Should Christians read fantasy? It’s one of the questions parents ask most—and one of the most misunderstood. This guide explores what Scripture actually shows us about imagination, why fantasy can strengthen a child’s faith (when read wisely), and how to choose stories that tell the truth beautifully. If you’ve ever wondered whether dragons, deep forests, and hidden doors belong in a Christian home, this essay is for you.
The question surfaces in Christian homes with the regularity of bedtime. A parent watches their child disappear into a world of dragons and dark forests and wonders: Should Christians read fantasy? The fear is understandable. Parents want to guard the heart, to cultivate love for what is true, and to keep their children close to the solid ground of Scripture. At the same time, they see how deeply their kids are drawn to wonder. They sense—often correctly—that these stories are doing something to the imagination. And because the imagination quietly directs the course of a life, the stakes feel high.
My thesis is simple: Christians not only may read fantasy; many will be better Christians if they do—provided they read with Scripture in hand, conscience engaged, and a clear sense of what stories are for. Fantasy is not a loophole for sneaking thrills past our spiritual defenses. Fantasy is a tool for discipleship. It is an art form that, at its best, reveals reality by telling the truth slant. The key is not the genre label but the worldview behind the tale—the shape of its good and evil, the weight of its repentance and mercy, the sturdiness of its hope, and the way it handles power.
Parents deserve more than slogans and scolding. What follows is an argument rooted in the Bible, church wisdom, and practical experience, offered so you can choose wisely and read well. We’ll begin with Scripture’s own attitude to wonder, move to what fantasy can do for the moral imagination, address the knotty problem of “magic,” add a concrete case study, and finish with a Scripture-anchored way to practice discernment with your kids without turning storytime into a seminar.
The Bible Is Not Allergic to Wonder
The objection often begins with a caricature: fantasy equals wands and occult rites, therefore Christians must avoid it entirely. But the Bible itself is rich with what a modern reader would label “fantastic.” Seas split (Exodus 14:21). A donkey rebukes a prophet (Numbers 22:28). Heavenly armies blaze into view when the Lord opens a man’s eyes (2 Kings 6:17). Prophets speak in images so wild they rearrange our sense of the possible: beasts and thrones, lamps and scrolls, rivers that heal nations (Daniel 7; Revelation 4–5; 22). The Psalms ask mountains to sing and rivers to clap (Psalm 98:8); Job hears of a world where the morning stars sang together (Job 38:7). Scripture does not flatten reality to whatever a camera could capture. It widens it.
More to the point, Jesus Christ—the Word made flesh—teaches in stories that are invented yet true. “Without a parable He did not speak to them,” Matthew says (Matthew 13:34–35). A Samaritan stops on a dangerous road to bind wounds and spend his own money. A prodigal squanders grace and then discovers his father’s mercy is larger than his sin. These are not journalism; they are crafted narratives that reveal the moral shape of the world. They reach past our defenses in order to form our loves.
If the Lord of Scripture is content to train the imagination with images, if the Bible itself leans into awe when awe is the shortest road to truth, Christians need not fear a genre because it dares to say “suppose.” Our task is not to stamp out wonder but to sanctify it—to bring the imagination under the same lordship as reason, will, and emotion.
What Fantasy Is For (When It’s Doing Its Job)
The imagination is not a toy for daydreamers. It is the faculty by which we rehearse the possible so we can choose rightly when the moment arrives. Hebrews 5:14 speaks of maturity as having “powers of discernment trained by constant practice to distinguish good from evil.” Fantasy offers precisely that practice. By staging moral choices in vivid scenes—betrayals and repairs, fear and courage, lies that sound nearly true—good stories let children feel the truth before they must defend it. They let young readers practice grief in safety and hope without naivete.
Well-told Christian fantasy turns up the contrast on reality. In one chapter we watch pride promise control and deliver slavery; in the next we watch humility appear foolish and turn out to be the hinge upon which the whole story turns. In some scenes a small, costly honesty does more than any spectacular “power.” Readers sense the moral physics at work: sin isolates; mercy restores; truth frees (John 8:31–32). These insights are not abstract. They are embodied—linked to characters a child has come to love. That’s why the formation sticks.
