There are two kinds of allegories. There are loose allegories and strict allegories.
That’s a bold statement. What, exactly, is an allegory? It’s a work of art (visual, literary, or plastic) that points to something beyond itself. Take, for example, the encounter with the dragon in Beowulf. Beowulf, the titular hero, takes twelve companions, one a thief, and is abandoned by all except one as he dies defeating the evil dragon. This narrative points to the passion of Christ, despite being an entirely different situation. It’s an allegory.
Useful to mention here is Augustine’s discussion of signs in De Doctrina Christiana. A sign, he says, is something which represents something else. Sounds very much like an allegory. And an allegory, indeed, isn’t much more than a sign in artistic form. But Augustine doesn’t stop there. He says there are two types of signs: signs which are things as well as signs (that is, they exist on their own as well as representing something else), and signs which are only signs, and nothing more.
Just as there are two types of signs, there are two types of allegories. Loose allegories have an independent artistic form alongside being an allegory. Strict allegories are merely allegories, and nothing more.
Two examples are helpful here. The Divine Comedy is a loose allegory. Not because it doesn’t have grand allegorical form (it does), but because the narrative exists independently of the allegory. Mount Purgatory is Mount Purgatory. Yes, it’s also an allegory for the journey of the soul to God, but this meaning isn’t necessary for Mount Purgatory to exist. It’s a thing as well as a sign.
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe is a strict allegory. Aslan is Jesus. Aslan and Aslan’s role in the plot don’t make any sense if he isn’t understood as an allegory for Jesus. (This has led to secular critics labelling him “Lion-Jesus.”) Aslan is a sign, and nothing more.
At this point, it might be clear why Tolkien said he “cordially disliked” allegory “in all its manifestations.” This wasn’t because he thought it was bad for things to symbolize other things; any discussion of the ring and Lembas bread in The Lord of the Rings makes this apparent. Instead, he was talking about strict allegories, such as Lewis’ Narnia. Strict allegories, unsurprisingly, are restricting, sometimes forced; they manifest the “purposed domination of the author.”
With Tolkien, we can agree that strict allegories have their limitations. Unlike loose allegories, they make true, profound insight (such as we find in The Divine Comedy and The Lord of the Rings) a little harder.
But that doesn’t mean they don’t have their place. While it’s difficult to put The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe on Dante’s level, that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth reading. True, the allegory of Aslan as Jesus isn’t immensely profound. But the story is edifying, and it calls to our minds important truths about the Christian faith, even if it isn’t a deep narrative about the human condition.
This is a rather long-winded introduction to a book review. Earlier this year, a new work of Christian fantasy—The Way of Lucherium by Christopher J. Rziha—was released by EnRoute Books and Media. This work is a strict allegory. Let me explain.
The narrative takes place in the fantastical world of Trastaluche. The Trastaluchians have recently overthrown the “tyrannical” “Lord of Oppression,” and established a new society with the motto “Progress Before All,” where personal gain and power are the ideals. Might sound a little familiar. The protagonist, Geoffrey, a bard of high rank among the powers that be, suddenly falls out of favor, is cast into his city’s slum, and finds a mysterious group of rebels working to restore the previous social order.
This is where the allegory comes into play. As he becomes acquainted with the group and struggles to decide whether he should join them, he learns a couple significant things about the “Lord of Oppression” and the society that was overthrown. First, the world was created by an “Author” through sacred “Light and Life” (a narrative communicated by a sacred book called “Pontilux”).
Second, this “Lord of Oppression” turns out to have been a benevolent ruler, in whom the “Light and Life” of the “Author” were embodied most fully. Third, this benevolent ruler, in succumbing to the rebellion that overthrew him, sacrificed himself, allowing himself to be killed. And finally, the rebels who remain faithful to him participate in a sacred liturgy in which they drink his blood, flowing anew from his dead body, which hangs transfixed by the device that killed him.
I think you can see where this is going. But I want to dwell on that last idea, because it recurs prominently throughout the book. When they drink the blood, the followers of the “Way of Lucherium” express a type of bliss in which they feel drawn into the holy person of their dead ruler, still mystically alive, and simultaneously “become more fully themselves.” This holy “Rite” gives them new strength and purpose to face the difficulties ahead of them.
Rziha, very much à la C.S. Lewis, provides us with a rather strict allegory. The meaning, though not particularly subtle, is profound and edifying. Just like The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe is a worthwhile story because it calls to mind the gravity and full scope of Christ’s sacrifice, so The Way of Lucherium reminds us of the full ramifications of the Eucharistic offering, what it truly is and what it enables us to become through the indwelling of Christ.
Along with that, Rziha has also crafted a rather compelling narrative. Throughout it, Geoffrey struggles with his ingrained loyalty to the culture of progress, but ultimately realizes its destructiveness and aids in the rebellion against it. Like any decent fantasy story, there’s action and there’s magic, linked to the Eucharistic allegory of the blood rite.
True, we could protest, with Tolkien, that there’s a higher way. Things can be things as well as signs, and this gives them new insight. But not all narratives are deep, complex works of art, and not all narratives should be. There are times for Dante, and there are times for Lewis; there are times for books like The Brothers Karamazov, and there are times for books like The Way of Lucherium. As a light-hearted work of truly Catholic fantasy, I recommend it.
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