Two commandments for Christian writers:
Know thy craft and Know thy God by Anthony Horvath p. 23
A Miracle at Belleau Wood by Caroline Carmichael p. 3
Cover Story:
by
Cody Milner p. 9
424 S Main St Ste 101 Holmen, WI 54636
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Meditation XVII
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A Miracle at Belleau Wood
John Donne
Caroline Carmichael April 2011
contents 9
Cover Story
The Young Viking
Cody Milner
23
Anthony’s Corner
Two commandments for Christian writers: Know thy craft & Know thy God
Anthony Horvath
The original intent was to publish this literary magazine on a bi-monthly basis but it has been decided now that the wiser thing is to issue it on a quarterly basis. Therefore, there will now be a spring, summer, fall, and winter edition: Jan 1st , April 1st, July 1st, and October 1st.
Anthony Horvath
Editor-in-chief
Debbie Thompson
Managing Editor
Julius Broqueza
Design Director
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Whitney Jenkins Era Iway
Literary Apologetics is the promotion of the Christian world view through fiction. The hope is that people will be primed to receive the Gospel more easily when it or its components are presented through story and narrative. Additionally, Christian literature adds to the cultural climate which in turn can help prime an entire society for understanding, if not accepting, Jesus as Lord and Savior. Notable examples include G. K. Chesterton, C. S. Lewis, Dorothy Sayers and perhaps J.R.R Tolkien. To interact with a ministry devoted to developing an evangelism strategy centering on ‘literary apologetics’ please visit the home page of Athanatos Christian Ministries at
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Meditation XVII John Donne
1 | Literary Apologetics.Mag
April 2011
Meditation XVII
P ERCHANCE
he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill as that he knows not it tolls for him. And perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me, and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know not that. The church is catholic, universal, so are all her actions; all that she does, belongs to all. When she baptizes a child, that action concerns me; for that child is thereby connected to that head which is my head too, and ingraffed into that body, whereof I am a member. And when she buries a man, that action concerns me; all mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated; God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God’s hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again, for that library where every book shall lie open to one another; as therefore the bell that rings to a sermon, calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come; so this bell calls us all: but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness. There was a contention as far as a suit (in which, piety and dignity, religion and estimation, were mingled) which of the religious orders should ring to prayers first in the morning; and it was determined, that they should ring first that rose earliest. If we understand aright the dignity of this bell, that tolls for our evening prayer, we would be glad to make it ours, by rising early, in that application, that it might be ours as well as his, whose indeed it is. The bell doth toll for him, that thinks it doth; and though it intermit again, yet from that minute, that that occasion wrought upon him, he is united to God. Who casts not up his eye to the sun when it rises? But who takes off his eye from a comet, when that breaks out? who bends not his ear to any bell, which upon any occasion rings? But who can remove it from that bell, which is passing a piece of himself out of this world? No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were; any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. Neither can we call this a begging of misery, or a borrowing of misery, as though we were not miserable enough of ourselves, but must fetch in more from the next house, in taking upon us the misery of our neighbors. Truly it were an excusable covetousness if we did; for affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it. No man hath afflicion enough, that is not matured and ripened by it, and made fit for God by that affliction. If a man carry treasure in bullion or in a wedge of gold, and have none coined into current moneys, his treasure will not defray him as he travels. Tribulation is treasure in the nature of it, but it is not current money in the use of it, except we get nearer and nearer our home, heaven, by it. Another may be sick too, and sick to death, and this affliction may lie in his bowels, as gold in a mine, and be of no use to him; but this bell that tells me of his affliction, digs out, and applies that gold to me: if by this consideration of another’s danger, I take mine own into contemplation, and so secure myself, by making my recourse to my God, who is our only security.
Meditation XVII
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A Miracle at
Belleau Wood Caroline Carmichael
This story by Caroline Carmichael was the second prize winner in the high school category of Athanatos Christian Ministry’s Christian writing contest in 2010. It was also selected as a runner up in ACM’s 2010 online apologetics conference by participants in the conference. 3 | Literary Apologetics.Mag
April 2011
A Miracle At Belleau Wood
“A Miracle At Belleau Wood” is inspired by a true story of the Christmas Truce at Belleau Wood, France, during World War I. A miracle took place that night, and this fictional story explores the very heart of the soldier who started it all.
I
t was minutes before midnight on December 25, 1918—a night I remember better than any other. Just as a snowflake will lodge itself in the crook of a tree branch, so will this date forever remain embedded in my memory—no, not merely my memory, but into my heart and into my very soul. One could say it marks a milestone in the life of this undeserving man—a man by the name of Anasvindo, meaning “strength of God”.
had been a difficult year. Winter was approaching quickly, and I dreaded the first snowfall. Trenches were colder than the usual uncomfortable chill, and rainy days were tripled in their misery.
Life is full of surprises—gifts presented randomly to a loved one of the Creator’s as a little reminder of His ever-present goodness and faithfulness. Every person has received one in his or her lifetime, but very few are willing to recognize it and accept it for what it is. It is love; a love that surpasses all understanding; a love that exists, but most fail to see through their blinded perception of a cruel loveless world. I was once among the blind, but this is the story of how I received my sight. This is the story of my miracle at Belleau Wood.
As the season dragged on, I thought of nothing else but my mother. I wallowed in grief and lost all interest in the things around me. Contrary to my optimistic nature, I became hollow and silent, rarely speaking at all. Near the end of October, I caught pneumonia. Great, I thought, it is like my life is cascading speedily down a snow bank. So where is the dreaded snow? I looked expectantly to the sky. No snow.
I sat in shock on the hard earth, my hands trembling as they struggled to place the dirt-stained letter back in its envelope. The news of my mother’s death echoed painfully in my mind, and I wept, for I had not even known that she was sick. I gloomThat special Christmas night my blue German eyes ily awaited the gentle coolness of a snowflake that were opened. A veil lifted. It was like that feeling was sure to rest itself on my skin as I slowly tucked one experiences when one has searched diligently the envelope into my coat pocket. for something, only to find it directly beneath his nose. It was an inspiration, a hope—a realization To my surprise, none came. I began a fast descent into a cold emotional solitude. that not all things happen when or as expected.
By December, I hardly possessed the physical and emotional strength to lift my gun, let alone pull the trigger. I was going to die. I wanted to die. My moth* * * er had been my inspiration, my hero, and my friend. I hated snow. For me, snow was a dark omen. I had And now she was gone. What else was there to live nearly lost my life in a blizzard when I was a small for? I had no one. Once again, my eyes grazed the boy, and it had done me little good since. sky for the ominous flurries. The year was 1918, and I was nineteen years old. It I never gave up my search for the tiny crystals. They
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would come. I was sure of it. They were like the tiny pieces of my world every time it fell apart. God mocked my pain through winter and cold. Every snowflake I had ever known tasted of His laugher. I glared at the sky. “Bring it on!” I would cry to the heavens, my fist trembling in challenge. “Bring on the snowflakes!” Then I would crumble brokenly to the ground. Unwillingly, I began to notice improvement in my health. I foolishly fought against it, too miserable to recognize any value in myself. However, as most things had been in my life, I lost the battle and was soon back on my feet.
and nearer. They were not accustomed to seeing me so melancholy. They meant well, I knew, but what was the use of celebrating a holiday dedicated to the birth of the Son of a God who cared so little about me? What was there to be celebrated? This “loving” God had abandoned His own Son upon a cross! Where was the love in that? On the night of December 24, visions of my mother overwhelmed my dreams. In my dream, she stood by my childhood bedside, her eyes closed and her face lifted to the sky in holy worship. Her lips moved in song, but no sound could be heard. Her entire body was bathed in glorious light and a robe of pure white silk enveloped her small frame. Behind her, a staircase of gold and pearl led through the ceiling and into the heavens above.