Fantasy is also uniquely suited to teach stewardship of power. When a young hero “levels up,” the question becomes: will they kneel? Will they use strength to serve (Mark 10:42–45) or to dominate? Secular fantasies that drift into cynicism often reward cleverness without character. They tell us power justifies itself. Christian fantasy that earns its ending insists that power is tested at the point of humility. A story that makes that truth felt trains a habit the New Testament commends.
Finally, good fantasy guards hope from collapsing into mere optimism. The New Testament refuses to lie about suffering (Romans 5:3–5; 8:18–25). Yet it insists that hope has a source beyond our mood. Fantasy can stage that conviction in unforgettable ways: the light that arrives not as luck but as grace; the victory that costs something real and therefore means something real. When a child watches that pattern enough times, the imagination learns to expect reality to rhyme with redemption. That expectation is not escapism; it is discipleship.
The Tension About “Magic,” Answered Biblically
Most Christian anxiety about fantasy centers on “magic.” Scripture is not vague here. God forbids sorcery and divination (Deuteronomy 18:9–12). The early church burned books of occult practice (Acts 19:19). Christians must say “no” wherever a text invites imitation of occult acts or glamorizes manipulation of spiritual powers apart from God.
But in literature, not all “magic” functions as the invitation Scripture condemns. Often it is simply the physics of a fictional world—a lever for the plot and a mirror for the soul. No reader confuses a talking lion with a Ouija board, nor mistakes a fantasy world’s rules for a manual to control this one. The right question is not “does the story include wonders?” but “what does the story ask the heart to love?” If the presence of wonder is a pretext to worship control, to celebrate pride, or to treat persons as tools, close the book. If wonder is a way to reveal humility, mercy, truth, and courage—and the story never invites the reader into occult practice—then the fantastical elements can be not only permissible but fruitful.
Parents can explain it to kids in three sentences: God alone is Lord of the unseen, so we don’t imitate occult practices. In stories, imagined powers can be part of how that world works, like weather or gravity. We judge the story by its fruit—what kind of person it is training us to become (Matthew 7:16). That clarity calms panic and centers the conversation where Scripture places it: on worship, truth, and love.
Christian Fantasy vs. Secular Fantasy: Worldview Is the Difference
It’s possible for secular fantasy to tell the truth about courage, loyalty, and sacrifice. Many do. Labels are not the point. The difference that matters is worldview. Christian fantasy—overtly or quietly—treats moral reality as real, repentance as meaningful, grace as transformative, and hope as anchored. Secular fantasy can do some of that; sometimes it does all of it by borrowing Christian capital. But when it strays, it commonly strays in predictable ways: power becomes self-validation; good and evil dissolve into tribe and taste; endings “deconstruct” hope into irony.
An easy way to feel the difference is to watch what wins in the end. In Christian fantasy worthy of the name, humility wins, even if the humble die. Mercy mends something pride broke. Truth costs and is worth the cost. In cynical secular tales, what wins is cleverness untethered from character—or else nothing wins and the point is that points are for the naive. Christians need not ban all secular fantasy (many works remain deeply humane), but we must keep the lens clear: Does this book tell the truth about the world God made and the way God mends it? If it does, use it. If it doesn’t, close it without drama and move on.
Case Study: Why The Chronicles of Narnia Still Works (And How to Use It)
To make all this less abstract, consider The Chronicles of Narnia. It is not the only example that could serve us here, but it is a useful one because it quietly models nearly every principle outlined above.
First, Narnia treats moral reality as real. Good and evil aren’t color palettes; they are the warp and weft of the world. When Edmund betrays his siblings, the story doesn’t wink and call it clever. It names the wrong and shows the cost—alienation, fear, the sickening taste of Turkish Delight that promised more than it gave. Later, when he is restored, it is not because he argued himself into a better mood. He is forgiven at a cost he did not pay. The book makes mercy felt long before a child can parse the doctrine.
