Prompt #25: Bats eat mosquitos, echolocate, and pollinate certain kinds of flowers, yet so many people are afraid of them. Include a necessary but not usually well liked animal (or Animal) in your story today.
tl;dr: This summer I had an abysmal dialogue with a Christian on this site. Since then I've wondered what causes certain Christians to act so poorly, and I'm exploring a possibility here.
A/n: Even though I'm an atheist, I've enjoyed some great conversations with Christians on this site. People like Heyna Blackstar, A Talking Cat, 20Iolaire02, G.B. Jackson, and Kit-Karamak have been lovely to converse with because they're good people with good attitudes. But some Christians aren't so delightful, and a recent conversation reminded me of that.
Back in June, a Christian writer on this site left a snarky and snotty one-liner review of one of my stories (the original review is no longer in existence). Unfortunately, I didn't ignore them; I was already familiar with this writer's reviewing style and pompously dignified persona, and their review—and the attitude that exuded out of it—ticked me off to the point where I felt compelled to reply. I wrote back and told them everything they'd gotten wrong in their review (and as you probably expect, I refused to mince my words).
The month-long dialogue that ensued was a dumpster fire. This writer frequently mischaracterized me, twisted my words, preached at me, treated me like an illiterate moron, misinterpreted my motives, assumed things about me before hearing my perspective, and exuded an arrogance and self-importance that were nothing less than nauseating. Their demeanor was so ivory-tower in its condescension, and the barrage of silly assumptions was so maddening, I had to terminate the conversation and block them from leaving reviews and PMs.
But it's not as if I don't fully own my share of the blame. I made an error in the way I presented an argument (and that error gave the other person the wrong impression about my position); I let my emotions hijack my reason more than once; I said some overly harsh words (which I deeply regret); and toward the end of our conversation, I wasn't thinking straight (maybe it's because I was dealing with escalating COVID-19 symptoms, or because I'd been conversing with this person for a month, but I was physically and mentally frazzled).
Yeah, I could have done things better. But the other interlocutor could have, as well. Christians have a responsibility to act like the God they worship: a God who is humble and gentle at heart (Matthew 11:29), who beckons everyone to taste and see that He is good (Psalm 34:8). The same God commands His followers to love authentically (Romans 12:9), be kind and compassionate (Ephesians 4:32), humbly enjoy the company of ordinary people, and not act like a know-it-all (Romans 12:16).
But when they disobey those commands and act obnoxiously, it's disgusting and frustrating. First of all, their hypocrisy lingers like a stench, and their lofty opinions of themselves and their paltry treatment of others are obscene. Second of all, it boggles my mind: How can people act as if they know so much of the Bible (or in fact know it quite well) and yet fail to live by its ethics, as if the words they read never penetrate their hearts? I can't possibly get inside their minds and see what goes on in there, but I have a suggestion as to why some of these people might act that way.
That's what I'm going to unpack in this fic.
† Exceptional Circumstances †
The first thing Edmund saw in the mail was a letter from a cougar in Beruna.
To His Majesty King Edmund the Just:
It is with regret and alarm that I must inform you of an incident yesterday evening: Beaversdam burned down shortly after sundown. While both occupants have escaped without injury, the investigation is only beginning. They insist that this was no accident, and their insistence is not unfounded; events of late continue to be violent, and preliminary reports have yet to preclude the possibility of a criminal action. Out of an abundance of caution, Mr and Mrs Beaver will stay in Beruna until the investigation is complete. On their behalf, I humbly request that Your Majesty assist in the investigation; we may require your extra-worldly experience and knowledge to help us make sense of this terrible turn.
Yours sincerely,
Constable Sablepaw of Beruna
The letter kept running through Edmund's mind on the ride out. After all, it was the most he could think of to keep his temper in check. The June morning was warm and humid, and suggested there would be a thunderstorm later that day, and his coat had gone sticky and the hair beneath his crown had started to tingle with sweat. Anyway, he already knew what had caused the fire. It was so obvious.
It was Mr. Beaver. Dear silly, absent-minded Mr. Beaver. My sincerest apologies to you on the loss of your house, but you're not supposed to heat the stove until after the fish is cleaned! Don't you remember?
If there was any satisfaction the Just King could gain from this adventure, it would be the chance to give those Beavers a piece of his mind, which they rightly deserved. And after that? He would ride back to Cair Paravel and do his job.
His real job. The job Aslan had appointed him to. Passing down proper verdicts, acquitting the innocent, settling disputes over the finer points of Narnian law—even advising his elder brother more than once (and of course his advice was right and perfect. Oh, yes, yes, there was that one incident with Varaug the wolf nine years ago, but that was of no consequence).
The Constable's office was a quaint little red-roofed stone building that sat against the tree line. As Edmund rode up, human and Talking Beast officers were going in and out to commence with their morning's duties. When they saw Edmund riding in, they greeted the King with bows and pleasantries (he gave them no reply but a head held high), and as he dismounted and landed on solid ground, a centaur pulled the door open and invited Edmund to walk through.
He entered the office and saw just what he expected: no suspect. Only Mr. and Mrs. Beaver, slumped over the corner table and sipping their morning tea. But then they got a look at him, and their despondent faces went grim and cold. They stared at him a moment, then rose up and gave him stiff and compulsory bows.
So, then, said the Just King—what am I doing here? By the way they're looking at me, I'm beginning to wonder if I'd burnt down their hovel...