My days were filled with explosions and gunfire, and my nights were as day as the bombs and bullets illuminated the sky. People and noise surrounded me, but I heard and felt none of it. I was lost in my I watched her silently singing. She seems…differown pathetic world, absently working the bolt of my ent, I remember thinking. There were no signs of stress and pain on her face. Her wrinkles had been gun with a practiced hand. smoothed away, and an angelic smile rested graceThere were times I remember looking through my fully on her lips. Her thin gray hair had become gun’s sights into the faces of the men I was fight- beautiful waves of silky silver. She looked happy… ing. Some were older and others young like myself. peaceful. Each held the same expression on his face: grim… hard…determined. Fear was never deliberately dis- I stared in wonder into her uplifted face. She ceased played on their faces, for most made an effort to her singing. I watched through curious eyes. She keep such feelings hidden. But I could see it. Like had not looked down at me yet. Suddenly, she knelt small sparks in their eyes, it shone clear and unpro- on her knees beside my bed, and bowed her head. Her lips began to move again, this time forming tected. words. Still, no sound came. I rubbed at my ears. If one looked closely, one could see the tremor in Had my hearing failed me? My fingers rapped nervanother man’s fingers as he worked to pull the trig- ously on the bed frame. I sighed. How can I hear ger—an action he knew would likely result in an- the tapping of my fingers, but not the words of my other man’s death. Nobody wanted to fight. But mother? Confused and hurt, I leaned forward in my as most unwanted things in life are, it was neces- bed, my ears begging for sound to fill them. sary. Looking once more into the distraught faces of the men in the opposite trench, I would lift my I looked helplessly at my mother. She had lifted barrel, take careful aim, and then dejectedly fire a her head and was looking earnestly into my face. round into the sky before sinking back down to the Her eyebrows furrowed in concern and sorrow. ground. Would the world ever know peace again? She stared silently into my eyes, a look of pure grief dimming the light on her face. She was saying Would I ever know peace again? something, desperately searching my face. I stared Time dragged on. I was regaining more strength back confused. She lifted her head to the heavens, each day, though my heart felt as weak as could be. her mouth moving in a desperate prayer for guidMy buddies struggled to lift my spirits, reminding ance, and then she returned her attention to me. A me each day that Christmas was drawing nearer 5 | Literary Apologetics.Mag
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A Miracle At Belleau Wood
single tear slipped down her cheek. A dagger of pain pierced my heart. I hated watching her swim in the grief that I knew I had somehow been the cause of, for it was evident that she grieved for more than the stopping of my ears.
attention. He began to walk away. Suddenly, I realized what he had just said. “Christmas?” I blinked in surprise.
Chuckling, Sergeant Schultz turned back. “Yes, private. It is Christmas. I have just returned from a She was still speaking, practically imploring. I stared discussion with the Americans. We are declaring a into her face, striving with everything within me Christmas Truce. There is to be absolutely no firing to decipher the silent words bouncing off her lips. on either side for the rest of the day. Enjoy, lad!” He I analyzed every movement in her face and every walked away. glint in her eyes. But I understood none of it. Leaning against the moist wall of earth, I closed my She stopped speaking and stared down at me. She eyes and sank to the ground. Christmas…how had I shook her head sadly. Raising her head, Mother forgotten? Beside me, my friend Frederick chuckled looked to the heavens. As if acting on cue from an at my reaction as he shuffled a deck of cards in his unseen and unheard command, she nodded, took large calloused hands. Rubbing the sleep from my one last affectionate look at me, and then turned eyes, I thought of the dream. to ascend the stairs behind her. I pleaded and cried out through my sobs for her to stop, begging her My mother loved to sing, I remembered with… a smile. I paused. When had I last done one of those? not to leave me here alone in the cold darkness. A week? A month? I could not remember. I giggled. She turned on the third step, and then stopped. A giggle? Really? I tried it again. I giggled. I tried it Looking straight into my eyes, she spoke, and this again, and the giggle bubbled over into a laugh. A time I heard her. laugh. Baffled, I shook my head. I had just laughed. “Listen, Anasvindo,” she said, casting a longing into my heart as she spoke my name. “Listen and believe,” turning her back to me, she continued her ascent.
An old familiar sensation filled my heart. For the first time in what felt like years but had merely been a couple of months, I was experiencing true happiness. I laughed again, this time harder. Soon enough tears were streaming down my face, and She never glanced back again, her full attention my empty stomach was aching with a very endurfixed above her. Her eyes were closed in a familiar able pain. A pain called laughter. A pain called joy. way as if she listened to beautiful music. Wiping my eyes, I heard a clutter and instinctively A volcano of frustration and confusion erupted turned toward the sound. I didn’t stop laughing. I within me. “Listen to what? Believe what!” I cried couldn’t stop laughing. Fredrick stared at me with out brokenly. But she had already disappeared. The wide eyes, his jaw hanging low. He didn’t even bother darkness closed in around me. to retrieve his scattered cards from the muddy floor I jerked awake to a strong hand gripping my shoul- of the trench. He just stared. Surprised. Shocked. der. Rubbing my eyes, I thought about the dream. Then his jaw pulled itself back into place and the corners of his mouth lifted as he joined with relief Listen, she had said, listen and believe… in my laughter. “Merry Christmas, Son! Get up! We don’t want you sleeping away the holiday, now do we?” a gruff We were still lost to our laughter when some of our voice interrupted my mingled thoughts. I looked up buddies found us. We were practically collapsed on one another in our hysterics. Why were we laughinto the face of Sergeant Schultz. ing again? “No, Sir,” I mumbled disoriented as I stumbled to
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They stared at us strangely. Giving up, they shook their heads. “Merry Christmas, fellows,” one muttered as they walked away. Holding his sides, Fredrick stared at me through teary eyes, “I knew you would come through.” He slapped my back and shuffled to his feet. I stared up at him in wonder. “What made you so sure?” I could not help asking. “I prayed.” He said simply. “The miracles of Christmas…” he sighed, looking up into the cloudy morning sky. Shaking his head in a strange awestruck manner, he returned his attention to me. “I tell you, Anasvindo, God never was One to forget to leave a present.” He chuckled and then left me to think on his words.
I thought about Fredrick’s words. “I tell you, Anasvindo,” he had said, “God never was One to forget to leave a present.” I pondered these words, and almost hesitantly, I allowed them to take a place in my heart. I thought about God, and about my past few months in cold depression. I thought of how strange it was that I had never once laid eyes on snow during this difficult chapter in my life. The many times I had thought the chapter to come to an end a n d the book to a close, I was surprised when the pen was picked back up. And then I understood. It dawned on me like a sudden brightness in a darkened room: I had never been abandoned. Not even in my mother’s death. Trials in my life flashed before my eyes, and I experienced a wonderful revelation. I had been wrong— entirely blinded to the Truth. God had been there through it all, helping me along even when I could not recognize Him at work or hear His quiet “I love you’s.” I had even challenged Him, daring God to make it snow. There had been no snowfall.
