A parent stands in the doorway and watches a child absorbed in a fantasy novel. There are glowing forests, strange creatures, and people doing things no one can do in the ordinary world. A twinge of worry rises: Is this safe? Is fantasy dangerous for Christians—or can it actually strengthen faith? It’s a fair question. We are told to guard our hearts, to test everything, to hold fast to what is good. At the same time, we live in a world where children hunger for wonder, where stories can carry truth further than a lecture ever will. The point of this essay is not to wave away concern. It’s to place that concern on solid ground: the danger isn’t the existence of imagination; it’s the direction of imagination.
When Christians ask about fantasy, they’re usually asking about two things at once. First, What does the Bible say about imagination, images, and the fantastic? Second, How do we handle stories that include power, mystery, and danger without losing our footing? Those are pastoral questions before they are literary ones. They deserve a careful answer rooted in Scripture, clarified by history, and made practical for living rooms, classrooms, and bedtime couches. If you love your child’s soul, you should care what stories are doing to their loves. And if you love Scripture, you will notice how often God trains hearts with stories that set our eyes on something more than visible facts.
The Bible’s posture toward wonder
The Bible is not suspicious of wonder. From the first page, the world is charged with more than bare utility: the heavens declare glory; seas swarm; stars sing in Job’s hearing; rivers clap their hands in the Psalms. Prophets speak in images that would stop traffic if painted on a city wall: lamps and scrolls, beasts and thrones, a river that heals nations, a city where every tear is wiped away. These are not special effects added for flair. They are revelations—God showing us that reality is deeper than what a camera can capture.
And when Jesus teaches, He turns to story. Not footnotes first—story. “Without a parable spoke He not unto them,” Matthew says. A man is beaten on a road; a stranger stops and pays the bill. A father runs toward the son who wasted everything. A seed falls into good soil and bears fruit thirty, sixty, a hundredfold. None of these are newspaper accounts; all of them are true in the way truth needs to be true to reach a heart. Parable is not an escape from reality; it is a door into it.
So when a Christian parent wonders whether “made-up” worlds are off-limits, the answer starts here: God made the imagination, and Scripture demonstrates how to use it to reveal reality. The question is not, Do we permit wonder? The question is, Where do we aim it?
Imagination in service to truth—or to pride
Genesis gives us both sides of the coin. In Eden, human creativity is blessing: naming, tending, stewarding, making. In Exodus, God fills Bezalel with the Spirit for craftsmanship so that the tabernacle will be beautiful as well as obedient. But in Genesis 11, imagination turns inward, and the Tower of Babel rises from pride. Romans 1 describes the same slide in theological language: hearts darkened, images traded, worship mis-aimed. Creativity is not condemned; idolatry is.
That distinction helps enormously with fantasy. A story can aim imagination toward truth—toward courage that serves, mercy that repairs, confession that heals, hope that holds. Or it can aim imagination toward pride—toward the thrill of control, toward clever cruelty, toward beauty severed from goodness. The same faculty, pointed in two different directions, yields two very different loves. Christians don’t fear imagination; we fear imagination enthroned as a god.
The right question about any fantasy is simple: What type of love is this story training? If it teaches a child to love truth and mercy, to hate what is evil, to keep promises, to be humble with power, then it is doing more than entertaining. It is tutoring a soul.
What good fantasy actually does
You don’t need a bookshelf of theory to understand the goodness of a well-told fantasy. Watch a child at the end of a chapter when a character keeps a hard promise. Watch them when someone confesses and is forgiven. Watch them when a villain’s lie sounds almost reasonable and a hero has to test it. You are seeing something quiet and holy: discernment practicing in a safe place. Hebrews calls maturity “powers of discernment trained by constant practice to distinguish good from evil.” Books provide that practice with the stakes tuned to a young heart—real enough to matter, safe enough to learn.
Fantasy is especially good at teaching the stewardship of power. When protagonists “level up,” the essential question is always the same: Will they kneel? In a Christian moral universe, power is not its own permission slip. It is a trust. It must be used to serve, not to dominate. When a story makes that felt, it is catechizing without a lecture. Children learn to suspect the glint of pride and to admire strength that carries others rather than standing on them.
