I think a reason why I love writing so much is that I can showcase the best of humanity. I can show sides of human nature that we don’t see often. I can have characters be self-sacrificing.
I can write what we want to be. Selfless and merciful. I can spin tales that show what we so desperately want to be. A story can change a life.
It can save a person.
Words are very, very powerful.
We read fiction, because inside us all is an ache that there’s something else out there. That there are heroes, that there is still good and we can fight for it. That life can be extraordinary. And exciting. That we can do so much more. That we can change the world. That the small things in life matter most.
We wish for mysteries and magic and a purpose.
While there is no magic wardrobe, no madman with a time traveling box, no Middle-Earth, no Sherlock Holmes, there is a purpose.
We have a purpose. A meaning.
Out of fiction, people have been drawn to the gospel, because everything, everything good in this world points to it.
Self-sacrificing hero prepared to die for his friends.
How many times do we see this repeated in fiction? And we love it. So, so much. We crave it. This good person that we want to be so badly, but that we know we can never be.
There was a hero. Who gave up everything for his people. Left his home, his throne, his wealth to become like us. And he lived the life we could never live. Was perfect in every way. Was tempted in every way, but he overcame it all.
Then he died.
This amazing, amazing man who was God in the flesh, who came to become one of us. He died. And we, we were the ones who killed him. We laughed and scoffed and shouted and he died praying for us. The rebellious fools who killed their escape from the darkness.
The world despaired. The sun went dark. People wept.
It seemed as if all hope was lost. That Evil had won completely. And Evil laughed at us, us foolish people, for killing our one escape. We were trapped. For three days, we were trapped.
Then the grave opened.
Our hero was alive.
This isn’t fiction. This happened. And we take this story, and without knowing entirely why, we convey it everywhere.
We love a good hero.
Has anyone bothered to ask why?
Because somewhere, in the corners of our heart, is a cry for a hero.
Because we know. We know. We know the story.
And it’s real.
And that brings me back to this purpose I mentioned earlier, that we all crave.
Well, it’s this:
To follow our hero. To be Him to the world. To change the world, to love the world, to stand for what we believe in. And most of all, to glorify Him. Forever. To find people, to tell the news.
There is a reason why Christianity is never stamped out. Why it’s lasted for so, so many centuries.
Because in our darkest moments, in our lightest moments, something in us knows.
We know. We know about our Savior.
We do everything we can to deny it, but it comes out in our art, in our music, in our books and the things we are drawn to.
We ache for a hero. To save us from our ever impending doom.
He loves you. So come home, friends, come home. You know the story. Come Home. Our Savior is waiting for you.