I previously wrote about how Disney’s Hercules parallels the story of humanity’s fall and Christ’s Incarnation. In this essay, I will focus on a key aspect of this story: the rescue of the incarnate god’s beloved.
 
In the love story between Hercules and Meg, I see analogues of Christ and His bride, the Church. In Meg’s sacrifice, I see the experience of martyrs who give their lives up for God. And eventually, Hercules demonstrates his most Christological traits in the choices he makes concerning his relationship with Meg. Each of them, individually and as a couple, demonstrate the true meaning of love, and the true meaning of heroism.
 
 
A Lack of Love
 
Fairly early in the film, a problem and solution are presented to Hercules: to regain his stolen immortality and return to Olympus, he must become a “true hero.” But he does not fully grasp what this means.
 
After a career that seems abundantly successful by earthly standards, Hercules thinks he has more than achieved his goal; but his father, Zeus, regretfully informs him that he is not yet a “true hero.” Hercules is stunned and frustrated. By now, he has performed many great deeds, which presumably saved many people. Why, then, does he still not qualify as a “true hero”?
 
The answer, in my view, is that he is not yet doing the right thing for the right reasons. He strives to become a hero as a means to an end—a good but ultimately selfish end, for his own benefit rather than the gods’ or the people’s. He even expresses joy at hearing about an emergency, because such disasters give him the opportunity to gain glory. He is not motivated by selflessness, altruism or compassion—in a word, love.
 
Hercules has great supernatural gifts, but he does not have the disposition of a “true hero” because he lacks love. He is a perfect illustration of what St. Paul describes in 1 Corinthians 13:1-3:
 
If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing. (NIV)
 
Zeus puts it another way at the end of the film: “A true hero isn’t measured by the size of his strength, but by the strength of his heart.” What matters is not Hercules’ abilities, but his capacity for love. It is not the number or magnitude of his deeds, but the love with which he does them that will determine his fate.
 
 
Meg as Humanity
 
Meg is an enigmatic figure, blending the archetypes of damsel in distress, femme fatale, and repentant sinner. It is established early on that while she works for evil forces, she derives no pleasure from doing so. It turns out, she has no freedom; she is, in essence, enslaved to sin.
 
The prophets of the Old Testament often use imagery of adultery or prostitution to describe the nation of Israel’s idolatry and dependence on other nations rather than God. This causes Israel’s ruin because her “lovers,” the other nations, turn against her and attack her. Something similar happened in Meg’s past: she sold her soul to Hades in order to save her boyfriend’s life, only for him to leave her for another woman. Like Israel and the surrounding nations, or any individual and their idols, Meg loved the wrong thing, and it forsook her and left her to suffer.
 
After this betrayal, Meg loses her faith in true love and human goodness. Contrasting with Hercules’ optimism, she cynically says that all people are “petty and dishonest,” while gazing at her own reflection. She clearly includes herself in this category, as, at that moment, she is deceiving Hercules while trying to seduce him into revealing his weakness.
 
Meg’s professed opinion that “Sometimes it’s better to be alone [because] no one can hurt you” reveals a profound truth: love means making yourself vulnerable to being hurt, even by the ones you love. Christ loved us so much that He became a vulnerable human being and underwent the most painful torture imaginable, suffering at the hands of the very people He loved and wanted to save.
 
But, as Meg herself comes to understand, it is not better to be alone. She is moved by Hercules’ innate goodness and genuine care for her. A similar thing takes place when a person discovers the love of Christ. As 1 John 4:19 says, “We love because he first loved us.” While it can be hard to trust after being hurt, this love does not disappoint. After an internal struggle, vocalized in the song “I Won’t Say (I’m In Love),” Meg opens herself to Hercules’ love, and allows herself to reciprocate it. She then chooses to act on it by refusing to cooperate in Hades’ plot against Hercules, even though this means giving up her chance to be free again.
 
 
Dying to Self
 
At the Last Supper, Jesus taught His disciples, “No one has greater love than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends” (John 15:13 NIV). He then set the example for them through his own death. Hercules and Meg each demonstrate the same selfless love as they make sacrifices to save the other, even to the point of death.
 
When Hades holds Meg hostage, Hercules gives up his godlike strength as ransom for her freedom, literally redeeming her from her chains. Sapped of his divine power, Hercules becomes as physically weak as any other human being. Hades then strikes an emotional blow by revealing Meg’s previous deception—a strong parallel to Delilah’s betrayal of Samson, which led to him losing his strength. Even when brought to his lowest point, Hercules still acts selflessly by giving himself up to the Cyclops, who is terrorizing up the city while search for him. The monster publicly humiliates him and batters him around the city, not unlike the torture and mockery of the soldiers toward Christ after his arrest.
 
The tide turns when Meg pushes Hercules out of the way of a falling column, and is crushed in his stead. When Hercules asks why she did that, she answers, “People always do crazy things when they’re in love.” She understands, and teaches Hercules, the radical nature of authentic, self-giving love. While a case could be made that Meg is another Christ figure, I rather think she is like a Christian martyr, who enters into the Paschal Mystery in a special way and becomes both an imitator and a bride of Christ.
 
Like Christ on Good Friday, Hercules must participate in a cosmic battle against his enemy. With his strength restored by Meg’s sacrifice, he is able to rescue the gods on Mount Olympus from Hades and the invading Titans. But it is not enough to drive the monsters out of paradise: Hercules still needs to rescue his beloved from death.
 
When he returns to Earth, he finds that Meg has died. Like an inverted Pieta, he cradles her body in his arms as he grieves. But then, unwilling to let death have the final word, Hercules makes the journey to the underworld--katabasis in Greek mythology, the Harrowing of Hell in the Christian salvation story. He offers to trade his life for Meg’s, a deal that Hades eagerly accepts.
 
But the deal backfires on the ruler of the underworld: by sacrificing his life to save another, Hercules demonstrates true heroism, and so regains his immortality. He retrieves Meg’s soul and brings her back to the land of the living—and for good measure, he pushes Hades into the river of dead souls, killing the personification of death.

 
Vocation to Love
 
Looking at Hercules as an analogue for human beings, as my previous essay did, he can also be viewed as a martyr figure. He is only able to achieve his goal of returning to Olympus after an act of selfless surrender. He finds his greatest strength and gains eternal life when he lays down his life for the one he loves. Having each surrendered their life for the other’s sake, they are able to live together as husband and wife.
 
Hercules and Meg both choose the path of sacrificial love, which brings them to the gates of Olympus. The pantheon of gods, like the heavenly host of angels, welcomes them with joy and honor.
 
At this point, once again, there are some key differences between this story and the story of salvation, though the parallels are still strong.
 
When faced with the choice between being with his parents forever and being with Meg for one lifetime, Hercules chooses the latter. But Christ did not have to choose between being with His heavenly Father and being with His earthly bride (whether that bride is identified as Israel, or the Church, or all humanity). Because of the Paschal Mystery, the gates of Heaven were opened for the beloved, and the souls in purgatory were allowed to follow Christ to the Beatific Vision. Parent and child, bride and groom are all united in love.
 
Despite these differences, Hercules still imparts an invaluable lesson: love is not merely a means to an end; it is the end. Our home—our destination—is not just a place, but a relationship. The place where Hercules belongs—the way he can live out his vocation—is with the people he loves. With Meg in his life, along with his friends and his adoptive parents, Hercules finally understands the purpose of every human being: to love and to be loved.
 
For more of my analysis, listen to the Hercules episode of my podcast

When I was a child, my family had a collection of Disney movies on videocassettes, which my siblings and I would watch frequently. One of them was Hercules, which came out in 1997. I did not like it much as a kid, so I went many years without watching it before eventually revisiting it as an adult. By then, I had developed an interest in mythology, and learned to see echoes of the Christian mythos in other stories.
 
Returning to Hercules as an adult, I was amazed to see multiple levels of Christian allegory in the story. In Zeus and Hera, I saw a resemblance to both God the Father and our first parents, Adam and Eve. In Hercules’ search for identity and purpose, I saw the struggle of discerning one’s vocation. In his eventual decision to stay on Earth, I saw an affirmation that this world, though broken, is ultimately beautiful.
 
For the purpose of this analysis, I will focus on the Disney film’s depiction of mythical characters and events. In this first of two essays, I will focus on how Hercules’ journey parallels the stories of the human race, of Christ’s Incarnation, and of every individual who seeks God in their life.
 
 
Hercules as Humanity
 
Looking at the character Hercules’ origins, he seems to embody the human race in its separation from God and yearning for the divine. In his journey from “zero” to “hero,” I see a universal human experience: the desire to understand his identity, fulfill his life’s purpose, and find home and belonging.
 
Like the Bible, Disney’s Hercules begins with a sort of creation myth about a god bringing order out of primordial chaos, and then becoming the parent of a special heir. In the film’s prologue, Zeus defeats the Titans—basically manifestations of chaos—and brings peace to the world. He then becomes a father when Hercules is born to his wife Hera, and all the deities on Mount Olympus rejoice around this family.
 
But Hades, the ruler of the underworld, is jealous of Zeus and wants to take over the cosmos. After learning from the Fates that Hercules could prevent this, he sets out to destroy the child. There is a literal “fall” as Pain and Panic, Hades’ demon-like minions, kidnap Hercules and pull him down to Earth. Once there, they bottle-feed him a potion to take away his immortality and, in a sense, his birthright. However, he does not drink the last drop, so he retains his god-like strength.
 
This is very much like how Adam and Eve’s sin introduced death to the world and broke humanity’s relationship with God, our Father. Hades, the god associated with death, serves as an analogue for Satan. Like Adam and Eve and their descendants, Hercules is cut off from his home and his parents. Like our heavenly Father, Zeus and Hera can only watch as their child grows up in the confusion and brokenness of Earth. And while we human beings have lost our original glorified state, we still have something of the divine in us.
 
As he grows up, Hercules senses that he is not where he is supposed to be. When he seeks out guidance from the gods, he sums up his struggle in two questions: “Who am I? Where do I belong?” Essentially, he wants to know his identity and his purpose—one might use the word vocation.
 
We too sense that this world is not our permanent home, that we have come from somewhere else and we are meant to return there. Ecclesiastes 3:11 says that God has placed eternity in our hearts, and St. Augustine writes in his Confessions, “Our hearts are restless until they rest in You.” Hercules has a similar feeling that drives him to seek answers about his past and his future.
 
In the first act of the film, Hercules learns that he is not from this world: his parents were Zeus and Hera, and his first home was Mount Olympus. He had a divine origin, and that is now his destination. Throughout the rest of the story, Hercules and his trainer Phil talk about his desire to “go the distance.” This mantra sounds similar to St. Paul’s imagery of running a race to obtain a prize (see Philippians 3:12-14 and 2 Timothy 4:7). Our ultimate goal is union with God, and our ultimate destination is heaven.
 
 
Hercules as Christ
 
As much as Hercules’ journey parallels the typical human experience, it also bears strong similarities to Christ’s Incarnation. This is partly because the film draws inspiration from the story of Superman, which drew inspiration directly from the Bible.
 
There are some key differences, of course: unlike Hercules, Jesus deliberately left His heavenly home, was aware of His ultimate mission, and understood how He must accomplish it. But like Jesus, Hercules is both human and divine; he experiences the extremes of both ostracism and celebrity; he spends a period of time performing acts of service; and he ultimately embarks on a mission to save the one he loves—a mission that, unlike his crowd-pleasing heroics, can only be accomplished through sacrifice.
 
Like Jesus, Hercules is raised by mortal human parents. But in his youth, his unworldly power draws negative attention and gets him into trouble. He is reprimanded, ridiculed, and rejected by his community—not unlike how Jesus was not accepted in his hometown. (All four gospels record this: Matthew 13:57, Mark 6:4, Luke 4:24, and John 4:44.)
 
Finally, a day comes when the adolescent Hercules leaves his earthly parents’ home and travels to the temple of Zeus. Although he does not know of his divine parentage at that point, he senses that he must be “about my father’s business” or, as some translations say, “in my father’s house” (Luke 2:49). Inside the temple, Hercules and Zeus have an interaction not unlike those involving Jesus and God the Father at two moments in the gospels: the Baptism and the Transfiguration. In both of those revelatory moments, the Father speaks out of the heavens, affirming the Son’s identity and mission. Likewise, Zeus reveals Hercules’ true heritage and sends him on his quest to restore his godhood and rejoin his family.
 
When Hercules first presents himself as a potential hero to the suffering people of Thebes, they do not take him seriously. Like the song “In Christ Alone” says of Jesus, he is “scorned by the ones he came to save.” But he begins using his supernatural strength in service to others, and thereby gains their ostensible love. Looking at a particular shot of Hercules riding Pegasus through an adoring crowd, it is hard not to think of Jesus’ Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem. Jesus and Hercules are both hailed as saviors—but that turns out to mean something different than the people think.
 
 
Humanity and Divinity
 
By the end of the film, Hercules regains his immortality, and with it, the opportunity to return to Olympus. Here, some key differences between this story and the story of salvation emerge, along with some thought-provoking insights about humanity and divinity.
 
In the stage musical adapted from the film, Hercules at this point sings a song titled “To Be Human,” reflecting on his choice between an eternal life on Olympus with his divine family, or a single lifetime on Earth with Meg and his friends and adoptive family. He contemplates the strangeness of the human condition, full of pain as well as beauty. He realizes that human beings’ struggles are part of their journey to glory: “If you cannot lose, then how can you win?” By contemplating the complexity and dignity of mortal life, he comes to recognize that, paradoxically, “to be human is divine.” He discerns that his place is “in the human race,” like Christ choosing to identify with our humanity through His Incarnation.
 