Second, Narnia treats power as stewardship. Aslan does not equip the children so they can exalt themselves; he sends them to serve. Even the image of kingship is not self-adoration but responsibility; crowns are heavy on purpose. When the children become “more themselves” in Narnia, it isn’t self-invention; it’s vocation—a calling that fits like a well-made coat.
Third, Narnia allows suffering and hope to appear together without sentimentality. Darkness looms; the White Witch’s winter is real and lasts a long time. But the thaw is not a mood swing; it is the arrival of someone who changes the world by his presence. Hope in Narnia is not a wish; it is an allegiance.
Finally, the infamous “magic” question is handled not by technical rules but by moral orientation. Wonders abound—talking beasts, deep magic, deeper magic. But the story never invites the reader to imitate an occult act or to manipulate power. It invites the reader to trust a Person who is good but not safe, to tell the truth, to keep promises, to show mercy, to choose the hard right over the easy wrong. In other words, it trains Christian virtue using invented scenes. That is exactly what parable does.
You do not have to agree with every literary choice in Narnia to use it as a training ground. Read it aloud. Ask one question: What had to die in Edmund for him to live as a brother again? Then pray one sentence: Lord, make us people who tell the truth and keep our promises, even when it’s costly. That is how an imagined world strengthens life in the real one.
(A second contemporary example works similarly: The Wingfeather Saga grows from whimsy to weight, teaching long hope, sacrificial love, and the kind of courage that serves. You can run the same conversation playbook there—watching what wins, what repentance costs, and how mercy mends.)
How to Read Fantasy as a Christian Family (Without Killing the Joy)
This is where many well-meaning parents stumble. They choose excellent books, then preach over every page until the child quietly decides stories are chores with nicer covers. The alternative is simpler and more effective: form a small habit. Read together three nights a week. After a chapter, ask one real question. Then pray one sentence. That’s it.
You can rotate questions without turning them into a worksheet. Try: What lie here sounded almost true—and how did the character test it? Or Where did someone use strength to serve? Or What would mercy have looked like sooner, and what changed when it finally arrived? If your child reads independently, keep a weekly cocoa chat. Ask what surprised them, where they felt afraid, which character they trusted and why. The goal is not to catch mistakes but to catch virtues in the wild and name them together.
Many families also choose a weekly Scripture theme to read alongside the story—light vs. darkness (John 1:1–5; Ephesians 5:8–11), courage in fear (Joshua 1:9; Psalm 56:3–4), wisdom and discernment (Proverbs 2; James 1:5), repentance and forgiveness (Psalm 51; Luke 15; 1 John 1:9), hope in suffering (Romans 5:3–5; Romans 8:18–25). Picking one theme and staying with it for several nights gives the imagination deep grooves to run in. Kids begin to use the language themselves: “That sounded true but wasn’t,” “That promise mattered,” “That wasn’t hope, it was luck.”
Two things happen when families read this way. First, parents stop being librarians and become companions. Second, the imagination stops being a private theater and becomes a shared pilgrimage. That’s where discipleship lives.
When Your Kid Likes the Villain (And Other Normal Emergencies)
Every parent hits this patch of road. A charismatic antagonist walks onstage with competence and bravado, and your reader lights up. Don’t panic. Curiosity is better than condemnation. Ask what they admire—courage, competence, loyalty, flair. Agree that those are good gifts. Then help them relocate those gifts under truth and love. In Christian ethics, virtues torn from their proper end become vices. Courage in service of cruelty is just hardened pride. Competence without character is a wrecking ball. Fantasy is a safe place to practice re-aiming loves. You’re teaching moral architecture, not policing fandom.
Another emergency: a series grows darker book by book. Your solution is not to grind through to prove endurance. Pause between books. Debrief. Ask whether the darkness is telling a deeper truth or just flirting with despair. Christians are allowed to hate nihilism. If hope is being deconstructed into smirk and shrug, pivot. There are other shelves.
And what about “preachy but thin” Christian books? Politeness tempts us to endure them. Don’t. Jesus did not call us to shallow pictures. Choose stories where virtue costs something real, where repentance is more than a speech, where forgiveness has fruit. Kids can smell the difference between paint and oak.