Night came quickly, and the darkness was like a veil as it descended over the horizon. It was nearing midnight and we crouched silently in our trenches, cautious of any surprise attacks under the cover of darkness. Indeed it was Christmas, but none of us wished to take any chances, for the day would soon be over and the Truce brought to an end. The merriment of the day was replaced with the tension of the night, and the eerie sound of an owl triggered a chill down my spine. Not a soul moved. I searched the sky for snow. There was none.
I remembered my dream the night before, and a random psalm I vaguely remember from my childhood brought itself back into my memory. I could almost hear my mother’s gentle caressing voice as she softly spoke the verse over me, “You dance over me while I am unaware. You sing all around, but I never hear a sound...” I smiled, enjoying the pleasant sensation in my heart as I did so. I repeated the words inwardly. My eyes widened in understanding. “Listen,” my mother had said, “Listen and believe.” The verse! I spoke the words softly to myself, “You sing all around, but I never hear a sound.” I
I forced unpleasant memories away, and focused on the faces around me. Every eye searched another’s, fear and 7 | Literary Apologetics.Mag
anxiety reflected in all. I had seen the same reflection too many times in my mother’s eyes to fail to recognize it elsewhere. Mother… I winced at her memory. She had told me to listen and believe. But listen to what? Believe what?
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lowered my head in shame. God had been singing, and louder. When one verse ended, we began another. and I had failed to hear it. Looking around me into the night, I saw it. I examined my life through a whole new perspective, suddenly recognizing for the first time where God had stepped in and made what had been wrong and hurtful into something that had become wonderful. How could I have been so blind, so deaf to the music of the Creator? I stared at the winter sky. God deserved something beautiful tonight. Perhaps there was something I could do, a gift I could present… Ignoring my buddies’ bewildered glances, I placed my gun on the frozen earth and shakily stood to my feet. Fear and doubt built up within me as I stared past the trenches and into the night. I knew I was taking a dangerous chance in doing so. Although I could not see them, I felt the icy stare of hundreds of enemy rifles pointed in my direction. Raising my head to the sky, I drew a deep breath, and began to sing.
I remember pondering the simple glory of it all. We were in the middle of perhaps the worst war in history, and yet both sides of the fight were standing in musical harmony, belting a Christmas carol into the night. I looked into each face around me. A mixture of American, German, alto, and tenor soldiers stared back at me, a smile on each of their faces. A wave of peace and contentment washed over the battlefield, and I closed my eyes, taking it all in. I knew it was God; my heart and everything else within me shouted the truth of it. The trees rustled with a cool breeze, and the snow made a fresh layer upon the earth, ridding the battlefield of hostile blood and replacing it with new promise. Men sang around me, their voices lifted in harmony. As I listened, the doors of my heart opened wide, and then I knew. He was singing. God was singing, and I could hear it. He was singing a song of love, a lullaby to His children on the battlefield. Opening my eyes, I lifted my voice with the others, singing back to Him with all my heart, with all my soul, and with all my mind. I believed.
“Silent night, Holy night,” I struggled against the tremor in my voice and then continued, adding more strength to my voice. “All is calm, all is bright…” I Inspired by Country Music artist Garth Brooke’s song almost stopped in fright when an American soldier “Belleau Wood” stood in his trench and faced me. Swallowing the fear and doubt, I returned my attention to heaven. I was relieved when I watched the other man’s mouth open and join in the song in his own language. Caroline Carmichael is fifteen years old and lives in Chelsea, Alabama “Round young virgin, mother and Child…” we sang. with her family. She is one of four sisters Together we watched in shared wonder as one and loves music and writing. She fell in by one men on both sides across the battlefield love with writing when she wrote her first dropped their guns and stood to their feet to join in poem in the third grade, and has writthe hymn. A gruff boisterous voice from behind me ten many poems and short stories since. belted “Holy Infant so tender and mild.” I glanced Caroline has found her music and writing to be her favorite way of back and smiled into the happy face of Frederick. expressing her love for her Creator, as well as His own incredible He grinned back, a gentle understanding twinkling love for His creation. in his eyes. Second Place - High School Category 2010 Confident Christianity Dorothy Sayers Award Something cold and fragile tickled my cheek. I Christian Writing Contest 2010 looked up, and immediately burst into laughter. It was snowing! I smiled at the American soldier through the heavy flakes as the singing grew louder
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Cody Milner
This story by Cody Milner was a third prize winner in the high school category of Athanatos Christian Ministry’s Christian writing contest in 2010. It was also selected as a runner up in ACM’s 2010 online apologetics conference by participants in the conference. 9 | Literary Apologetics.Mag
April 2011
The Young Viking
S
hips sliding onto the beach......tall warriors charging the village......screams of women and children as the bloodthirsty raiders demolished the Gaelic settlement..... Joran the chieftain hopelessly battling the enemy in the bloody mist.......smoke rising from the burning village.
with flowing blond hair. Norse. Matthias thought with a sinking heart. I am a prisoner. The lad rushed to the stern to leap in the sea and swim away, but realized that his feet were tied together so that he could only take short steps. The rowers noticed his predicament and began laughing.
Scenes from the previous day flashed through Matthias’s head as the unconscious lad lay on the hard wooden deck. Suddenly, he woke up, feeling light- “Only one place to go boy, the bottom!” one of them headed and nauseated. Blood had run down in the called in a thick northern accent. hollow of his right eye, drying and making it hard to Matthias reluctantly lowered himself to the deck hold open. and sat with his back to the bulkhead. The stories As he staggered unsteadily to his feet on the rolling he had heard about the vikings cruelty to their prisship, it all came back. Vikings had attacked the small oners flashed through his throbbing head. Some village on Beårnaraigh, one of the isles of the Heb- were said to be offered as sacrifices to the false rides. His father, Joran, king of the island, had fallen Norse gods. Others were said to be put through all trying to buy time for his people to escape to safety. types of torture so that the false priests could supMatthias had paused in his flight to watch his fa- posedly look into the future. Which will happen to ther‘s battle, when suddenly something smashed me? wondered Matthias. into his head and knocked him unconscious. Gingerly, he placed a hand over the deep axe-wound As Matthias’s vision cleared, he saw the shores of in his head. Whatever happens, it can’t feel too Beårnaraigh swiftly falling behind them as the long- much worse than the agony I’m going through now. ship quickly left the area of its recent raid. Beside the young man was a double row of heavyset men The young man scooped up a handful of saltwater from over the side of the ship and washed the dried The Young Viking
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blood out of his right eye. The stinging salt brought and told me I could take the prisoner from this raid his wandering mind back into context. Matthias for my personal attendant. You are a native of Bjarnaray, I suppose?” stood up and viewed his surroundings. The ship he was on was a large viking longship, with a crew of about forty vikings. A large, gold-gilded dragons head adorned the prow. The ship crested the white-capped waves with great speed, as did the five other similar ships it was sailing alongside of.
Matthias had recovered his coolness by now. “No, I come from Beårnaraigh, where you captured me.”
