A few common objections often arise when discussing archetypes. For example, my recent article on this topic generated some confusion and questions.

A Brief Recap

If you missed that article or are still trying to grasp the concept of archetypes, here’s a brief summary. If you’ve already got it down cold, feel free to skip to the next section.

An archetype is a universally recognized pattern, symbol, or character type. For instance, while a specific tree may look very different from other trees, there is still a universal concept of “tree” that all trees point to.

In the same way, any hero in any story points to the archetypal hero—Jesus—who provides the ultimate definition of what it means to be a hero. And it’s the same with villains. Many people can recognize this pattern when applied to trees, but they hesitate when it comes to characters or people.

Objections to Archetypes

Many struggle with the very concept of an absolute villain—someone who starts bad, stays bad, and ends bad. Why? Because it doesn’t seem true to life.

On one level, I understand this. People are complicated, full of conflicting motivations, good intentions, and real struggles. People change and grow. Assigning anyone the role of “villain” may even seem petty.

In short, some might say we don’t find true “villains” in real life.

But let’s stop there. Why is it important for stories to be true to life in the first place? Or a better question: What does “true to life” mean exactly?

The answer to this critical question reveals the difference between how we used to tell stories and how we tell them now. I would go further and say it reflects a deeper shift—how we used to see life itself (what’s true, what’s real) and how we see it now.

But… Shouldn’t Stories Be True to Life?

On one level, yes, absolutely. Stories should be full of sensory experiences—visceral and immersive. You should read a novel and taste the January sky after a storm. Stories should resonate.

We should see ourselves in them. When reading Winnie the Pooh, we might think, I know someone exactly like Rabbit. But what if Rabbit sat down across the coffee table for a long, tearful conversation about how he’s trying really hard to be less difficult, less bossy, and less controlling? He would no longer be true as a character.

Why not? In real life, don’t people have such conversations? Don’t they struggle, want to change, and strive to do better?

That’s actually beside the point. There is a sharp difference between truth and realism. Good stories are rooted in the real while pointing to the true.

Fogged?

Here’s what I mean.

Imagine you dined at a fine restaurant and ordered chicken Parmesan. Instead of a prepared dish, the server brought you a pile of raw ingredients—uncooked noodles, raw meat, and a block of cheese. When you complained, the chef replied, This is my take on realism. These ingredients are more true to life, after all.

Sure, the ingredients may be high-quality and worth someone’s attention. They might be “true” in one sense. I, for one, encounter raw chicken almost every day. But that’s not the same thing as chicken Parmesan.

And even that’s not the main problem. Not only would you miss out on something hot, buttery, and cheesy—I really shouldn’t write on an empty stomach—but you would miss something far more precious.

In other words, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. You would miss something deeper, rarer, richer… a glimpse of something beautiful that points beyond your daily life. When I first moved to the South and tasted what they meant by “barbecue,” I cried a little.

In the same way, the universal forms of classic storytelling—the universal language—transcend the raw fragments of reality.

“The transcendence of enchantment… doesn’t take you away from where you are, but further into it. To go further into a thing is to gain awareness that things are intrinsically connected to the divine. To the infinite.” 1

And Even “Real” Is Not Real

Moderns make many assumptions about what “realistic” means. In a word, realistic usually refers to our sensory experience—the things that happen to us, what we see and feel every day.

For example, C.S. Lewis discussed a class of people who disliked Paradise Lost because they were in “the grip of a certain kind of realism.” Those who define reality as “mere stream of consciousness” assume that actual reality is whatever occurs through sensory data.

According to Lewis, this is “based on an error, for even stream-of-consciousness thinking doesn’t fit this view of reality—it is heavily biased and selective, it starts and stops as selections please. As soon as you put it into words, you falsify it.”

By insisting on realism, we miss something transcendent—and don’t even realize it.

Share

Reading Fairy in Eden

God began the written history of the world with a story, and the way He wove that story matters greatly. The story could have included little house on the prairie-type homesteading… or lengthy emotional conversations, therapy sessions, tearful confessions, and explicit preaching.

Instead, God told a story with an archetypal villain—a dragon—lurking in the shadows, laying his plans. A gardener-king entrusted with protecting the realm against usurpers. A magical, symbolic tree. And a simple warning.

For many years, Christians naturally told similar stories.

What I’m Not Saying

• First, I’m not saying that every good story must belong to the fairy tale genre—although I do think every good story should at least subtly point to it. A great example is Jane Austen, who wrote fairy tales but grounded them in ordinary daily life.

• Second, it should go without saying that, of course, some characters should change from bad to good—not every character has to be fixed. But they can’t actually change unless there is a fixed, definitive example of evil for them to change from. In other words, there can be no good guy without a bad guy.

Every Fragment Points to the One Great Story:

“After Dante’s journey into Paradise, as he beholds the face of God, with his vision purified, he says of seeing the eternal light—the profound nature of reality:

“‘In its profundity, I saw ingathered and bound by love into one single volume, what in the universe seems separate, scattered.’” —Paradiso, Canto 33

(Quoted in Rod Dreher’s book, Living in Wonder)

It is especially sad when Christians, who have the source of all storytelling available, still tell stories overly rooted in realism.

On that topic, last week, I talked about how we ended up with the film The Forge, looking at recent church history. I mentioned that this week, I would focus on the positive side—showing what stories can be.

But…

I’ve had a few thoughtful questions from readers, so I’ve interrupted myself to unpack this idea further. These concepts can be difficult to grasp, especially if they’re new, and I want to make sure you’re with me before I move on. The next article may be particularly hard to follow if you don’t have at least some of these points clear in your mind.

If anything remains unclear, please comment below or reply to this email with your questions.

Why does this matter so much? Good stories may be the most important thing the Church can recover if we hope to win the world.

Leave a comment