Two Short Bible-Based Lists (Because Parents Need Concrete Help)
Five Bible-anchored reasons Christians can read fantasy
- God made the imagination and calls it to truthful work (Genesis 1:26–28; Exodus 31:1–5; Philippians 4:8).
- Scripture uses wonder and visionary imagery to reveal reality (Exodus 14; Numbers 22; Daniel 7; Revelation 21–22).
- Jesus taught in parables, proving invented stories can shape real virtue (Matthew 13; Luke 10; Luke 15).
- Wisdom is trained by practice, and stories provide safe practice (Proverbs 1; Hebrews 5:14).
- Hope is sturdier than optimism, and fantasy can show why (John 1:5; Romans 5:3–5; Romans 8:18–25).
Four Bible-anchored boundaries that say “no”
- No imitation of occult practice (Deuteronomy 18:9–12; Acts 19:19).
- No calling evil good or glamorizing cruelty (Isaiah 5:20; Romans 12:9).
- No contempt for human dignity (Genesis 1:27; James 3:9–10).
- No nihilistic despair masquerading as depth (1 Thessalonians 4:13).
That’s as list-heavy as we’ll get. Everything else returns to paragraph-paced guidance you can actually use.
A One-Month Reading Plan That Works in Real Homes
Week One: Habit and Joy. Choose a gentler Christian fantasy or a humane secular one with clear victories. Establish a 25–30 minute bedtime rhythm. Keep questions light. Celebrate courage in small acts. Pair with Joshua 1:9 and one sentence of prayer.
Week Two: Truth vs. Lies. Choose a story where temptation sounds reasonable. Ask nightly: What lie here sounded almost true? How did the character test it? Pair with John 8:31–32 or Ephesians 6:14. Watch how quickly your child learns to name counterfeits.
Week Three: Community and Calling. Read a book that honors promise-keeping, friendship, or mentor wisdom. Ask: What promise mattered? What would have broken if it hadn’t been kept? Pair with Romans 12 or Philippians 2:3–11.
Week Four: Repentance and Hope. Choose a story where forgiveness has weight. Ask: What would repair look like here? What changed after mercy? Pair with Psalm 51 and Luke 15. End the month with each family member sharing “one courage, one grace”—one moment of bravery and one moment of mercy from the month’s reading.
You don’t need to be a literature professor. You need a couch, a book, and the patience to ask one honest question. This is how Christian views on fantasy become Christian practice of reading—quietly, consistently, with joy.
So—Should Christians Read Fantasy?
Yes—carefully, gratefully, and with eyes open to what the heart is learning to love. Christians should read fantasy because God made the imagination and calls it to truthful work. We should read fantasy because children need practice choosing the good before life demands it at full cost. We should read fantasy because hope needs pictures that will hold when the world’s glitter peels. And we should read fantasy because beauty belongs to God, and stories that tell the truth beautifully can help us want the right things more than we want to be impressed.
Will some fantasies fail that test? Of course. Will you make a few mistakes as you learn? Almost certainly. But if you read with your child, ask honest questions, and keep the conversation tethered to Scripture and a living Christian community, those mistakes will not define your family. Over time, you will discover that the same God who made a universe of stars and seas also made the human heart to rejoice when the light conquers the dark. Fantasy just gives that victory a stage large enough to remember.
When the last page turns and the lamp clicks off, you will have done what Deuteronomy commands: you will have talked of God’s words when you sat and when you walked, when you laid down and when you rose up (Deuteronomy 6:6–7). You will have trained up children who do not merely know the truth but love it. That is not a side effect. That is the point.
If you’re ready to start, pick one beloved classic (like The Chronicles of Narnia) and one newer, faith-rooted adventure written for preteens. Read three nights this week, ask one honest question after each chapter, and pray one honest sentence together. If you want a modern, family-discussion-friendly option, explore G.B. Sollie’s Cat Luker—a Southern-tinged Christian fantasy that’s built for 20–30 minute read-alouds and the kind of conversations that help courage and kindness take root. Read it along with A Journey To The Light.