He felt a tap on his shoulder. A centaur passed him the preliminary reports from the investigation. In short order, Edmund read them front to back, and there was one sentence that leapt to the fore:
"Fire seems to have originated in the stove."
Just as he expected.
"Well, then," said the Just King as he turned to the Beavers. "You both had quite an evening."
"We have, Your Majesty," he said. "All that work...everything we own...gone in a single evening."
Edmund nodded in acknowledgement. "By their accounts, it seems to be an accident."
"It was no accident," said Mrs. Beaver. "We had gone out only for a moment, just a moment. When we came back, the place was turning to cinders. This was Narnia for Narnians—we are certain of it."
"We were hoping Your Majesty would investigate," said Mr. Beaver. "Not only them, but anyone else that could have been involved."
Edmund gave them a smile. "I must know, Mr. Beaver: Did you leave the stove on again?"
"No!" he blurted. And then—"Well…I don't reckon I had."
"Logic dictates that we look at the simplest explanation. There's something called Occam's razor. But of course you haven't heard of it: It says that when you have competing explanations for an event, you choose the explanation with the fewest assumptions."
Mr. Beaver went even more stern. "Thank you for enlightening us…Your Majesty…but blaming me will not explain what happened that night. We walked away for a moment, and when we turned back around, the place was consumed."
"A moment?" said Edmund. "Or five? Or ten? Of course, I recognize that you are not as young as you once were, but—"
"It was a moment, Sire. I know my mind well enough."
Edmund nodded, but not out of belief. "What about your neighbors?"
"What about them?"
"My royal sister has informed me you have been quarreling with them of late. Some of them have wondered if you displaced more than your proper allotment of trees, and you denied it even when they asked."
"I have used enough trees, Sire. Just enough to create a place that can rightly be called a home. And I have never removed one without asking around. Granted, one of them might have set fire to my home, and certainly out of a very deep feeling of spite, but I hardly think that would be so."
"And yet," said Edmund, "you just told me you want to pursue all possible scenarios."
"Yes, but I—well, no, not—I—"
"I see. You just want me to believe your version of events. Well, then, I won't take any more of your time, Mr. Beaver, seeing as how I am to concern myself with justice and truth, not mere opinions and prejudices."
And he rose up and began to walk out of the office when Mr. Beaver spoke again: "We ask for help, and this is what we get. A King who has let his power and privilege go to his head. There must be some sort of poison in that crown, because it has warped your thinking."
Edmund spun around. "Mr. Beaver, Aslan set me on a throne so that I could render justice. I cannot do that on the back of your testimony. I have tried to convince you to see reason—"
"And I am trying to convince you that there is another possibility: that Narnia for Narnians burnt down our home. They have burnt down people's homes before, and the manner in which those homes burnt down was exactly like ours. All we want is for you to investigate, to see if our constable has missed something."
"I cannot indulge a conspiracy without any evidence, certainly not when it comes from a vengeful and forgetful mind that can't see the matter rightly. Besides, you cannot offer me anything that Aslan has not imparted me already."
Beaver nodded knowingly at him. "I think you said something a little more true than you'd like," he said. "To you I may be a senile old fool, but there is one thing I remember plainly enough. Fourteen years ago, a boy came to this country. He betrayed his brother and sisters to the White Witch, selling them out for a sweet. It was only by Aslan that the boy was mended, and it is only by Aslan that the boy became what he is. Am I correct, Sire...or have I forgotten anything?"
Edmund gave no reply.
"This conversation is over," said Beaver. "I have nothing more to say, except this: You are turning into the boy you once were. I hope Aslan helps you grow out of it again."
He gave the King an obligatory bow, then waddled back to the table in a clear dismissal.
Edmund gave him the slightest hint of a glare, then turned on his heel and strode toward the door, and he was two steps into the sunlight when a big thundering voice said:
"Be careful, Edmund."
He spun around and saw Aslan padding up out of the trees.
"Narnia needs them," said the Lion. "You must not fail them."
"Aslan, they needed to see reason. Beaver has left the stove on more than once. Their neighbors have not been happy with them. I tried to remind them that they cannot simply volunteer whatever theories they like. And you should have heard them: They were babbling nonsense—"
"They were distraught, Edmund. And they were put off by you."
"I tried to do them a favor—"
"They don't need a lesson in logic. They don't need to consider every possible cause for the destruction of their home. They don't need you to lecture them or chastise them for an ill-spoken argument, and they don't need your lofty words from on high. They need you to be a King! And a King is strong and brave and kind. A King overlooks the careless words that are spoken in moments of distress. A King gives comfort and compassion to the suffering, no matter the cause. A King remembers that he is as prone to error as the meanest beggar in the world, and all too often, even more so. And a King goes back into the station, repents of his unseemly conduct, and tells Mr. and Mrs. Beaver that he will find the truth."
But Edmund kept standing there and glaring at the Lion. Aslan had made him go red in the face, and unfortunately it was for a good reason.
"Should I be sorry, Edmund?" said Aslan. "Should I repent that I ever set you on a throne?"
"No, Sir," he muttered.
"Then be a King," said the Lion. "Be the King that I know you are. Go to the house. Look in the ruins. Seek the truth. And whatever you do...do not go back to the way you were."
Nothing more was said. There was a rush of wind and a great blazing aura of gold, and the Lion was gone.