Wondering Why I Write Sci-Fi

I suspect my family (and perhaps most of my friends) ask themselves or each other behind my back, “Why is she writing science fiction?” It was not what they expected me to do after a career dedicated to congregational development as an Episcopal priest. Most retired priests, after all, find substitute preaching or part-time ministry satisfying and engaging. Although I enjoyed my work in the Church and found it endlessly creative, I sensed no desire within me to continue parish work when I retired. So, what was I to do?

I had always hoped I would have more time to explore writing in retirement. Naturally, authorship of devotionals or even novels about life in a small parish might also have made sense to those who know me—but science fiction?

In fact, I do think it’s a good question, and it’s one I wonder about as well. So, on the forty-third anniversary of my ordination to the priesthood (which also happened to be St. Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday this year—a veritable smash-up of conflicting meaning and imagery), I reflected on what is so intriguing to me about the sci-fi/fantasy genre.

Let me start with why I’ve been reading these types of books ever since I discovered the Narnia series by C.S. Lewis (an Anglican theologian, by the way; I’m in good company) in sixth grade.

There is an element of escape in reading all fiction—the allure of leaving the world you know (and might feel stuck with!) to become immersed in someone else’s context and problems and journey. It’s deeply satisfying to live alongside a protagonist and experience their reality. What strikes me as different in the sci-fi genre is how completely alien that reality is. There must, of course, be relatable themes, like power, love, forgiveness, etc. But unlike romance, historical fiction, or mystery, the context is fundamentally other. And so, a reader must be willing to suspend judgment and consider premises which may be completely new: a lion who speaks, a spaceship which can jump through universes, or a planet which has consciousness.

This agreement by the reader to step into the unknown and not judge with the same lens used in everyday life is akin to meditation. It is humility practiced by patiently, bravely following a story to the outer limits of imagination and beyond. It’s often fun, sometimes depressing (dystopian futures come to mind), and always challenging. The magic occurs once the mind and heart are stretched past patterns to which they are accustomed: They come back to their own reality bigger, more accepting, and less judgmental than they left.

The best books of the sci-fi genre weave together a consistent story which ties enough into our own world to give us an anchor while asking us to reach a little further out into a richer, deeper understanding of humanity and all creation. The very best works tap into the Divine Pattern and shock us into realizing that God really is so much bigger than we thought—for if such a design can be imagined, might it not, on some level, be True?

When writing, I mostly don’t consciously think about these ideas, any more than I have them in mind while reading. But what my gut tells me—through frustration when I don’t know how to move a story forward and euphoria when I finally discover what needs to happen next—is that I am following a pattern, connecting dots which were formerly invisible to me. Sometimes that creative endeavor is more successful than others, but it seems to me that the effort opens me more fully to the Divine.

My response to the question, then, is at least partly this: I write science fiction because for me it is a form of active prayer or anxious meditation.

Maybe it’s not such a weird thing for a priest of forty-three years to do, after all.

---