For much of January I was reading Philip Pullman’s trilogy, “His Dark Materials,” of which “The Golden Compass” is the first in the series. The book opens with this sentence: “Lyra and her daemon moved through the darkening hall, taking care to keep to one side, out of sight of the kitchen.” Thus begins a gripping tale that ends after Lyra has crossed into numerous worlds, faced certain death a multitude of times, felt the release of love and the wrenching of separation with her Will, and saved the universe and its supply of “dust.” Pullman as a writer has no doubt earned the accolades that fill the early pages of the book and its back cover.
However, as a literary “theologian”, he has launched a direct attack on biblical Christianity. His theology is as offensive as his prose is addictive.
I couldn’t help but have both C.S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia and Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings in my head as I read Pullman. It is his choice of a hero and heroine and his cosmic worldview that called this to mind. I think he has borrowed from both–though neither are mentioned in his preface.
Lyra and Will are the main characters: flawed and lovable, noble and perceptive, both childish and wise beyond their years, both inspiringly heroic and yet tragic, both trapped in a battle they did not choose. These pre-adolescent children take a universe-crossing ride that leads eventually to their adolescence and the salvation of all worlds. But the notion of these two being wrapped up in a cosmic battle beyond their imaginings, all built on a somewhat complex worldview, seems to owe much to Lewis and Tolkien. In terms of the complex worldview, he has probably created something just a bit too unwieldy for his abilities. The third volume suffers just a bit because of this.
We learn early in The Golden Compass that the church is a dark and sinister place–think medieval Inquisition throughout the trilogy. In contrast to the conspiring and self-protecting church (a fictional Catholic-esque church, comically based in Calvin’s Geneva, the result of the “Pope John Calvin”!), is Lyra’s “alethiometer,” a compass-like device that will tell the truth about anything–once you learn how to read it. The plot is forwarded by Lyra trying to find her kidnapped friend Roger, and by the church performing experiments on children being severed from their daemons (like their “soul,” but never expressed as such). These experiments are done to discover the nature of something called “dust,” which has been observed in the universe as a kind of life-particle, but not understood. In one of the lengthier explanatory sections, dust is connected to Gen 3, “for you are dust and to dust you shall return” (Gen 3:19). The church fails to understand it and so calls it the physical evidence for original sin. As so often is the case, the church is seen stifling what is clearly reality because it doesn’t fit their system. Unfortunately, there is plenty in the history of the church to warrant this charge (Copernicus…).
The Subtle Knife wastes little time in giving us the overall picture of the narrative. Lord Asriel is introduced in the first volume, and yet his plans are withheld until the second. There we learn that his intentions are to destroy the church, not by mere military force or philosophical rebuttle: he intends to kill God himself. His plan is to travel between universes until he finds the dwelling place of God himself.
What he lacks in this endeavor is the subtle knife, a knife accidentally created by a group of Italian philosophers that can cut anything, including God himself. Pullman steps back just a step from a complete blasphemy by contemplating the God of the Church as not truly the Creator, but as the preeminent angel. This angel was created first (we are never told by whom or why) and then fell, convincing every subsequent creature that he was the true deity of the universe. So, when “God is killed,” it isn’t the Almighty Creator, but only the so-called God. In fact, these are mere names that he gave himself: “The Authority, God, the Creator, the Lord, Yahweh, El, Adonai, the King, the Father, the Almighty–those were all names he gave himself. He was never the creator.”
Dust turns out to be a kind of life-force in the universe and Lyra and Will have some kind of predetermined place in this cosmic struggle. When they fall in love and freely express that love to one another, and then begin to close all the open doors between universes, the loss of dust stops and life is preserved. All of the various worlds are preserved indefinitely.
Where do we go from here? The closing pages of the trilogy answer that question as Lyra speaks with her Pan, her “daemon”:
“He said we had to build something…”
“That’s why we needed our full life, Pan [Lyra's daemon]. We would have gone….But then we wouldn’t have been able to build it. No one could if they put themselves first. We have to be all those difficult things like cheerful and kind and curious and patient, and we’ve got to study and think and work hard, all of us, in all our different worlds, and then we’ll build…”
“And then what?” said her daemon sleepily. “Build what?”
“The Republic of Heaven,” said Lyra.
Yes, a republic, where all equally contribute and no one is submitted to another, and especially not a king–that is, “the King of kings, and Lord of lords.” Obviously, Pullman leaves a lot of theological questions unanswered, and perhaps his other works fill in the gaps. And no doubt he has not written this work as a piece of theology; yet, he perfectly models the truth that all are theologians and all our thinking is theological. Even with this general truth embraced, he has a good deal of explicit theology within his book.
Thus, my soul was divided throughout, sincerely obsessed with the narrative and his ability to tell a story, and yet offended by this sustained attack at the true meta-narrative of Pullman’s and my actual universe: Christianity as expressed in the Bible.
Some lessons from the trilogy:
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Fiction is a powerful tool of communication. When you can so capture an audience with your narrative, they will hear your theology.
- Pullman’s trilogy represents a progression in the atheism of our day. A generation ago a book of “juvenile fiction” that so attacked Christianity could not have been embraced so readily. Even Harry Potter does not obviously attack specific doctrines of the church–though I speak only as one knowledgeable of the movies and not the books.
- It is hard to face someone who systematically attacks your faith, but maybe even harder to encounter one who dismisses it as a childish fantasy. Yet, even while Pullman dismisses my faith, he clearly does not even go so far as to say, “it’s fine for you, it’s just not my thing.” He is saying, “it’s bad for you, for society, for the environment, for science, for everything that is good.”
There are more lessons to be learned in a reading of these books, more observations about the literature and theology of his work. But, this will have to suffice. I hope that no one who reads this blog will be caught off guard by Pullman. He is merely a modern representation of Paul’s words to the Romans: “although they knew God, they did not honor him as God or give thanks to him, but they became futile in their thinking, and their foolish hearts were darkened. Claiming to be wise, they became fools, and exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images resembling mortal man and birds and animals and creeping things” (Rom 1:21-23).
Read with a Christian critical lens if you read these volumes.
DJB