“Oh,” the viking laughed, “my father named that island Bjarnaray, which is Bjørn’s Island in my lanThe vikings rowing this particular had ship stripped guage.” off their armor and weapons and deposited them under the planks which served as seats. There were Rage filled Matthias. The naming of his beloved isten oars on each side, with two vikings on each oar. land after some viking boy seemed unfair and cruA navigator stood at the carved stern, keeping a el. After a moment, he calmed himself to listen to what Bjørn was saying. steady hand on the tiller. “You don’t need to worry too much about your slavery. It won’t be too harsh. Mainly, I would like someone to keep me company while we are sailing. Leif over there,” he nodded at the steersman, “is always too busy to talk with me, and the others aren’t of Matthias sat back down in his place, and soon fell high blood.” He eyed Matthias curiously. “Are you?” into a fitful sleep. Color flew to Matthias’s cheeks. The sun had passed its zenith when the Gaelic lad re-awoke. The fleet of viking ships were floating “Yes, I am!” he snapped, leaping to his feet. The othcalmly on the open sea while the crews took a meal er vikings, used to squabbles, did not pay the two and slight rest. While Matthias had slept, Beår- young men any attention. “My father was king of Beårnaraigh! And a much better fighter than your naraigh had already faded out of sight. vikings were! It took ten of you to kill him!” Seeing his prisoner awake again, the young man who seemed to be the captain of this ship strode to Laughing merrily, Bjørn rose to his feet. the stern and sat beside him. “By Thor, that axe wound has not slowed you down “Welcome to my ship, Master Scot. I trust you will much! I think that you will do nicely for me. Do you find your stay comfortable.” The viking’s voice car- know how to play chess?” ried little Norse accent when he spoke in Gaelic, but his voice was heavy with sarcasm. “I am Bjørn Matthias, worn out by his angry tirade, meekly anThorsanson. My father has said you will be my per- swered that he did. Bjørn strode to the prow and soon returned with a checkered board and hand sonal slave. What is your name?” carved pieces. Matthias slowly set up and played “Matthias. W-who is your father?” Matthias stam- the game, but his heart was not in it. For the momered, slightly taken aback by the boldness of the ment, his thoughts were centered on his mother, two younger brothers, and baby sister. Had they all young Viking. survived the attack and reached the fortress in the “Thorsan the Seaking, the Terror of the Waves, lead- mountains? Or were they dead on the beach, or lyer of the Vikings from Cimbria. He sails in the ship ing in one of the other ships. over there,” Bjørn pointed, “the Great Serpent. He gave me command of this ship, the Diamond Sword, Matthias stayed up all night praying, praying to the At the front of the ship sat a young man about Matthias’s age. He still wore his knee length shirt of chain-mail, and carried at his side both a broadsword and a long knife known as a seax.
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The Young Viking
blue eyes and a merry attitude. Nature demanded that these two be mortal enemies, but Matthias Lord, I know that I do not serve you as I should, but couldn’t help but feel a slight feeling of friendship please make sure that my family is safe. Amen. toward the other. God of his father.
As Matthias and Bjørn played chess the follow- Bjørn began talking again with his usual random ing day, the Gaelic voiced a question that had been statements. nagging him. “This is my second voyage, but the first to command “You live to the north. So why are we going south?” a ship. I remember that we came to Tyrvist before and sacked a village on the northern end. That is Bjørn moved a rook, which was fashioned to look probably where we are going tonight.” like a longship, before answering. Matthias’s feelings of friendship vanished, and he “Do you think we would return after raiding one felt slightly sick. Joran was a great Christian, and poor village? We go now to Iona. You have heard of had raised his children to be lovers of peace. The that, have you not?” young viking talking about the destruction of an entire village as if it was an everyday thing made Of course Matthias had. Iona, the monastery of the the Gaelic lad quite queasy. He decided not to say great warrior-monk, Columba. Iona, the wonder anything else until they were ashore. of the world for its great knowledge and wealth. Iona, where Joran, his father, had studied under the “Why?” monks before returning to Beårnaraigh to become king. Matthias had dreamed all his life of going to Matthias was swathed in a heavy cloak and lyIona; but not this way! Not as part of a raiding band ing between the roots of a huge oak staring at the of vikings. twinkling stars. Beside him, Bjørn was playing a soft tune on a small flute-like instrument. “Tonight we will stop on the northern tip of Tyrvist.” continued Bjørn. “Why what?” Bjørn’s gentle voice came back to him after the song ended. There was a name Matthias recognized. It was the Norse name for Tiree, a large island about for- Startled, Matthias sat up. He hadn’t realized that he ty miles southeast of Beårnaraigh, and less than was thinking out loud. But now that he had started, twenty miles north of Iona. Matthias shivered at he might as well finish. the thought. Tomorrow night, he would be watch“Why can you Norse not live like other people, farming Iona being attacked. ing or trading or hunting, living in peace?” Matthias moved one of his bishops, or ‘priests’ as Bjørn called them. Bjørn quickly related by moving Bjørn sat upright with a sigh. There was some time a knight, or ‘jarl’ forward to threaten the bishop. before he answered. Matthias smiled slightly. Bjørn’s king was hemmed in by its own pawns. A rook shot across the board, “I do not know, Matthias.” he said softly, almost sadly. Intrigued by the strange tone, Matthias trapping the king in checkmate. darted a glance and found the young viking with a Bjørn laughed. “It looks as though I got a bit cocky bowed head. that time. You did well.” “I almost wish that we could.” Bjørn went on. “I do The two young men stood up and watched the ap- not know if every viking feels as I do, deep inside; proaching shore of Tiree. The difference in them or if I am a throwback. But I do almost wish that was great, one a dark-headed, serious minded we could live in peace. Many times I have promised Gaelic; the other a fair-haired Viking with laughing myself that I would never fight again. But every time The Young Viking
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I hear ‘Go A-viking!’ I forget my promise and draw my sword again.” He raised his head and stared at his servant. Matthias noticed with shock that his blue eyes had no trace of laughter in them, rather they seemed to be mourning. “At one time, it was necessary for the Norse to raid. You see, Matthias, our land is far too rocky and cold to farm well. So we began to raid other countries so we could get food to survive. But now we are prosperous, there is no need to raid. I do not know why we continue to. Perhaps because the gods are always at war, and we feel as though we should be, too.” Matthias shook his head slowly. “That makes no sense. Why must you fight simply because your false gods fight?” Bjørn’s head snapped back up. “Oh, you are one of those Christians.” If I could only be sure of that. Matthias thought. But he swallowed his misgivings and spoke.
back to life!” Matthias stumbled on, excited to share the gospel with this strange raider. “He also said that whoever believed in him would receive the Holy Spirit, and would live with him forever after they died!” Bjørn was silent for a moment, running the sagas of his gods through his mind. Finally he shook his head in bewilderment and muttered, “None of the Asas ever did anything like that.” The viking lumbered to his feet. “I must think about this. I will return in a moment.” he told Matthias. The Gaelic native watched his companion stride off towards the main camp, no doubt to find out when they would leave in the morning. Other vikings were huddled about heaping bonfires, playing different rough games, mainly dice.
Bjørn paused for a moment at one of the fires and commented to a player in their “Yes, I am. I believe in a God that is own heavy language. A roar the true God. He wished that we live of laughter went up from the in peace.” vikings, evidently finding the remark hilarious. Bjørn turned “I know, I know. Another of our away and continued his walk. As Matthias watched, servants is a Christian. By Thor, you the insulted player silently rose to his feet, and drew have strange teachings! One God, a slim throwing knife from his belt. When he took three forms, a God that died, and a God that doesn’t aim at the young raider’s back, Matthias realized in even demand sacrifices.” Bjørn laughed scornfully. horror what was about to happen. A single glance told him that none of the other vikings had noticed “Yes, our God does demand sacrifices!” burst Mat- the assassin draw his blade. The viking drew his thias. “But no sacrifice on earth was good enough arm back, ready to throw. to please Him. So He sent His only son to die as a sacrifice, so we would never have to sacrifice again!” Time seemed to slow as Matthias ripped off the cloak and hurled himself forward screaming. Bjørn stared at him in amazement. “Bjørn! Duck!” “He......sacrificed.... His son? That was an amazing thing to do!” Matthias threw himself at the burly viking, knocking the knife out of his hand. With a quick move“Not only that, but after three days, the son came ment, he twisted the sword arm behind the viking’s 13 | Literary Apologetics.Mag
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back, popping it out of place with a quick yank. Then If the Gaelic slave had not been in so much pain, he wrapped both arms around the raider’s throat, he would have seen tears glistening in the Norseman’s eyes. trying to choke him into submission. A scream of pain sounded, then a strong hand grabbed Matthias’s shoulder, and yanked him off of the viking’s back. The Gaelic lad hit the ground in a rib-cracking fall. He rolled over in agony as the viking awkwardly drew his sword with his left hand. A commanding voice bellowed out an order, and a dozen other men leaped up and restrained the viking from stabbing Matthias. Bjørn hurried quickly to his servant lying on the ground. His voice cracked as he spoke, showing his concern. “Matthias, are you alright?”
“A friend...no greater love...lay down his life....for a friend.” Bjørn muttered to himself. After the camp was silent and everyone else asleep, Bjørn began sobbing openly for his friend’s pain. Matthias awoke on board the Diamond Sword, lying on a pallet at the stern. Bjørn was sitting nearby, honing the edges of the swords, knives, and axes of the crew. Matthias was surprised to see that it was late in the afternoon. As he sat up, Bjørn noticed that he was awake. “Matthias,” he exclaimed, rising to his feet, “you must stay still!”
Matthias laughed for the first time since he had been captured. It felt good to laugh, and he laughed Bjørn lightly touched Matthias’s left side. The slave again. cried out in pain. The young viking commander called out orders, and Matthias was gently carried “I feel good.” he said to the young viking. “Shall I help you?” back to the oak tree. “My side....” Matthias moaned.
After the carriers left, Bjørn crouched at Matthias’s side again.
The two sat cross-legged on the deck, sharpening weapons.
“A man who knows how to treat wounds is coming.” he whispered.
Bjørn averted his eyes from those of Matthias, as if in shame. Finally, he spoke.
Matthias nodded slightly. There was a moment of “You know what these will be used for, don’t you?” silence, and Matthias began wondering if he was “Yes, I do,” Matthias replied, “but Jesus, the son of going to die that night. Then Bjørn spoke again. God, told his followers that slaves should be subject to their masters, so I won’t attempt to talk you out “Why did you do it?” of this.” The young Gaelic cut his brown eyes across “Wh-what?” to meet the blue eyes of his friend. “He also said for soldiers to be contented with what they had, and “Your are my slave. I have been mean to you. I have not to take money by force.” made fun of your religion. You have every reason to hate me. Why did you save me?” Bjørn’s head dropped and he continue to slowly sharpen the axe he was holding. The rest of the Matthias forced himself to speak through the pain. voyage passed between them in silence. “Jesus, th-the son of God, once said that a man Towards nightfall, the six ships slipped into a bay could have no more love, than to lay down his life on the northern side of Iona. No one was allowed for his friend.” to go on shore, and a strict guard was set over the crews. The Young Viking
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I must warn the monks at the monastery! thought Matthias frantically. But how? As always, he was sleeping beside Bjørn. Any move he would make would wake the viking up! Then there were the two guards with bows and arrows. How was he to leave the ship without attracting their attention?
ward, but found that he scarcely had the strength to continue moving. His limbs felt like lead, powerless to move at all. No! cried his brain. Keep moving! You must! Keep moving!
Suddenly, Bjørn rolled over and muttered under his breath,
Suddenly, Matthias’s head grated on some hard surface. Out of instinct, he reached out and propelled himself past the object and towards air.
Mind and body were at conflict, one demanding to go on, and the other yelling to go up. Gradually, Matthias worked himself into a sweat trying to get Matthias’s sense began to fade. No! Stay awake! away to warn the monks. Every time he began to screamed his brain. But Matthias was beyond conmove, Bjørn would stopped snoring, or one of the sciousness, and but dimly felt himself floating upguards would see him and nock an arrow. Just be- ward, towards the surface of the water, towards a fore midnight, he gave up the idea and tried to sleep. quick death.
“The guard changes at midnight. Go then.” Immediately after he said this, he rolled back over and feigned sleep again.
With a blast of coldness, he broke through the water and into the cool, delicious air. Matthias sucked in several long breathes before realizing that he In a few moments, the two guards went to the prow didn’t have an arrow in his back. and shook two other vikings awake to take over the guard. While they were bending over the new Treading water, the Gaelic boy turned around to a guards, Matthias rose to his feet and slipped into hard shock. He had come up right beside the Great Serpent! the water silently. Matthias had been raised on the coast of Beårnaraigh, and had been able to swim as long as he could remember. He held himself against the hard side of the longship for a moment while taking his bearings, then took a long breath and struck out for shore. In his mind, he visualized what ships he was swimming under. Unfortunately for him, the Diamond Sword was the farthest from shore, and the Gaelic lad was forced to swim under the five other ships to reach the beach.
The deck creaked just a few feet above his head. Matthias risked a quick glance upwards, which told him that there was a viking standing directly above him, scanning the watery surface of the bay anxiously. Matthias’s heart was pounding so hard that he thought it would wake up every viking in the Hebrides. Finally, the guard moved away, and the young man was able to relax.
Matthias glanced away with a long sigh. He was now only about fifty yards from the shore, a simple Matthias’s lungs were burning for air long before he swim for such a swimmer as himself. had reached the sandy beach. “Sanctuary!” Get air, get air! one side of his mind screamed, while the other side reasoned desperately, Not here! The heavy wind which was blowing the dark rain clouds closer, ever closer, tore Matthias’s cry from Guards will see you and shoot you! his lips. No one came to answer the large door of Closing his eyes, Matthias tried to remember where the world-renowned monastery. Doubtlessly, all he was. As near as he could guess, he was more the brothers had retired to bed, having no idea of than halfway to the shore, near the Great Serpent. the carnage which was waiting them on the morrow. Matthias broke a large branch off a nearby He opened his eyes again and tried to swim for- tree and began beating on the brass-studded door, 15 | Literary Apologetics.Mag
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alternately yelling ‘Sanctuary!’ in order to rouse the gatekeeper. A small window high above the door opened and a voice called out, “Who goes, that rouses God’s holy monks from their well-needed slumber?”
“I must go tell the holy father immediately!” “Wait!” called Matthias before the monk charged off down the corridor. “I must go back to the fleet!” Brother Bartholomew halted quickly and came back. “My son, why in the world would you go back there?”
