The Weight of Story: Catastrophes & Eucatastrophes

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” Thus begins the Story of stories; the grand tale in which all other tales are contained. Indeed, the very tale we today find ourselves living, loving, and laboring through.

If the Bible had not commenced with those words—“In the beginning...”—what other words could possibly have sufficed? Surely Once upon a time wouldn’t do. For, there was no time for time to be upon before the Author of life began weaving His epic tale.

Story-Sapiens

I suppose that many individuals will think their thoughts about God, in some degree, according to their specific trade, profession, or overall gifting. A mathematician will calculate God as being the Master Mathematician (which He is), just as a musician will rightly judge God as being the One from whom all the very best music flows (which it does). Both the mathematician and the musician are right. Math and melody in their own ways each serve as transcendent spectacles through which to view the Almighty. And, if seen as harmonious parts of a greater whole,—the melody of mathematics, or the science of music—yet more still is revealed about the nature and character of our great God.

In like fashion, the one who writes may think of God as the Master storyteller, a Poet par excellence (which He is). Consider that though the Bible is much more than just a story, it is also not less than a story. The Bible chronicles the Story; a tale penned in eternity past before the foundations of the Earth were set. With God as its author, how could it be anything less than the greatest story ever told? Indeed, God is the Master storyteller and it seems fitting for the writer to think of God in this way.

Though, I daresay this evaluation is by no means limited to the writer. Whereas some folks have little sense for numbers, while others haven’t a musical bone in their frame, I am yet to meet anyone who doesn’t enjoy a good story. Everyone loves stories, and most everyone believes God to be an author in some way.

I think the reason for this is clear and simple: because we are made in the image of God, and because God is a Master at telling stories, there is a deep part of ourselves—perhaps the very deepest—that resonates with good, well-told tales. We are in a very real way, because of our Creator, not Homo-sapiens but Story-sapiens.

As image-bearers caught up in God’s perfect story, we long for truly good stories that contain echoes and shadows of this far grander tale and the glorious conclusion towards which it is heading. We ache for expertly crafted twists and turns, for suspense, mystery, romance, retribution, and maybe most of all, we long for stories with a proper resolution. For endings where good really does triumph and evil really does face final and crushing defeat. And so, when the stories around us—whether in our own lives, in novels, movies, or television series—fall short, we undoubtedly feel disappointed, cheated, and perhaps even betrayed.

The Catastrophe of Stranger Things

When Netflix’s hit television show Stranger Things was announced back in the fog of 2015, I was immediately intrigued to say the very least. The show was described as a nostalgia-driven supernatural drama taking place in the 1980s, drawing heavy inspiration from the works of Stephen King and Steven Spielberg. I’ve always enjoyed meticulous and suspenseful mysteries, particularly those of the supernatural or science fiction variety—so, my hopes for the show were high, though tempered somewhat by the storytelling slop that so readily abounds in all corners of entertainment.

And, to the credit of Stranger Things, the first season of the show was mostly excellent. The majority of viewers agreed on this. The show represented a rare blend of tension, mystery, warmth, and mature storytelling about the dark realities of childhood, while faithfully capturing 80s nostalgia in a way that seemed earned and tailored to the story at hand rather than shameless baiting.

When the inevitable season two came out a few years later, I stopped halfway through out of boredom more than anything else—the story treaded too closely to the first season for my taste. It wasn’t until I got married that my wife (who had never seen the show) and I began watching Stranger Things from the beginning, mostly on my recommendation that season one was genuinely interesting and worth our time.

A few months ago, the fifth and final season of Stranger Things dropped on Netflix in three installments, concluding New Years’ Eve with a movie-length finale episode. And, almost unsurprisingly at this point in popular culture, just as season one of Stranger Things was nearly universally praised, the final season has been widely panned and ridiculed by most viewers—myself among them.

There are a number of valid reasons for this widespread criticism, though I intend to focus on one staggering issue that I haven’t heard anyone mention, albeit as an aside. And, in my opinion, this fatal flaw represents not only the catastrophe of Stranger Things, but indeed the secular world’s fatal mistake when it comes to storytelling more generally.

Setting aside some of season five’s other, though still glaring, issues (such as the blatant pandering to the woke mob, or the fact that the creators forsook the gritty realism of season one for some Marvel-esque slop, or the sense one gets that the entire script was written by A.I.), the real reason the show’s finale fell so utterly flat was because it abandoned reality altogether. This is directly owing to the fact that the show first abandoned God and the world as He made it. Without God, as Dostoevsky said, everything else becomes permissible. All other gripes with the show, valid as they are, ought to be seen as symptoms of a far deadlier disease, not the disease itself.

Secular storytellers really are trying to do the impossible. They are on the one hand attempting to push forward the narrative that truth isn’t objective and therefore everything is arbitrary, while at the same time desperately trying to get you as the viewer to care ever so deeply for their perspectives, storylines, and characters. The principle thesis, or guiding ideology, operating beneath most of their narratives suggests that humans (Homo-sapiens, so called), along with the rest of the world and universe, are merely the result of cosmic chance; a Herculean hiccup of chemistry and physics that just so happened to create everything from absolutely nothing. And yet, while still operating from this foolish premise, secular storytellers who’ve abandoned truth insist that we should engage with their product as sensible, emotional, and moral creatures.

