C.S. Lewis wrote space operas. Madeleine L'Engle sent children across the universe. Tolkien crafted an entire world where providence guided every step. The greatest Christian storytellers have never been afraid of the fantastic.
There's a reason for this. Science fiction and fantasy allow writers to explore spiritual truths with the safety of distance. A child who might resist a direct sermon about redemption will absorb the same truth through a story about a boy from another planet who gives his light for others.
Why Space?
When I created Lightman, I didn't consciously choose science fiction. The story emerged naturally from the question my daughter asked: "Tell me about a superhero." My mind went to the stars.
In retrospect, I understand why. Space represents the unknown. It suggests that reality is far larger than what we can see from our small corner of existence. It hints at purposes and powers beyond our comprehension. In other words, it creates the conditions for wonder—and wonder is the beginning of worship.
A dying planet. A sabotaged ship. Royal children scattered across the universe. These elements don't just make for exciting fiction. They echo the cosmic scope of the biblical narrative: a kingdom in rebellion, a King who sends his son, a restoration that spans millennia.
Allegory Without Preaching
Lightman isn't a one-to-one allegory. The boy from Litron isn't meant to be Jesus in a costume. But the story carries spiritual DNA that Christian readers will recognize.
The twelve followers who receive the gene. The thousand-year reign of peace. The 144,000 descendants who remain faithful. The Gate Called Beautiful. These aren't accidents. They're the inevitable result of a Christian imagination creating a story about ultimate things.
Good Christian fiction doesn't preach. It creates a world where Christian truth is simply how reality works, and lets the reader draw conclusions.
Children who hear Lightman won't learn doctrine. They'll absorb something deeper: a sense that light is stronger than darkness, that faithfulness across generations matters, that somewhere a place is being prepared for those who follow the light.
The Tradition of Christian Speculation
Some Christians are suspicious of fiction that ventures beyond the literal bounds of Scripture. But this suspicion ignores a long tradition. The medieval writers who crafted morality plays. The Puritan John Bunyan, whose Pilgrim's Progress has shaped more souls than most systematic theologies. The Inklings, who gathered in Oxford pubs to share stories of space travel and wardrobes that opened to other worlds.
These writers understood that truth can be communicated through many modes. Propositional truth matters—but so does narrative truth. The story of the Prodigal Son teaches something about grace that no theological treatise quite captures. Fiction doesn't compete with Scripture; it extends Scripture's reach into the imagination.
Why Children Need These Stories
Children think in stories. Long before they can process abstract concepts like "sovereignty" or "redemption," they can understand a king who returns to claim his throne or a hero who sacrifices himself for his people.
When you give a child a story like Lightman, you're not giving them something less than theology. You're giving them the foundation upon which theology can later be built. You're creating categories in their imagination that will one day make the gospel feel not like strange news, but like the answer to a question they've been asking all along.
The thousand-year journey to Litron. The faithful followers who never forgot their origin. The new kingdom established in peace. These aren't just plot points. They're rehearsals for understanding the real story that encompasses all stories.
A Father's Responsibility
Scripture tells fathers to teach their children. It doesn't specify how. Some teaching happens through direct instruction. Some happens through lived example. And some happens in the dark, in the moments before sleep, through stories that seem to be about other worlds but are really about this one.
When I told my daughter about Lightman, I was doing what fathers have done since language began: passing down a vision of reality through narrative. The specific details came from my imagination. The underlying truth came from a much older source.
Faith and science fiction are not opposed. They are ancient allies, both pointing to the same destination: a universe charged with meaning, a story with a good ending, a light that will never be overcome.