life for human creatures. — Rowan Williams
Walter Brueggemann, contemporary theologian and Old Testament scholar, suggests in his book The Prophetic Imagination that “the key pathology of our time is the reduction of our imagination so that we are too numbed and satiated and co-opted to do serious imaginative work.” Essentially, he is saying that when we choose not to exercise our imaginations, we are headed for turbulent times! Depending on our background, such a comment from a theologian might be nearly shocking. Those of us familiar with more conservative traditions have sometimes been advised that our imaginations are dangerous. Some church leaders have suggested that the imaginative creations of others—whether plays, novels, or paintings—are, at best, a waste of time or, at worst, a detriment to our spiritual journey.
It was exactly this type of thinking that drove George MacDonald, author and literary mentor to writers like C. S. Lewis (think Chronicles of Narnia) and Madeleine L’Engle (think A Wrinkle in Time) absolutely crazy. For MacDonald, our imaginations are a gift from God to be treasured and cultivated as a means of conceptualizing and understanding what true, vibrant, and appealing goodness, and its profound role on the path to wholeness, look like. MacDonald empowers us to explore and take strength from images of goodness and beauty, because, for him, in drawing close to these images, whether from nature, the imaginations of others, or ourselves, we come closer to the Creator.
The Holiness of Creative Seeing
MacDonald suggests, “God is so beautiful, and so patient, and so loving, and so generous that he is the heart and soul and rock of every love and every kindness and every gladness in the world. All the beauty of the world and in the hearts of men, all the painting, all the poetry, all the music, all the architecture comes out of his heart first.” This affirmative view of nature and our creative imagination encourages the authentic pursuit of emotional and spiritual health rather than inhibiting it. Further, it encourages genuine interaction with others because we recognize their creative acts as potential means of approaching the true inner lives of others and self, and therefore God.
At various stages of our spiritual journey, imaginative representations of goodness can help us re-examine aspects of God that we previously overlooked. Imagination, when properly grounded in truth, empowers us to name and accept our own pains, fears, and limited perspectives, and engage with the world in a meaningful way.
Consider Aslan from the Chronicles of Narnia. At certain times in our lives, it might actually be easier to draw courage and peace from imagining him than from imagining the historical Jesus. This might be because we feel our picture of the sandaled and robed Jesus is too far outside our current context. Or it might be because we feel uncomfortable embellishing certain aspects of his appearance or personality with imaginative details; we might feel like we are kind of treading near heresy. Aslan and other imaginative depictions of goodness are safer playing fields.
Imagination in the Dark
Think of this. It’s 2:00 a.m., and you have the burden of responsibilities, choices, unmet longings, and regrets swarming through your brain. You desperately want to pray, but prayer feels somewhat empty and intangible. You tell yourself you don’t have to necessarily pray with words; you’ll just imagine Jesus being near you. You’ll imagine his quiet strength and slip a little closer to him, he’ll shine his compassionate eyes on you, and you’ll be filled with courage and peace.
You slowly visualize Jesus sitting in the shadowed left corner of your room. Jesus with coiled brown hair and strong cheekbones, partially hidden underneath a thin beard: the evidence of years of sensitive sapience and weighted thoughts understated in the yielding lines around his eyes. A middling-framed Jesus in a blue robe and dusty sandals, sitting on an imaginary chair.
How do you feel about this image?
Now think about Aslan. What color palette would you need to create this image if he were to stand at the end of your insomniac bed? Perhaps green for the penetrating eyes, light pink outlined with dark charcoal for the respiring nose, soft shades of ocher for around the mane, and cream for the soft muzzle. Aslan with undomesticated force, yet unmet and piercing lovingkindness. Think of Aslan’s merciful treatment of Edmund after he betrays his siblings or his gentle reassurance to Lucy in her anguish. Think of how Mrs. and Mr. Beaver adore him and how his coming brings forth vibrant blooms of spring.
Now, if you’ve read the book, think of Aunt Beast from A Wrinkle in Time.
The tall, colorless beast probably wouldn’t sit at the end of your bed because she’s much too comforting and maternal for that. Instead, she would probably sit at the head of your bed, her soft, furred tentacles delicately brushing your forehead and shoulders.
Okay, last one. If you’ve read one of George MacDonald’s Princess stories, think about Great-Great-Grandmother.
Listen to the reassuring squeaks that all good rocking chairs make when hosting beloved mother and grandmother figures. Follow the trail of sound to where it originates in your mind: a tall stairway that leads to an attic where the most beautiful of beautiful grand ladies resides. She, with the beauty of divine compassion, will gently stretch her porcelain arm and invite you to her lap. Nestled there on her knee, between Aslan and Aunt Beast, you can finally feel safe, your heart able to pour forth honesty to God and receive his unconditional reassurance that indeed, as Julian of Norwich said, “all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”
Images That Lead Beyond Themselves
Perhaps, during this little imaginative experiment, you felt just as much peace with the image of the historical Jesus at the foot of your bed as you did when the literary creations visited. When I go through this exercise, sometimes I don’t. And sometimes that troubles me. How can I derive a greater sense of comfort out of literary metaphors than I do out of picturing Jesus himself? Of course, the Jesus I bring to mind is a mere representative of his actual divinity, and only a representation I have come to know through a Westernized lens, but still. Is my lack of faith so extensive that my confidence in his reality as presented biblically has little effect at that moment? Is my faith that fledgling?
To be sure, the peace I derive from these figures does not come from the images themselves; it comes from the Person of Goodness they point toward. They are imaginative depictions of how our heavenly Father relates to us: images of God the fierce protector, God the embracing nourisher, God the intensely relational individual who draws us near and consoles our troubled hearts. That is the amazing and wonderful power of our God-given imagination.
In the years since first reading their stories, I have continued to be enriched by these luminous, insightful mentors of faith who have guided me in the instructive role imagination plays in our pilgrimage to wholeness. C. S. Lewis, Madeleine L’Engle, and George MacDonald are luminaries with a rooted conviction in God’s goodness and involvement in the lives of his children. People who view Jesus’ life on earth as the ultimate affirmation of God’s desire to interact with us in our daily lives, and people who wield the power of imagination to gently heal our relationships with self, others, and the divine, and ultimately, vitalize our communion with the One who imagined us into life.
Joy Steem & Matthew Steem are most alive in moments of genuine encounter, where the hope and grace that imbue people’s lives—even amid suffering—can be most deeply felt. They share a passion for exploring the intellectual, imaginative, and emotional vibrancy at the heart of the Christian tradition, and look forward to cultivating receptivity to beauty wherever it shines through.