In the end, Hercules chooses a mortal life in a broken world over an eternal life with the heavenly host. But Christ did not have to choose one or the other; He was both fully God and fully human. And because He, in His divinity, joined our humanity, we, in our humanity, will share in His divinity.
 
In my next essay, I will analyze the character of Meg and how her relationship with Hercules mirrors our relationship with Christ. More analysis can be found in the Hercules episode of the podcast.

​Note: This article was originally published on Catholic Exchange. Contains spoilers for Season 1 of Once Upon a Time.

Last year, I rewatched the ABC drama Once Upon a Time, which first aired from 2011 to 2018. It’s a strange but endearing show that puts a Disney-centric fairy tale aesthetic on a soap opera. Although I have many criticisms of the series, I still enjoy much of it.
 
On this rewatch, I realized that the show not only promotes (however ambiguously or imperfectly) Christian values like faith, hope, love, and forgiveness. It also carries striking parallels to the salvation story, and even has an analogue to the Bible as a record of history and revelation. The format of the show, pairing a present-day storyline with flashbacks to a related storyline in the past, evokes the kind of foreshadowing and fulfilment discovered in biblical typology.
 
The show’s premise is that a host of fairy-tale characters have been cursed to forget who they are and transported to the modern-day town of Storybrooke, Maine. Time does not pass for them, so they remain frozen at the same age for 28 years. The protagonist of the series is Emma Swan, the long-lost daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming, who is prophesied to break the curse. However, Emma grows up as an orphan in the “land without magic,” and for a long time does not believe in the reality of the curse or her royal lineage. Throughout the series, she struggles with accepting her family, her identity, and her destiny.
 
This article will contain spoilers for Season 1 of Once Upon a Time (OUAT for short).
 
 
The Savior
 
From the very first episode, Emma is set up as a Christ-figure. Even before her birth, it is foretold that she will restore the happiness that her parents’ enemy, the Evil Queen Regina, is trying to destroy. Throughout the series’ flashbacks, multiple characters insist that Emma must find her parents and break the queen’s curse at the right time—in her case, when she turns 28—similar to how Jesus was incarnated and made His paschal sacrifice “in the fullness of time” (Galatians 4:4).
 
Emma is like Moses and Jesus in the way she escapes a tyrannical monarch who wants to kill her as an infant. Her parents place her in a wardrobe made from a magical tree that transports her to another realm (perhaps an homage to the wardrobe that leads to Narnia). While discussing this plan, one of the dwarves even says, “Our fate rests on a tree?” which calls to my mind the cross!
 
Snow White and Charming giving up years of time with their daughter reminds me of Jesus leaving the unity of the Trinity in Heaven to be incarnated on Earth. Snow White’s pain in letting go of her child resembles the sorrow of the Blessed Mother giving up her Son to God’s plan for salvation. Like St. Joseph protecting Jesus from King Herod’s soldiers, Charming protects Emma from the Evil Queen’s knights and ensures that she will grow up in safety.
 
 
Memory and Morality
 
A recurring theme across the books of the Bible is the importance of remembering. Throughout the Old Testament, God’s people repeatedly suffer because they fail to remember the great deeds He did for them in the past. The Jewish celebration of Passover commemorates the Israelites’ escape to freedom, and Jesus commanded His disciples to break bread in memory of Him; both rituals are considered a participation in those past events.
 
Memory—or more precisely the loss of memory—is also a central theme in OUAT. The fairy-tale characters have forgotten their true identities and lost their most important relationships. They are familiar with the classic stories, but they do not know that the stories are true, let alone about them. I find this similar to how many people are familiar with the stories of the Bible, but do not believe those events happened or understand that they themselves are part of the overall story.
 
Another noteworthy effect of the Dark Curse is that the heroes, once renowned for their integrity, no longer have a clear sense of right and wrong. In this moral murkiness, they make bad decisions, hurting themselves and each other. This is similar to the effect of Original Sin, clouding human judgment and corrupting relationships.
 
Under the curse, the residents of Storybrooke are trapped in mundane routine and mediocrity. They live in fearful obedience to Regina, the Evil Queen-turned-mayor. Their lives do not seem to hold any meaning. Everyone feels alone.
 
Henry, Emma’s ten-year-old son, comes onto the scene as a prophet, speaking the truth that no one believes and calling people back into a forgotten relationship. Growing up in Storybrooke as the adopted son of Regina, he possesses a book containing stories of the town’s inhabitants. Like the scriptures, it explains where the characters came from and where they must go. Henry is the only one who recognizes how the old stories connect with the people he knows, and he tries to make others realize it, though they dismiss his claims as childish imagination or delusion.
 
Emma is forced to reckon with her past when Henry, whom she placed for adoption at birth, tracks her down and convinces her to come to Storybrooke. Like John the Baptist, Henry prepares a way for the Savior and urges people to believe in them.
 