Matthias dropped the branch and stepped back so he could see the silhouette of the monk in the win- “My friend, Bjørn, he will be in trouble if it is found that he let me escape and warn you.” dow. “I am Matthias, son of Joran of Beårnaraigh, and I come with important news!” he called up to the holy brother. “Give me a moment.” came the answer before the window was shut again. Matthias shivered in the cold north wind as the monk began unfastening the bolt.
“Your friend?” the monk’s tone was shocked, to say the least. “A viking, as a friend?” Matthias squirmed guilty in his chair. “Well, yes, it is a long story.” he finally said after a moment of silence. Brother Bartholomew smiled.
“Yes.” he said softly. “I understand. I had a friend like that once.” The faraway, sad look in his eyes Matthias darted inside the monastery as soon as surprised Matthias. the door creaked open. The monk, a short man with twinkling eyes slammed the door shut and shiv- “What happened?” he whispered. ered. “He died, a pagan.” Brother Bartholomew looked “Pacatis.” Matthias returned the greeting for peace. unhappily at Matthias. “That is why I came here to Before he could tell his story, the monk continued be a monk.” Suddenly, he started back to life. talking. “But come. We must get you back to the ships.” “It is quite cold tonight, is it not! I am called Brother Bartholomew, the gatekeeper. I was an old friend The monk slid the bolt back, allowing Matthias to of your father while he studied here. Come in, come leave again. in!” “Peace be with you!” the brother called after the reThe bubbling little monk led Matthias into a side treating youth. Matthias turned to reply the same, but the door was already shut. room where a large fire burned in the fireplace. “Now,” he said, once he had put Matthias in a chair After a few moments, the dark clouds began to drop their wet load, soaking everything over the entire with food before him, “what is your news?” isles. Matthias had no problems returning to the Matthias took a deep breath, then began his tale. Diamond Sword. The cheerful monk turned quite grave as the story Thorsan the Warlord was a fierce looking warrior. unfolded. Just after daybreak, he led vikings off of his ship “So there are at least several hundred vikings?” to form battle array on the still-soggy beach. The Matthias nodded, and Brother Bartholomew leaped leader of the fleet was clad in a long hauberk made of iron mixed with silver and gold. His fancy helup. met was covered in interweaving bands of gold enThe Young Viking
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graved into the steel. Matthias helped Bjørn struggle into similar armor.
Bjørn. The Gaelic lad could tell that his master was becoming excited, in spite of himself.
Then the army was on the summit of the hill. As “I have thought about your words, and I am not go- one, the vikings leaped up and begin roaring out all ing to fight today.” the young viking had confided to sorts of barbaric warcries and screaming ‘A-vikihis friend earlier that morning, “But I must still lead iinnnnnnnnngg!’ my warriors.” The Norse raiders charged down upon the monasAs the slave buckled on the belts with the differ- tery. In the daylight, Matthias realized how much ent weapons on them onto his master, Bjørn asked the building looked liked a castle. him, The ranks of vikings slit open and two score carry“What weapon do you wish to carry?” ing a freshly cut battering ram charged at the gates. Suddenly, a rain of arrows came from the windows The question caught Matthias off guard. He of the monastery and felled half of the vikings on straightened up quickly and faced the raider. the ram. “I told you, I am against fighting.” Bjørn blew out a long, exasperated breath. “Yes, yes, I know, but you must come with me. You do not have to fight, just come. That is one of the duties of an attendant.”
“Saint Columba!” the cry went up from the monks inside. Volley after volley of the barbed death flew down to slay the vikings. In vain did the raiders plant scaling ladders, in vain were the grappling hooks thrown over the wall. Every attack was repulsed with a great loss of the Norsemen.
The battle raged on for most of the day. Finally, Matthias quickly shrugged into one of Bjørn’s spare Thorsan ordered a retreat. The vikings fell back in shirts of mail and set a conical helmet on his head. disarray to the boats. He grabbed a long spear and buckled a seax at his side. God forbid that I ever have to use these! After raging about for an hour, Thorsan ordered camp to be made on the beach. Finally, the crews of all six ships were on the beach and ready to fight. Thorsan bellowed an order, and “He won’t rest until Iona has been breached.” Bjørn the small army started forward. told Matthias as they were taking their armor off. Matthias marched alongside of Bjørn, nervously glancing at the huge vikings on every side of him. What if the monks weren’t ready to repel the assault? What if they were not strong enough, even if they were ready? That didn’t even bear thinking about.
“That may be a while if it continues like it did today.”
As they two young men relaxed over a short game of chess, Thorsan and a seer called Lélanin strode through the camp towards them. They halted before Matthias and two guards yank the Gaelic lad upright. Lélanin peered into Matthias’s face for The mile to the monastery was covered swiftly. The a moment before turning to Thorsan and saying fighting force stopped just behind the final hill while something in the Norse language. Thorsan apThorsan gave out his orders in the brutal Norse lan- peared satisfied and went off to attend other matguage. ters in his army. At a word from Lélanin, the guards forced Matthias towards an ash tree, where they The army spread out until it was in the shape of a tied him and left him. half circle around the radius of the monastery. Matthias crawled up the slope of the hill beside 17 | Literary Apologetics.Mag
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Bjørn sprang towards his slave after the guards left.
The Young Viking
“Oh, Matthias!” the terror in his voice struck a cord deep in Matthias’s heart, “Oh, Matthias, they intend to sacrifice you to Tyr, the god of war, to help win the battle!”
Bjørn said a few words in the Norse language to Leif, then embraced the old man. Leif patted him on the shoulder, then shoved the boat off the shore once Bjørn had climbed inside.
“Sacrifice....” Matthias’s voice trailed off, but his mind kept working.
The two young men banked the boat about and began rowing away from the island. After they were sufficiently away not to be heard from the island, Matthias asked,
Be sacrificed to a false god? No, Lord, no! Please, do not let that happen! Please, Lord Jesus!
“What will Leif do?” All of a sudden, the young man was overwhelmed. Everything that had happened in the last five days There was almost a chuckle in Bjørn’s voice when fell onto his mind, crushing down his thoughts until he spoke. he collapsed into unconsciousness. “When the guards find out that you have es“Wake up!” caped, Leif will come Bjørn’s whisper was urgent. Matthias slowly raised stumbling into camp his groggy head. It was in the middle of the night, claiming that you have and the viking camp was sleeping. Bjørn made sure escaped and I am chasing that his slave was awake, then sliced the bonds you around the island. He with his seax. With a cry of delight on his lips, Matwill then lead my father on thias fell forwards and began earnestly chaffing his a wild chase around Iona.” numb wrists. Matthias laughed, which “Quiet!” muttered Bjørn. “Come with me!” sounded strange and out of place at the time. Then he The young Gaelic slave rose to his feet and folthought of something else. lowed the fair-headed viking around the slumbering raiders and out of the camp. He did not “Where did you get this boat?” notice Leif, the old steersman of the Diamond There was a moment of hesSword following them. itation before Bjørn spoke. Bjørn went several hundred yards out into the woods that lay beside the camp, then turned and headed towards the beach. A small, canoe-like boat was drawn up on the beach, with two pairs of oars and a bag of provisions inside. “Climb in.” muttered Bjørn. Matthias obeyed although he was mystified. He seated himself in the stern, and picked up a pair of oars. Leif materialized out of the gloom, and Matthias stifled a scream at being discovered. But it soon became evident that the old viking was part of the plot. The Young Viking
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“Alright? Bjørn, that is wonderful! I have been praying for this!” Matthias bowed his head suddenly Matthias gasped. This viking, his master, had risked and said a prayer. his life just for Matthias? Lord, thank you so much for allowing Bjørn to come “You what?” to you. And thank you also for letting me share the good news with him, for it has made my faith firmer “I climbed over the wall and met someone named as well. I now see that everything had a purpose. Bartholomew. When I mentioned that you were in Amen. danger, he told where to find the boat to save you.” He looked back up at the Norseman, grinning Thank you, Lord. broadly. “I went into the monastery.”