Fantasy also guards hope from being confused with optimism. The New Testament never lies about suffering. It tells the truth about crosses and then promises resurrection. Good fantasy lets a reader feel that pattern. Darkness is not denied; it is endured, faced, and—at a cost—overcome. When a child sees victory come not as a loophole but as a gift, hope becomes durable. It stops being a mood and starts being trust.
The knot about “magic”
This is where most conversations about Christians and fantasy either go off the rails or get honest. Scripture forbids occult practice. It is not coy about it. Christians say “no” to divination, sorcery, and any attempt to manipulate spiritual powers outside the Lordship of Christ. That “no” protects the soul. It is non-negotiable.
But the mere presence of wonders in a story is not the same as an invitation to occult practice. In literature, fantastical elements often function like the physics of a world. Doors can open between mountains; trees can speak; music can mend. None of that asks a child to repeat a rite in real life. The key test is invitation and orientation. If a book invites readers to imitate the occult or glamorizes manipulation as wisdom, close it. If the wonders exist to stage moral choices—if they reveal humility, truth, mercy, and courage—then you have what Scripture itself models: images in service of reality.
Parents can keep a simple script at hand. First: God alone is Lord of the unseen; we don’t imitate occult practices. Second: In stories, imagined powers are part of the make-believe world; we judge the story by its fruit, not by whether a tree talks. Third: We ask what the heart is being trained to love. That’s not loophole-hunting; it’s obedience with eyes open.
The church has never rejected wonder; it has redeemed it
Christians have been telling “fantastic” stories as long as we have been telling stories. The Psalms are full of personified creation singing to its Maker. Medieval Christians carved their theology into stained glass and mystery plays so that farmers and princes alike could see the gospel in color and gesture. John Bunyan sent a pilgrim past giants and through a swamp to teach holiness. George MacDonald wrote fairy tales to help children trust their Father. In the last century, Tolkien and Lewis reclaimed fantasy as what Tolkien called “sub-creation”—not a rival to the Maker, but a human imitation of divine creativity, truthful to the moral grain of the universe.
You don’t need to sign on to every choice those writers made to see the pattern: the church’s best storytellers have used wonder to point beyond itself. They do not blur good and evil; they sharpen the distinction. They do not make power the point; they put it under judgment. They do not let despair pretend to be wisdom; they expose it. That’s instructive for parents in a moment when much popular storytelling confuses darkness with depth and cynicism with realism.
The actual dangers—and how to recognize them
There are genuine hazards in the fantasy aisle. Pretending otherwise is naïve. But the hazards are not mystical fog; they are moral habits.
- Glamorized manipulation and occult invitation. Scripture’s line is bright here. If a book trains the reader to desire forbidden spiritual control, or treats occult rites as play, it’s out. No tortured readings required.
- Moral confusion that rewards clever cruelty. Isaiah’s warning—calling evil good and good evil—applies to plotlines too. If “winning” matters more than righteousness, if lies are clever life hacks, if betrayal is framed as liberation, you are being asked to love something that has no future in God’s world.
- Nihilistic despair posing as maturity. Bleakness is not the same as honesty. Christians can handle sorrow; we are commanded to hope. If a story trains a child to sneer at meaning and mock virtue, it is catechizing in the wrong direction.
- Beauty severed from goodness. God’s world weds the two. Stories that use beauty to numb conscience or make sin feel stylish treat gifts as weapons.
The right response to these dangers isn’t panic; it’s gentle, steady discernment. Parents don’t need a PhD. They need to ask: What wins here? What does repentance cost? What does power do to the one who holds it? Where does hope rest when nothing else works? If the answers harmonize with Scripture, you have a friend. If they clash, you have your exit.
The good that faithful fantasy can give
Well-aimed fantasy helps readers recognize truth more vividly. It puts flesh on ideas. Courage stops being a poster on a wall and becomes a trembling voice that still tells the truth. Mercy stops being a slogan and becomes a door someone chooses to open when it costs them something. Repentance becomes more than a speech; it becomes a turning that rearranges a life. Children who feel those things in story are better prepared to love them in life.