 
In the Fullness of Time
 
Without giving away details, the Season 1 finale is full of biblical imagery, mirroring the Harrowing of Hell and the battle between Christ and Satan. Ultimately, Emma breaks the curse, which restores the people’s memories. But they remain in Storybrooke, away from their homeland of the Enchanted Forest. They ask each other, if the curse has been broken, “Then why are we still here?”
 
This may have been how the early Christians felt, and may be relatable to the rest of us who live between the Resurrection and the Second Coming. Christ has conquered death and opened the gates of Heaven to us, but we still live under the effects of Original Sin on Earth. We must continue living here, holding on to our memory of the past and our hope for the future, until we reach our true home in Heaven at our death or the end of time.
 
 
Coming Home
 
Even after Emma comes to believe in the truth of the stories, it takes a while for her to open her heart to her parents and accept their story as her own.
 
We face a similar decision regarding our relationship with God and our place in the Communion of Saints. It is one thing to believe in God intellectually, but another to love and trust Him. We can choose whether to accept His invitation to a covenantal relationship, or run from it like the Prodigal Son.
 
Eventually—I will not say in what season—after years of running away from opportunities to have a home and meaningful relationships, Emma accepts Snow White and Charming as her parents, Henry as her son, and the people of Storybrooke as her friends. She embraces their values of faith, hope, and love, putting herself on the path to a happy ending.


I plan to analyze more aspects of Once Upon a Time in future blog posts and a podcast episode.

​Note: This article was originally published on Catholic Exchange. Contains spoilers for Tuck Everlasting.

​Though I only discovered it a couple years ago, the 1975 novel Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt has become one of my favorite books. It is a children’s adventure and coming-of-age story, but also holds much for adults to ponder. Taking place in the first week of August, it is a perfect summer read, with beautifully written descriptions of nature and pensive reflections on life and death.

The plot of Tuck Everlasting revolves around a spring whose water grants the drinker immortality. The Tuck family—Angus, his wife Mae, and their sons Miles and Jesse—made the mistake of drinking water from the spring, which rendered them immortal. They do not age, and they cannot die. When ten-year-old Winnie Foster meets them and discovers their secret, she must choose whether to drink the water and stay young forever, or grow up and eventually die.

According to a 2015 interview, Babbitt wrote the book to help her own child reckon with the inevitability of death. It is secular in its approach to this heavy topic, and no consolation is offered by way of belief in an afterlife or resurrection. Yet, paradoxically, this story about accepting the reality of death turns out to be a powerful affirmation of life.


The Original Plan

The novel contains one possible allusion to the Bible, pointing back to the story of Creation.

God placed two trees in the center of the Garden of Eden: the Tree of Life, and the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil (Genesis 2:9). When Adam and Eve took the fruit of knowledge, God sent angels to guard the Tree of Life, so mankind would not take its fruit and live forever (Genesis 3:22).

Why would God do that, if He intended—and intends—to give us eternal life? I am not a theologian, but I think the lessons drawn from Tuck Everlasting may point to an answer.

The spring is located at the base of an unchanging tree, reminiscent of the Tree of Life. The Tucks theorize that the spring may be “something left over … from some other plan for the way the world should be. … Some plan that didn’t work out too good” (Babbitt 41). This seems like a clear nod to the Garden of Eden and the Fall of Man. Looking at it this way, Tuck Everlasting serves as a thought experiment for what would happen if someone became immortal while still living in a fallen, aging, death-filled world.


The Meaning of Life

In John 10:10, Jesus says, “I came that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.” The Tucks try to make the best of their lives, but their immortality is not the “abundant life” promised by Jesus.

One of the worst consequences of the Tucks’ immortality is that they are cut off from the rest of the world. Their friends and neighbors turned away from them as their agelessness became more apparent. Miles’ wife and children left him because they thought he had sold his soul to the devil. They cannot stay anywhere for too long without running the risk of people discovering their secret. They reunite only once every ten years before going separate ways again.

The Tucks cope with their unusual situation in different ways, and Winnie hears each of their perspectives over the course of her time with them. Naturally, Winnie does not want to die, and so the water of the spring greatly appeals to her. But Angus, comparing the cycle of life to a wheel, explains, “dying’s part of the wheel, right there next to being born. You can’t pick out the pieces you like and leave the rest. Being part of the whole thing, that’s the blessing. … You can’t have living without dying” (Babbitt 63-64). This hits on some truth about the connection between life and death. Jesus says multiple times in the gospels that one who loves his life and wishes to save it will lose it, whereas one who hates and gives up his life will find it and preserve it for eternity (Matthew 10:39, Matthew 16:25, John 12:25). The Tucks cannot experience the change and growth that characterize life, and since they cannot die, they are barred from the blessings of Heaven. They long for death because they long for true life, both on Earth and in Heaven.