“Why did you save me?” persisted Matthias. Bjørn swiveled around and looked at his slave, a crooked smile on his lips.
Bjørn smiled weakly. This was the greatest, and hardest, decision of his life, Matthias decided.
Matthias’s heart thrummed excitedly. Had Bjørn actually decided to forgo being a viking lord?
“You will not be disappointed, I promise you that!” Matthias said joyfully.
“Where are we going?” Matthias asked.
There was silence again for a moment. Then a hoarse yell brought both young men to their feet.
“Tyr will hate me from now on, and so will Odin and “You said that the Lord said, ‘No greater love has a Thor. So I may as well follow your religion and see if man than to die for his friends.” it’s the real way.”
“To Beårnaraigh. To our home.” The viking and native islander floated in the warm sunlight halfway inbetween Tiree and Beårnaraigh.
“What is it?” muttered Bjørn to his companion. Matthias, shading his eyes, could see better than the viking.
“And so, Jesus called the blind man to his side and said, ‘Your faith has made you well’. Immediately, the blind man could see again!”
“It is the ships!” Matthias screamed in horror. The two men grabbed the oars and began rowing away to the North, towards Beårnaraigh.
“That is amazing!”
The ships came, one by one, over the edge of the horizon, sails flapping in the wind, oars hurling them “Aye.” through the water, the glistening dragonheads shining in the morning sunlight. It would have The two men basked idly in the sunlight. In the last been an almost spectacular sight, had not Matthias two days of fleeing Iona, they had spoken much of known that they were coming for him. the Scriptures and of Matthias’s faith. Soon his breath was coming hard, but he couldn’t slow down.
“Matthias....” Matthias sat up.
After a grueling hour’s chase, Bjørn and Matthias were forced to stop.
“Yes?”
“Should we just give up?” asked Matthias, worried for his friend’s life. “I mean, you would not be in danger that way.”
“I-I want to believe in your god. Is that alright..” Matthias’s heart sung with praises to the Lord. 19 | Literary Apologetics.Mag
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“Actually, I would be in trouble; but do not fear, I will shattered my last tie with the vikings.’ Reaching never give you up.” His back straightened and he forward, he patted the golden-headed youth reaspointed. Some five miles to the northwest was a suringly. dim haze on the horizon. An island! “Let us go to my home.” The boys began rowing again, but the ships were still gaining on the small canoe. Bjørn sighed deep- “Our home.” corrected Bjørn, but his voice was sad and listless as he stared at the place where his faly. ther had drowned. “There is only one way left.” He turned to Matthias. “When the Great Serpent comes alongside us, keep The rest of the journey to the island was completed without mishap; though it was night when the rowing.” small boat finally reached their destination. Bjørn had taught Matthias many Norse words while on their escape, and now Matthias hear Lélanin be- Matthias flung himself on shore, thankful to finally be back on his native ground. Bjørn hauled the boat hind them yelling, up onto the beach so it would not float away. “Praise Thor and Tyr! We have caught them!” “Are you sure that this is Beårnaraigh?” Bjørn asked. The Great Serpent was almost on top of the canoe Matthias smiled to himself. Ever since the escape and time that Bjørn’s heart had begun to turn, he when Bjørn stood up. had referred to Matthias’s home as Beårnaraigh in“Save your voice, old man!” he yelled to Lélanin. stead of Bjarnaray. “You should be giving praises to the real God!” “Oh, aye, it is.” the former viking said as he caught With that, he swung his small, heavy, waraxe at sight of a rune-engraved pillar embedded near the the planks of the Great Serpent. Once, twice, thrice; shoreline. Bjørn peered briefly at the words which then suddenly a board snapped and water poured spelled ‘Bjørn’s Island’. Then he uprooted the stone into longship. Bjørn dropped back into a sitting po- slap and cast it into the dying tide. sition and screamed desperately, “For now, and for evermore, this will be Beår“Row!” naraigh.” He cast a sly glance at his friend, his old sense of humor coming back. “Beårnaraigh, the Matthias bent into the shove, lungs heaving like home of the Saint Matthias.” bellows. Water churned around his oars, making it difficult to retract them for the next sweep, but Laughing, Matthias chased the young Norseman through the charred remains of the burnt village. Matthias’s muscles surged and he propelled the boat onward stroke after stroke. “Halt, viking!” rang out a voice high above them. Bjørn was not fast enough to obey the command, After some two hundred yards, his heavy breathing and the muted note of a bow spoke high on the hill. and sore hands forced him to slow down slightly. Time slowed as Matthias saw the Gaelic arrow hurBehind him, he heard the snapping of wooden tling down towards the former viking. He hurled planks as water cascaded into the doomed Great himself through the ground separating them to Serpent. stand in front of Bjørn. Bjørn halted for a moment, and glanced behind him “No!-” to the drowning ship that had been his father’s. A burning pain smashed into his chest! Agony Matthias could tell what he was thinking, ‘I have burned his chest and he grappled for air, then fell The Young Viking
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to the ground.
“Aye! He has come! And Father, it is wonderful......”
Bjørn was right beside him tearfully yelling at him,
Bjørn slowly got to his feet as Joran sobbed over his son. Finally, the old man rose to his feet and embraced Bjørn.
“No Matthias! You can’t!” There was a snapping in the undergrowth, and a tall man with a bow leaped into the clearing with an arrow on the string. Through the pain, Matthias rolled over and screamed,
“The Scriptures say that all things work together for good to them that love the Lord.” The Gaelic chieftain looked carefully at Bjørn’s dry-eyed face. “Do not think that this, though a blow at the time, is bad. This is rather a double blessing. You have “No, Uncle Jornæn! He is-” he was seized with a come and made the greatest decision of your life, sudden pain and it was a moment before he spoke the decision to follow the true God. And Matthias again. “Uncle, he is my friend!” has gone to be with the Lord. Do not fear, he is in a much better place. He will meet us on that final day, Joran, the chieftain, hobbled into the burnt village; when the trumpet sounds, and we are raised. The head and side bandaged. Seeing his son lying on day upon which there will be no sadness......” the ground, he broke into a stumbling run. The early morning sun rose and shed its rays on “Matthias!” the former viking sitting at the feet of an old islander, receiving the Good News. It was a beauThe old man fell on the ground beside the younger tiful dawn to be saved on. A beautiful dawn. A man. Matthias was having spasms of shaking, as beautiful day. A beautiful eternity of love for God. the effects of the arrow destroyed his body, but he gasped out “Father!Y-you’re safe!” He fell into a fit of coughing, but struggled to say one last thing. “Father, this is B-Bjørn. He wants to become a Christian. Father, all these things happened so he would come to the Lord!” The young Gaelic man was seized with a further spasm as his body deteriorated further. Joran, realizing that his son’s spirit almost was gone, leaned forward and whispered, “Son, do you see Him?” Matthias began to relax as his soul left this world.
