are a entertaining. They’re also significant as a way to discover deep-held beliefs, parts of your or my worldview that in spite of their influence in our lives, have done their best to remain hidden deep below our consciousness. When I write, I discover my little heresies. Creative acts have functioned as signposts for my unbelief, bitterness and wrong thinking. And it’s slightly fantastic.
Part of being a disciple of Christ is following Him closely enough to eventually rid ourselves of as many of our heresies as we can (that’s so much more to it than that, too). Mostly so we can follow Him even closer. Just as we were made in His image, we so often create with our own likeness in mind. If we’re smart, we can learn from the reflections of ourselves we find in our blogs, paintings, poems and sculptures.
And then, we smash them. Or delete them. Or, possibly throw a party where we burn our own books as we realize that we’ve matured in our thinking and belief. When all is said and done though, repentance is where it’s at. And God is quick to forgive the transgressions through which we’ve seen Him and the world, because it’s part of what He does. It’s fantastic.
Writing is how I process the craziness that it’s my thoughts, get them down on “paper”, and find the counsel of a God in there. Every time I write a plats, it’s more me I’m writing to than anyone who might read it – preaching to myself, if you will. Sometimes when I’m faced with a difficult situation and I don’t know what to do, I start to write, and God begins to guide me into His direction. Then I share it with others, just in case they need that reminder, encouragement, or challenge as well.