The Serpent and the Substitute

The antagonist of Tuck Everlasting is the unnamed man in the yellow suit. He wants to find the spring and sell its water, offering “eternal life” to those who “deserve” or can afford it. This is much like the serpent tempting Eve, or the devil tempting us, with half-truths and false promises. But the Tucks know that immortality given that way would be a curse rather than a blessing, and that revealing the spring’s location could cause chaos for all humanity.

Fittingly, it is Mae, the mother of the Tuck family, who acts to protect her family and defeat their enemy. She attacks him by striking his head, an action that echoes Jael killing Sisera, Judith killing Holophernes, and the image of Mary crushing Satan’s head (a symbolic reference to the prophecy of Genesis 3:15)! But when the man in the yellow suit dies of this injury, Mae is sentenced to hang, which would reveal her immortality to the world.

Winnie plays a somewhat Christlike role in the final act of the narrative. She helps Mae escape the authorities by taking her place in jail. Afterwards, she can only justify her actions with the fact that she loves the Tucks. Her parents are ashamed of her, and her actions make their social life difficult. But the local children come to visit Winnie, “impressed by what she had done,” wanting to be her friend, whereas before she seemed “almost, somehow, too clean to be a real friend” (Babbitt 130). This reminds me of how Jesus’ family did not believe him, and of the way Jesus dwelt among mankind rather than staying distant and untouchable.


The Wheel

Tuck Everlasting may show that it was for the best that God prevented mankind from accessing the Tree of Life. Life is precious, and God offers us eternal life, but it is for Him to give, not for us to grasp for and steal. Attempting to do so will lead to death rather than life.

Though we believe in Christ’s victory over death, we still live in a world tainted by Original Sin. While we are here, we must reckon with death as something that is real and, paradoxically, necessary for true life. The Good News is that for Christians, death is no longer to be feared because it has been defeated, and so it is not final. We have hope of going to heaven when we die and the resurrection of our bodies at the end of time. We can have the full experience of the wheel.

​
Hear more analysis on the corresponding podcast episode. Bonus material will be available on Patreon.

​Note: This piece was originally published on CatholicExchange.com. Contains spoilers for Frozen.

On first viewing, Disney’s Frozen seems like simply a fun adventure story. But the more time that has passed since its 2013 release, the more I’ve realized how profound its themes are. Looking at its symbols and archetypes, it is an excellent example of royal characters’ relationships impacting their community and natural environment. It clearly follows the salvation story pattern and conveys some of the most Christian themes in any Disney film.

Loosely based on Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Snow Queen,” Frozen revolves around two sisters, Elsa and Anna, princesses of the fictional Scandinavian kingdom of Arendelle. Though they have loving parents and share a deep bond as children, the royal family breaks down over time. Elsa accidentally hurts Anna with her magical ice powers, and is warned that they may create danger in the future. This prompts the parents to keep the sisters apart from each other and hide them from the rest of the kingdom until Elsa learns to control her powers. The untimely death of the king and queen leaves the sisters and their kingdom leaderless—and vulnerable to those who would take advantage of them. When the sisters’ relationship is further fractured by a disagreement, Elsa loses control of her magic and causes an unseasonal winter to fall upon the kingdom. The two sisters must heal their relationship in order to restore the natural cycle of seasons in their home.


Innocence and Isolation

Elsa’s ice powers may symbolize many things, but for this reflection I’ll focus on just one: human beings’ free will and tendency toward sin, whether actual or perceived.

Elsa’s powers start out as a source of joy, but she learns at a young age that they can cause harm to her loved ones if she is not careful with them. From then on, she looks upon her powers, and in turn herself, with fear, shame, and a desperate desire for control. Elsa and her parents think the best way for her to avoid hurting others is to isolate herself and suppress her powers.

This is similar to the entry of sin into the world. When Adam and Eve ate the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, they became aware of the capacity for wrongdoing. Adam and Eve responded to this loss of innocence by clothing themselves and hiding from God; Elsa responds by wearing gloves and hiding from everyone, even those she loves most.

If Elsa’s struggle for self-control is similar to human beings’ struggle against sin, her seclusion is like trying to avoid all opportunities to sin. This may be appropriate for some situations, like trying to overcome an addiction or bad habit by avoiding particular temptations. But isolation does not strengthen one’s conscience. The virtuous life is best supported by relationships with others striving for the same goal. This is why recovery groups exist for people struggling with addictions, providing them with encouragement and accountability. But Elsa’s powers are a secret that she believes she must carry alone. This creates a cycle of fear and shame that only worsens as her powers grow.


