Christian Readers discussion

What haunts us is not the monsters in the dark, but the question: is there anyone out there?

Reading Andrew Van Wey’s Tides of Darkness this year forced me to wrestle again with the nature of horror, violence, and the human craving for meaning. It wasn’t the grotesque that stayed with me—it was the aching question underneath it all.

In horror literature—especially cosmic horror—the real terror isn’t the gore. It’s the meaninglessness. It’s the silent universe, staring back without blinking. It’s the suggestion that nothing you do matters.

But this is precisely where the Christian stands apart.

We too gaze into the vast black silence—but we do not find it empty. We find it occupied. The horror becomes wonder. The chaos becomes context. What Lovecraft and his disciples paint as unknowable terror, we recognize as holy mystery—an infinite God whose mercy outstrips the dark.

When Christians read cosmic horror, we are not entertaining nihilism. We are interrogating it. We let it cry, “Nothing matters!” and we answer calmly, “Then why does the ache remain?”
We let it threaten despair—and we answer with a name: Emmanuel.

To read cosmic horror wisely is to allow it to press against your faith—not to break it, but to sharpen it. To remember that the darkness we fear has already been pierced by a cross planted in the soil of human agony.

Violence, Righteous and Otherwise

This naturally led me into deeper reflection on how violence is handled in stories—not all horror is created equal.

Some violence wounds necessarily. It reveals truth. It awakens compassion. It shows what sin costs.

But stylized cruelty—the kind that smirks at suffering and invites the audience to enjoy it—twists the soul. Films like The Hateful Eight or Pulp Fiction disturb not because they show pain, but because they relish it. Suffering becomes spectacle. Characters become props. The viewer is made complicit.

The Christian reader, viewer, and creator must be discerning. We can endure depictions of pain when it is:
• Symbolic (the abominations in Tides of Darkness),
• Redemptive (Valjean lifting the cart),
• Sacrificial (Christ carrying the cross).

But when violence becomes entertainment without moral framework, it no longer wounds for healing—it wounds for pleasure. And that is not merely distasteful. It is unholy.

On Righteous Violence

This demands we revisit an old truth: violence, if it is to be righteous, must meet three tests:
• A just cause (defense, not domination)
• A moral authority (God’s law, not personal offense)
• A solemn spirit (grief, not glee)

The Bible is not squeamish about violence, but it never glorifies it. Justice is delivered under God’s sovereignty, never personal vendetta.
Even after Calvary, evil must still be answered. But we who bear the sword—whether of law, storytelling, or rhetoric—must remember: every enemy is still an image-bearer.

The Cross doesn’t erase justice. It reorients it. The goal is not wrath for its own sake, but redemption if it can be found. And if not, justice remains—not celebrated, but mourned.

My Questions for this group

How should Christians engage with cosmic horror, knowing the abyss is not empty?

How do we read dark stories—whether of ghosts, gods, or indifferent universes—without either abandoning discernment or retreating into sanitized fictions that fear the dark too much?

Have you found any works of horror (literary, cinematic, or otherwise) that pressed against your faith in good, refining ways?

I’d love to hear your thoughts.