In posting my review from yesterday on other book sites, I noticed a reoccurring complaint: many felt that Carr's The Shock of the Night was too dark. Some wondered what made it a work of Christian fiction: despite having a triune theological structure, the lack of direct salvatatory or intervening action in the events of the narrative was a cause for concern.
It's not an idle question: just what does make a work "Christian?" That's as loaded and difficult a question as asking what makes a person "Christian." The Bible claims we are saved by faith alone, and yet a good tree will be known by the fruit it bears. Can a dark book produce light? What should we as a redeemed people devote our minds to?
That's a debate I don't have any easy answers for, and which is beyond the range of any one blog or discussion. But one of the reasons I found Carr's recent novel so arresting is because it breaks the mold of what we've largely come to expect from Christian fantasy: a series of skirmishes leading to an epic battle of mighty armies. One is good, one is evil. God intervenes. The right prevails. Certainly there are many great examples of this type of story which I've enjoyed.
But in the Darkwater saga mythos, war is not approaching, it is already present. Protagonist Willet Dura is a veteran among many, all still bearing the scars (both physical and emotional) of the last war. Though Willet loves his King, a good man divinely ordained to rule, he has no delusions that he fought for anything more than territory. After all, when drought occurs, the kingdom must eat, and that means war with their neighbors.
In the same way, the clergy are presented as good in intention, ministering to God's people and providing beneficial council on both a personal and executive level. Yet there are multiple orders and divisions within the faithful, all of which have warred in the past. When confronted with a thief who preys on priests, one character observers, "All four orders of the church have always spoken a good line about caring for the poor, even while they build grand edifices for themselves."
None of these sins are treated as deep betrayals that have turned our heroes toward active rebellion against God or His Church. Instead, Carr depicts a world of moral complexity beyond black and white, not by excusing or obscuring evil, but by actually forcing the characters to confront it within a realm where the worst enemy is domestic, not foreign. The major theme is of corruption: a kingdom so used to the riches the Lord has bestowed that people have become complacent in their blessings, seeing them as possessions rather than gifts. It's not a quick process that only the true believers resist, but a slow working malaise that creeps into even the best of intentions.
I would argue that not only is this world more "real" than most others I've read, but that it is meant to be disquieting, even disturbing. Murder, after all, should be shocking, but as Christ warned his disciples, we'd better worry about that which can destroy us forever rather than just one lifetime. At first I thought the title was strange: there's no one "shock" in the night here, no piercing moment of clarity. But perhaps I'm wrong and Carr is after something more: what's shocking isn't that this world is so much more nihilist or dark than the one we live in. Instead, I feel right at home in it, imperfections, flaws, and all.
For all the talk of darkness, though, there is so much light as well, and in a way that offers us all hope. Willet and his cohorts do not succeed because they are perfect: they must strive beyond their own petty desires and selfish ambitions. Prayer is not always given immediate answer, yet the characters continue to beseech God for his will. The churches of this world did fight, but found a way to peacefully coexist and minister to others. The King's justice is imperfect but does pursue the wicked.
In the end, there is no pillar of fire to serve as deus ex machina in the darkness. The Lord has already provided his saving Light for our heroes: in the people who serve Him, often with imperfect knowledge and execution, but with zeal none the less.
At Willet's lowest point, when he feels cut off from every hope, he approaches an altar. His prayer is not angry or antagonistic. This man truly believes in God, enough to be completely honest in his words. Like Job, he cries out for explanation, for solace, for relief from the suffering he and others must endure. I can see where some might interpret this moment as antithetical to a Christian story, since there is no voice from on high that answers him, not even a wet fleece as a sign.
But as he turns away, he pauses to "look at the symbol of Aer's love hanging at the front of the chapel...." We don't represent our faith with the empty stone of victory: the cross, the symbol of suffering, of enduring the evil of this world, is how we choose to memorialize Christ's love. Willet acknowledges this icon and then, despite his hurt and fear and confusion and pain, he chooses to emulate that suffering rather than escape it. To sacrifice for others rather than give into selfishness or self-pity. In the end, he even finds it in his heart to forgive, or at least empathize with, a crime that cores out what is left of his heart.
Everything leading to this moment makes clear that man alone, in his own sinful condition, is not capable of such good. As Willet himself says, he lets Aer rule in the matter. That's not the work of evil.
That's the work of the Lord, through jars of clay, against evil.