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Cody Milner was born and raised
in Western Oklahoma. He has been homeschooled for nine years, and recently graduated from Junior High. Cody has enjoyed writing since age 10. A few years later, he was introduced to the Lord of the Rings, Narnia, The Door Within, and Inheritance Series. Now he recognizes the immediate need for good Christian fiction. For the past three years, Cody has written historical fiction and Christan fantasy novels. Third Place - High School Category
2010 ACM William Blake Award Christian Writing Contest 2010
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Anthony’s Corner
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Anthony’s Corner
There are two very important problems that consistently surface in contemporary Christian writing. The first is poor writing and the second…
T
he purpose of this article is not to confront the issue of poor writing. This has been addressed in a number of places and is not confined to Christians. Much of the counsel that might be given to writers who are Christian regarding quality writing would apply to any writer in any field of any philosophy and belief. I will not speak to it except to say that it is a very real problem and that an aspiring Christian author will take it seriously and seriously strive not to exacerbate it. The second problem should be taken seriously, too. The Christian that writes as a Christian ought to be quite certain that what they write is… well, Christian. Before tackling this issue it is necessary to make a few clarifications. To begin with, we might raise the important point that ‘Christian’ writing may not have explicitly Christian content. A Christian writer is not necessarily someone who writes Christian articles, poetry, and stories. He may be, rather, a writer who happens to be a Christian. This writer may also be someone who does write explicitly Christian content. We can even say that a Christian writer might write something that is not even implicitly Christian. What I think we can safely say, however, is that a Christian writer- or a writer who is a Christian- will not produce material that
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he knowingly understands is contrary and antithetical to the Christian faith and will serve to have the effect of hardening the heart of one’s readers against God. I do not here refer to the fact that in a narrative one will represent antiChristian views or horrific events or wicked men doing wicked things. Certainly, any writing that reflects actual reality will have to do this. Genuine Christians who see fit to include gritty content in their writing do so recognizing there is a tension, and therefore limits, to how far they can go and what exactly they can describe. Individual genuine Christians may reach different judgments and I do not wish to judge any of such writer here. It is merely my purpose to state clearly an assumption that I think it likely that all sincere Christians will share. Yet, it is apparent from my varied readings and three years of administrating Athanatos Christian Ministry’s Christian writing contests that there are many sincere Christians producing content that they believe to be at least implicitly Christian… that is not Christian at all. It is not my contention here that this is intentional. In fact, it is clear that many Christian writers sincerely believe they are reflecting a Christian worldview. Indeed, it is not uncommon to find a Christian writer writing something that they believe does not merely reflect a Christian worldview, but is explicitly Christian. Nonetheless, the sentiments expressed will not be Christian at all. What makes something ‘Christian’? As worthy as the question is, let’s not debate it. The real reason Christian writers write stuff that isn’t Christian and sometimes is even antiChristian lies elsewhere. I believe- and I’m trying to be as nice as I can in saying this- I believe it is largely simple ignorance. Their content is out of line with Christianity for the simple reason that they don’t know much about Christianity. This is for many reasons and to some degree many of them aren’t the fault of the authors. The transmission of the faith is on the rocks, if not broken altogether. Part of it certainly has to be the fact that by ‘Christian’ many merely think ‘nice.’ Another common reason is that by ‘Christian’ many merely think ‘spiritual.’ Perhaps they believe that the Christian faith is a basically 25 | Literary Apologetics.Mag
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subjective thing having to do with how one feels towards Jesus; particular details or doctrines are irrelevant and even the notion that they may be important is disdained. Decades ago, Dorothy Sayers relentlessly attacked such notions of Christianity. In one example she writes:
Christ, in His divine innocence, said to the woman of Samaria, “Ye worship ye know not what” –being apparently under the impression that it might be desirable, on the whole, to know what one was worshipping. He thus showed himself sadly out of touch with the twentieth-century mind, for the cry today is: “Away with the tedious complexities of dogma-let us have the simple spirit of worship; just worship, no matter what!” The only drawback to this demand for a generalized and undirected worship is the practical difficulty of arousing any sort of enthusiasm for the worship of nothing in particular. (The Dogma is the Drama) We see, therefore, that the phenomenon is not new. As such, I cannot stand with those who insist that shallow and poor writing (Christian or otherwise) is a sad and inevitable consequence of the fact that modern authors are able to get their work out to the public without going through the gatekeepers. The gatekeepers of the past let through a lot of shallow crap and if I may be frank, the gatekeepers of the present still let through a lot of crap. That is to say, shallow crap often sells quite well, and finding what sells well remains the chief task of the gatekeepers. As things go, quality often sells well, too, but that is not always the case. Now, many people who love to write cannot do so very well, even if they work hard at it. Still, they are commended for working hard at it. They are to be commended all the more if they know for themselves that their writing, despite their love of it and the intentions they bring to it, are not the greatest. If something is a passion for someone I think they ought to pursue it. Such a person will wisely pursue other passions and secure an income through more reliable routes. Even good writers work hard at it. In my experience, there Anthony’s Corner
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are many writers- good and bad- working very hard to be good writers. Unfortunately, there are many serious writers who are serious Christians who have not invested the same kind of attention to their understanding of their Christian faith as they do their writing. They do not know their Bible very well. They are unaware of the many controversies it has provoked over the years and have no particular opinion on them. Of the heresies rejected over the centuries, these serious Christians are often ignorant, even as they promulgate them. They do not read the great works of Christians of the past. If they are like many of the poor writers in the secular sphere, they do not read any great works at all. This is not necessarily their fault, as I wish to stress. How many mechanics, doctors, secretaries, teachers, factory workers, stay at home parents, lawyers, or postmen are encouraged by the Church to know their Bible very well? How many congregations believe that their members should know their theology thoroughly and then work to make sure they do? How many congregations identify the artists among them and say, “You are a great writer. Work on that. But get your theology right.�? (This presumes a congregation is even looking for the artists among them, which I would strongly advise.) The feeling about writers and artists in general is that if they exhibit mastery this makes them a credible voice on the things they wish to speak about. We see this most clearly in society when Hollywood actors or musicians decide to speak out on issues- as if being a good actor or talented musician means that you are thoughtful and informed! Our society tolerates this and the Christian Church, instead of standing against this trend, goes along with it. We should set out as an expectation that our Christian artists will be theologically grounded.
"Unfortunately, serious writers ous Christians w vested the same k to their underst Christian faith a writing."
Having said all this, the responsibility does not rest on the Church or anyone else. It rests on you, the genuine Christian artist. If you wish to have your faith guide you in your endeavors, especially if you mean to have your Christian faith implicit or explicit in your work, then you should crack open some theology texts and know the Scriptures back-
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wards and forwards. This is your duty as someone who will represent the faith to the world. Remember what Jesus said: “…But if anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea. Woe to the world because of the things that cause people to sin! Such things must come, but woe to the man through whom they come!” (Matthew 18)
there are many who are seriwho have not inkind of attention tanding of their as they do their
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You can be sure that Jesus meant this to include each and everyone of us, no matter what our vocation. They are serious words to keep in mind and consider for serious Christians who are serious writers.
Anthony Horvath is the Executive Director of Athanatos Christian Ministries, an apologetics ministry focusing on defending the faith through literature and the arts that also publishes this literary magazine.
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