It also cultivates gratitude for creation. Fantasy worlds that treat rivers, forests, and creatures with reverence teach stewardship without slogans. The earth is the Lord’s; even in a made-up land, that can be clear. Beauty becomes a clue, not a trick. And because many fantasies are quest-shaped, they reinforce perseverance, friendship, and promise-keeping—virtues that tend to wilt in a culture built on instant gratification.
If you want concrete examples, you don’t have to look far. The Chronicles of Narnia remains a masterclass in how to let wonder serve truth: power kneels, mercy mends, and hope is an allegiance, not a hunch. A modern series like The Wingfeather Saga begins in play and rises to sacrifice, teaching “long hope” without preaching. And newer writers working for families—G.B. Sollie among them—are crafting preteen adventures meant for the living room: Southern-tinged settings, clear moral stakes, and chapter lengths that invite a few questions and a short prayer before lights out. None of these books substitute for Scripture or church life. But in the hands of a parent or teacher, they become tools that make discipleship less abstract and more embodied.
How to discern as a Christian reader or parent
Discernment is not complicated. It is consistent. You can keep it to three questions and use them with any story—Christian or secular, old or new, famous or obscure.
What is this story teaching me to love? Treasure follows the heart. If a book invites love for truth, mercy, and courageous humility, that love is safe to grow. If it invites love for control, cruelty, and smirking superiority, that love will come back to bite.
What happens when someone sins? In a Christian moral universe, sin has weight. Repentance means turning, not rebranding. Forgiveness has a cost and bears fruit. If a story trivializes harm or treats confession as a trick, it is reshaping conscience in ways you don’t want.
Where does hope come from? If hope is luck, it will evaporate the first time life is unfair. If hope rests on something trustworthy—on truth that stands when feelings wobble, on grace that arrives when strength runs out—it will not disappoint.
You can ask those questions privately as you preview a book, and out loud with your child after a chapter. One question. Two minutes. Then one sentence of prayer: Lord, help us love the truth and choose the light this week. That tiny ritual will do more formation than a stack of rules.
A brief shelf to start with
A list doesn’t make the case; it makes the practice easier. The titles below are not a cage but a compass—books parents and teachers often use because they tell the truth beautifully.
- The Chronicles of Narnia (C. S. Lewis): Moral clarity with room for mystery; forgiveness that costs; hope that is more than a mood.
- The Hobbit (J. R. R. Tolkien): Humility at the center; courage as service; beauty that invites stewardship.
- The Wingfeather Saga (Andrew Peterson): Whimsy that grows into sacrifice; “long hope” learned over time; family loyalty that hurts and heals.
- Cat Luker and the Swamp Witch Chronicles (G. B. Sollie): Preteen Christian adventure set in a Southern atmosphere; clear stakes; perfect for 20–30 minute read-alouds and short, meaningful discussions.
- Pilgrim’s Progress (John Bunyan): Allegory that reads like a map for the soul; temptation named; perseverance honored.
Use any of these to start a rhythm. Read a chapter. Ask one question. Pray one sentence. Repeat tomorrow.
Redeeming imagination
Christians confess that “all things were created through Him and for Him.” That includes the human capacity to say suppose and then build a world in words. When fantasy is ordered to love—when it tells the truth about good and evil and lets grace be stronger than shame—it participates in that order. It becomes a way to see more of what is really there, not less. What the enemy distorts, God can restore. He has been doing it since Genesis; He still does it in living rooms where parents and children read and talk and pray.
Is fantasy dangerous for Christians? It can be, in the same way any powerful tool can be when aimed at pride. But under the Lordship of Christ, with Scripture as the lens and love as the aim, fantasy is not a threat to faith. It is an ally. It gives courage rehearsal space. It lets mercy take shape. It allows hope to spread its wings in hearts still learning how to fly.
When the chapter ends and the lamp clicks off, you will have done something ancient and simple. You will have obeyed the instruction to speak of God’s ways when you sit in your house and when you walk by the way, when you lie down and when you rise. You will have trained your child to notice what wins, to suspect pretty lies, to admire humble strength. You will have begun to answer the question not with a rule but with a rhythm. And over time, the rhythm will answer on its own: No, fantasy is not dangerous when Christ rules the imagination. Wonder becomes worship, and the light still wins.