Veni Quid Veniat

     Just as we are built to be curious and empathetic, we are born to learn. Everything we do teaches us something, and that includes following fictional storylines. At its heart, each work of fiction is a thought experiment: we imagine what the world would be like if certain elements were changed, and that exercise teaches us about what the world is really like, makes us think. New problems and new dilemmas force the reader to think about what he really believes; the resolution of those dilemmas tells us what the author believes about the world. It is a chance to imagine how things might be different, so that we can see how things are.

      For this reason, fiction can be profitable, but for this reason it can also be dangerous. Each work of fiction is a thought experiment, but, unlike most thought experiments, the author need not be clear which elements he is changing: the obvious changes might not be the most important. Subtle changes in underlying assumptions can create a version of the world which differs from reality in subtle but important ways. Often, these are innocuous – for example, the situation always resolving itself in favor of the protagonist, something that rarely happens in the real world. Other times, though, these subtle changes represent an attack on the nature of morality. Take one of the more obvious flaws in fiction: equating romantic love with lust. The author can include that assumption through by having the characters act on it and make it sound right, feel right, and work out right in the end, but in doing so he deviates from reality. Less distinct – and more dangerous – departures might take the form of slight changes to the nature of humanity or implicit praise of moral dilemmas resolved incorrectly. In the real world, such positions fail, because they are inherently un-real. Within the author's fictional world, though, he is god, and his assumptions about the world, however contradictory in reality, can be made to appear a seamless whole. It is this particular quality which makes fiction important. If the reader simply approaches the story as a diversion, a chance to escape reality, as most people do, he will imbibe a carefully constructed narrative driven by an apparently coherent worldview that in reality may be anything but. Without recognizing and weighing the author's assumptions against what he knows to be true, the reader is playing the part of a nestling sitting with his mouth open, waiting to have something – anything – put in it. In the author's world, he can make almost anything true, and if the reader isn't careful he might eventually come to believe, or at least grow comfortable with, the flaws in the author’s worldview.

     The answer is more than leaving our brains on when we encounter fiction, although that is part of it. We should seek out worthwhile fiction, which leaves enough of the real world in place to make a profitable thought experiment (or at least not to detract from our existing understanding of the world). That’s not as simple as it sounds, though: this is, after all, fiction. By definition, it’s a fabrication – it can’t be expected to comport with reality in every respect. The simplest answer is that good fiction must not tamper with the foundation of epistemology (the study of knowledge – what we believe to be true about what’s right and wrong and what is, and how we know it to be true). This is simply another way of saying that fiction should actually be, and not just appear to be, internally consistent. It must allow us to have knowledge about the story, but in order to do that it must assume a worldview which makes knowledge possible. The only such worldview is the Christian worldview, yet many authors assume enough of it to make their fictional world exist, but not the entire worldview – enough to allow knowledge about physical things, but not enough to allow knowledge about morality. Such a dichotomy is not supportable logically, and creates an inconsistent world. It is this inconsistency which, when glossed over by the story, leads to an incorrect understanding of how the world works. Fiction, in order to be worthwhile, must maintain a consistent epistemological foundation, rather than picking and choosing from competing, mutually exclusive worldviews.

     There are many ways to go about adhering to the Christian worldview in fiction. The writings of C.S. Lewis alone demonstrate at least two methods, and many more are possible: it would be arrogant to select only one way and insist that it was the only way. Further, is it not necessarily justified to argue that all fiction a Christian reads be grounded in a Christian worldview, although it is wise to try to seek out the most worthwhile fiction, which will always be based in a Christian worldview. The most important response, though, is simply to know that fiction is not neutral ground. It is an implicit argument for the author’s worldview, and must be treated as such. If we do read fiction based in an inconsistent worldview, we are entering enemy territory, and need to think every aspect through critically (actually, even when we’re reading fiction written from a Christian worldview, the author might be mistaken, so we still need to think). We are at war, and there is no neutral ground.