Love Personified

Olaf, the snowman built by Elsa and Anna in childhood who later gains sentience, is more than just a cute sidekick providing comic relief. He is also a symbol of the sisters’ love for each other.

There is a trinitarian dynamic between these three characters. The sisters’ love is creative, and eventually takes on a life of its own, becoming a distinct being. This is similar to the Holy Spirit proceeding from the love between the Father and the Son. Olaf later accompanies Anna on her quest to find and reconcile with Elsa, similar to the Holy Spirit accompanying Christ during His earthly ministry.

The song “Do You Wanna Build a Snowman” reveals Anna’s persistence in pursuing a relationship with her sister. Despite being repeatedly ignored and rejected, Anna continues to knock at her sister’s door, like Jesus who “stand[s] at the door and knock[s]” (Revelation 3:20). When Anna asks Elsa if she wants to “build a snowman,” she is really asking, “Do you want to have a relationship? Do you want to collaborate? Do you want to make something beautiful and full of life?”

When Anna is at her lowest point, Olaf reveals the true meaning of love: “putting someone else’s needs before yours.” This is very similar to St. Thomas Aquinas’s definition! Love is a desire for and commitment to another’s good; that is the lesson Anna both learns and demonstrates over the course of the film.


“An Act of True Love”

Despite the previous rejections and present risks, Anna enters Elsa’s ice palace in the mountains and attempts to persuade her to come home. Olaf is also there, a reminder of their childhood relationship, and Anna tells Elsa that they can be that close again. This is like God calling the Israelites to remember their covenant with Him even after they turn away.

But Elsa is still haunted by the memory of her sister being hurt due to her own lack of self-control. She is further devastated when she learns that she unintentionally “set off an eternal winter.” Her rising emotions trigger her ice magic, and she accidentally strikes Anna’s heart with ice, causing her to slowly freeze.

Anna is told that only “an act of true love” can save her from freezing completely. She initially believes this must come in the form of a kiss from Hans, the charismatic prince who proposed to her earlier in the film. But Hans turns out to be analogous with Satan in this story: he is the deceiver, seducer, and accuser, intent on destroying the heirs and taking over the kingdom.

Anna steps fully into the role of Christ-figure at the climax of the story. Hans betrays Anna, leaves her to freeze to death, and intends to execute Elsa and make himself king. He finds Elsa and accuses her of killing her sister, which she is all too ready to believe. At the same time, Anna sees Kristoff, the ice harvester who genuinely loves her and could potentially save her from freezing. But instead of seeking her own salvation, Anna steps between Elsa and her accuser, just like Jesus dying to save us from Satan. Anna succumbs to her frozen heart in that moment, a “death” that shatters Hans’ sword and saves Elsa’s life.

This apparent death, however, is reversed by its nature as “an act of true love,” the one thing that was said could thaw a frozen heart. When Elsa asks Anna how she could sacrifice herself like that, Anna simply replies, “I love you.”

With Anna and Olaf’s help, Elsa finally realizes that the way to temper her powers is not through fear and isolation, but love and connection. As she opens herself to love, she is able to melt the snow and ice, restoring summer to Arendelle. Elsa’s journey is about being open to love, while Anna’s journey involves learning what love is. They essentially learn what 1 John 4:18 says: “There is no fear in love; perfect love drives out all fear.”

For more like this, listen to the corresponding podcast episode.

Note: This material was originally published on CatholicExchange.com in two parts, on June 21, 2024 and July 5, 2024.

PART I

You may have been taught at some point in school that most stories follow a basic structure. Beginning, middle, end. Exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, conclusion.

You may also have heard of stories having different types of conflict: person versus person, or self, or society, or environment. These categories point to the fact that every story involves some form of relationship.

The Christian view of history also involves a story structure, which describes the arc of history in terms of God’s relationship with humanity. The Gospel, or “Good News,” is essentially belief in a story.

As a Catholic who consumes a lot of fiction, I gradually noticed a pattern existing in most stories, present across times and cultures, that reflects aspects of the Gospel story structure. The pattern I see goes like this: there is an initially positive relationship; the relationship is broken through a breach of trust or responsibility; one of the parties attempts to repair the relationship; a death and resurrection take place; the relationship is restored, and perhaps becomes even better than before.