Why? Why must we do this? If there is no God and our lives here have no ultimate meaning or purpose, then what sense is there in creating or engaging with stories? Why do anything if everything is, at the day’s end, ultimately and bitterly pointless? Why are you lecturing to me about social justice when, according to your own worldview, justice itself has no real substance? If we are all just atoms bumping into each other, soon to transition into another other form of matter ere long, then I can say, do, and think as I please. Only, of course, what does it mean to think when reason itself it merely a convenient concept and not a foundational truth of the universe?

Therein lies the rub with atheism: life becomes utterly unintelligible and unliveable based upon the atheist’s moral and ontological presuppositions. The atheist wants so desperately to live in a world without God, while at the same time living day to day as though He is real, whether or not they realize it. They want to live, love, and tell stories in God’s world without God as Lord over it.

That is why the ending of Stranger Things fails to resonate with so many, believers and unbelievers alike. There is something deeply disingenuous and outright wicked about writers who reject God at every turn, only to then insist upon the goodness of those things He has made and ask that you care. This is profoundly unhuman. As image-bearers, we are not, as both secular storytelling and science would have us believe, mere Homo-sapiens. We know, in the deepest reservoir of our souls, that there is more to life and that is precisely why we live as though there is more, even when we cannot place why. To live otherwise is to wrestle with an unreality; flirting with the outer darkness of nihilism where suicide remains the only reasonable avenue in a cold universe hollowed out of all reason.

We cannot escape reality: we are made in the image of God: we are Story-sapiens. Indeed, “He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, He has put eternity into man’s heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end” (Ecclesiastes 3:11).

The ending of Stranger Things fell short not only because of its progressive pandering, lackluster character arcs, and hollow, play-it-safe ending, but because it pleaded with its viewers to care for a story in a world where, by the writers’ own design, stories do not and cannot ultimately matter.

Tolkien’s Eucatastrophe

By way of sheer contrast, let us consider J.R.R. Tolkien and the ending to The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King.

Have you ever been in a situation where you knew precisely what you wanted to say, and yet couldn’t find the words to say it? Or perhaps you inconveniently forgot a word at just the moment you needed it most? We have all been there.

Well, maybe not all of us. If J.R.R. Tolkien was at a loss for words, it was likely because the words didn’t exist—not yet anyways. As one of the world’s preeminent philologists, the developer of multiple unique languages, and father of the modern fantasy genre, Tolkien can rightly be regarded as something of a wordsmith. Among the many words and phrases Tolkien coined, whether in English, Elvish, or otherwise, the one that strikes most central to his Christian convictions is the word eucatastrophe.

A eucatastrophe is the sudden turn in fortune from a seemingly unconquerable situation to an unexpected, gracious, and almost supernatural victory. Unlike a catastrophe, a eucatastrophe is the happiest of all possible outcomes stemming from the very darkest, most evil of circumstances—a great turning of the tide for good when all seems dark and at its most hopeless.

For Tolkien, God becoming man in the historical person of Jesus Christ, living a completely sinless life, and dying for the sins of His creatures as atonement was the ultimate eucatastrophe. Mankind’s catastrophe was undone. The cross was the very reason Tolkien came up with such a phrase: no single word in the English language quite encapsulated Christ’s victory well enough for Tolkien.

We see a similar eucatastrophe unfold near the end of The Return of the King, the final novel in Tolkien’s trilogy. Under the invisible hand of divine providence, coupled with the courage of ordinary individuals, the One Ring has been destroyed by Frodo and Sam; the strongholds of the Enemy have crumbled to dust and shadow, the Dark Lord himself fading into a mist and picked up by the wind as though he were nothing. Bewildered with exhaustion and joy, the two hobbits pause for a moment of much needed rest and then quietly pass into sleep on the slopes of Mount Doom. “I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things, Sam,” whispers Frodo as the pair drift off, supposing that with the completion of the Quest their own lives have now at last come to a close.

Only, that is not what comes to pass.

After a few days, Samwise awakes to green and golden sunlight falling on his face. The warm speech of friends and the soft melody of music is pouring into his room, both more wonderful than in any dream he could have imagined: “It fell upon his ears like the echo of all the joys he had ever known.” Turning to Gandalf, Sam says, “Is everything sad going to come untrue?” It was not a dream; no, this was far, far better—an ending to the story which even Samwise, the eternal optimist, could not have conjured up. Overwhelmed, Sam begins to weep—though not for long. “Then, as a sweet rain will pass down a wind of spring and the sun will shine out the clearer, his tears ceased, and his laughter welled up, and laughing he sprang from his bed.”

Amen, dear Lord—hasten the Day!

---

Photo by Josh Hild, Unsplash

Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email.

And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading.