In my last article, we began discussing the engagement of Christian art with the horror genre. Horror, I argued, fundamentally functions by a theme of “transgression” which can be employed for faith-minded purposes – not only does horror attack that which is lovely, but it also affirms that there is something lovely to be attacked in the first place.
However, the purpose of Christian living is to “glorify God and enjoy Him forever” – a horror story may affirm His law, but how can it affirm the Creator Himself?
This moves us towards the relationship between the holy and the obscene. Most horror stories clearly get their momentum from the latter, but horror can also serve to make us mindful of the sacred. In The Problem of Pain (1940), C. S. Lewis sets up a fascinating striation of just how humans experience the supernatural. “Fear”, he says, is the sensation of primal danger, as if someone told you there was a tiger in the next room. The “Uncanny” is a step beyond, such as fear in seeing a ghost – this is not necessarily a fear of danger, but an overpowering sense of otherness. Related, and higher still, is the experience of the “Numinous”, like being told that there is a “great spirit” in the next room – not only is this thing other, but it is also somehow authoritative.
So, Lewis acknowledges ghosts – how do ghosts, in turn, acknowledge God?
Put simply, horror does exactly what H. P. Lovecraft, Stephen King, and Philip Tallon say it does – it destabilizes us, reminding us that we are not our own. In a very real way, the horror story wrenches authority from us, destabilizing our humanism and putting us at the mercy of something else.
It is my honest belief that our cultural obsession with the Uncanny has come with an unconscious desire to experience this loss of personal authority.
We have, by now, figured out that humanism doesn’t work, that the ultimate authority of the individual is both contradictory and ineffectual. So we create and consume these stories where we can vicariously have that authority taken from us.
Why? Because we long for “bedrock order”, as Tallon says. We want to surrender to the Numinous power that decrees such order. Having it taken from us, while stopping short, is a first step.
Horror provides that first step. It fundamentally involves a transgression of boundaries and a loss of authority in enforcing those boundaries. We are afraid when our well-being is no longer in our own hands. When confronted with the Uncanny, even the profane, the issue becomes bigger, not only a matter of our well-being but what we think we know about reality. The Numinous presents something else entirely – not only do we lose our authority, but we are responsible to this ultimate ‘other’, and it deserves our allegiance. We are no more afraid than when we must surrender our personal authority, yet for the Christian this idea is central – “For thus says the High and Exalted One who inhabits eternity, whose name is Holy: I dwell in a high and holy place, and also with the contrite and humble in spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble and to revive the spirit of the contrite” (Isaiah 57:15).
In the hands of the believer, the macabre has fantastic potential to destabilize the complacent into acknowledging that they are not their own. With proper skill, inviting the Uncanny can be a stepping stone to invoking the Numinous in the presence of those who don’t yet realize that they’re looking for it. For the faithful, the sight of a ghost or a brush with a vampire, even a drama with a demon, can remind us of how very needy we are for that final authority that promises to carry what He has created.
In a practical sense, that means that a Christ-minded horror story, along with emphasizing order via chaos, should promote surrender in the face of transgression.
The tearing away of authority – whether it be by taking a life or destabilizing reality – should be met by the faithful with renewed surrender to what they know to be true. In this respect, what sets the Christian apart in a horrific situation is that they have nothing to lose and everything to gain, and are therefore the best equipped to combat the darkness.
Of course, one must also deal with how horror might destabilize even these fundamental religious concepts – if Lovecraft’s Cthulhu really exists, this leaves little room for Jesus in the picture. The Christian horror writer has the unique challenge of remaining, if not responsibly realistic, at least doctrinally truthful in the sense that even eldritch abominations must be subservient to the sovereignty of Yahweh if the work is to remain faith-centric.
At this point, the engagement of the Christian artist with horror becomes a matter of personal conscience and vision. There will always be dancing in the cemetery – by those who are thrilled by the unknown, by those whose hearts are darkened by rebellion, by those who “will not tolerate one more moment of realism”, to quote French writer Michel Houellebecq. All of us will fit into at least one of those categories, dancing right along, and some of us – and it’s a learned skill that comes with prayer and practice – will try to sing hymns while we do so.
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In addition to writing horror stories, Lyle Enright also works with Relief Journal and has done much research on this topic under the advising eye of Relief editor-in-chief and Trinity International University professor, Brad Fruhauff. He will begin pursuing his MA in the fall, and hopes to continue exploring horror’s place in literary criticism. You can read part 1 of this serialized article here.