The Original Relationship

In the backstory or beginning of the narrative, there is a harmonious relationship. It might be between individuals, or it might encompass entire families, communities, nations, planets, or planes of reality.
In the Abrahamic religions, this part of the story is the creation of the world, the garden of Eden, and our first parents. Adam and Eve lived in right relationship with God, with each other, and with nature.
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At some point, however, the harmony is interrupted, and the relationship breaks down. This is usually due to a mistake, failure, or betrayal. It could also be a death or some other tragedy. However the breakdown plays out, it has deep and lasting consequences. Trust is broken, the parties are alienated, and others can feel the ripple effects. In folklore and fiction, this is when Psyche betrays Cupid, when Claudius kills King Hamlet, when Scar kills Mufasa, when Maui steals the heart of Te Fiti.

In the Bible, this is when Adam and Eve break God’s commandment and eat the forbidden fruit. Their relationship loses its innocence as they realize they are naked—in other words, vulnerable to being misused and hurt. Instead of feeling safe and loved, they feel they must protect themselves from each other and hide themselves from God. As a result of their transgression, sin enters the world, and human beings are cast out of Paradise and must work the land in order to survive.

It is important to understand that Adam and Eve were not the only ones who suffered for their actions. All of creation likewise fell from the original state of innocence and happiness. Sin causes human beings live to at odds with God, with each other, and with the natural world.

This kind of micro-macro dynamic is apparent in many folktales and fantasy stories, where characters may be deities who embody an aspect of nature, or monarchs responsible for many people. In such cases, the state of the relationship is reflected on a larger scale in their environment. When the prince is transformed into a beast, or the princess falls under a sleeping curse, or the queen loses control of her ice powers, the people around them suffer along with them. Any iteration of the myth of Hades, Persephone, and Demeter will show this, as their relationships determine the cycle of the seasons. In Star Wars, Anakin Skywalker’s transformation into Darth Vader directly parallels the Galactic Republic’s transition to the Empire. The family dramas of such archetypal characters are reflected in the cosmic conflicts of their stories.

The relationship may experience ups and downs, but if there is any interaction or reunion, it remains imperfect and incomplete. Eventually, one of the parties must take the initiative to try to repair the relationship.


The Journey
In order to restore the relationship, one of the parties must go on a journey, often with a downward or inward direction. The protagonist enters another world, usually characterized by darkness and death. The Greeks called this part of their myths katabasis, the journey to the Underworld, the land of the dead. But this place can also be a place of meeting, reckoning, and revelation.

The Incarnation of Christ and the Harrowing of Hell can both be seen in this step. Jesus descended twice, first by leaving Heaven to be incarnated as a human being on Earth, and then, after His own death, by going to Hell and freeing the souls of the just who had died before His paschal sacrifice.

Many contemporary heroes have a similar step on their quest. Star Wars media is replete with examples of this, the first and most iconic being the Death Star. In more recent Disney films, Anna enters the ice palace to talk to her estranged sister, and Moana sets out to restore the heart of Te Fiti.

This journey presents great risks. In some cases, the protagonist must confront death itself, either as the power keeping their beloved from them, or in the form of the beloved themselves. Obi-Wan Kenobi in A New Hope, Luke Skywalker in Return of the Jedi, Anna, and Moana all know that the person they are approaching is dangerous and might harm them. Christ, too, knew that He would suffer at the hands of the very people He came to save.


Remembrance and Rejection
Throughout the story, there is often an element of trying to remember or discover one’s identity, or one party trying to make the other party aware of their true identity. This is a recurring theme in Scripture, as God’s prophets urge His people to remember who He is and who He has called them to be.

This theme is common in movies too. Luke Skywalker is determined to remind Darth Vader of his former identity. Mufasa’s ghost urges the self-exiled Simba, “Remember who you are.” Anna reminds Elsa of how close they were as children. Moana sings to the rampaging deity, “This is not who you are. I know who you are.”

At the moment of meeting, there might be a rejection of the identity or relationship. The prophets leading up to Christ were rejected and sometimes killed by their own people. He knew that not all would acknowledge Him when He came in person.

One possible reason for this rejection is that the lost party may not realize that they are lost. At the other extreme, they may recognize that they are lost, but think that they are beyond hope. Both of these attitudes are essentially a form of arrogance, which leads them to reject the call to remembrance and reconciliation.


Resurrection and Restoration

The meeting leads to the climax, which involves some kind of death, either literal or symbolic. There may also be a second betrayal, possibly even greater than the first. There is often an element of sacrifice and an appearance of loss or failure. Ultimately, though, the death leads to a kind of resurrection or rebirth.

When Christ came to restore humanity’s relationship with God, the people responded by killing Him. But His death led to His Resurrection, defeating death and making His identity clear to His followers.

This is also a moment of revelation, when one or both parties realize who they are and what they mean to each other. Christ’s disciples did not fully understand His divine identity, or the magnitude of His love for them, until He died on the cross and rose from the dead. The revelation can be a moment of horror—for instance, upon witnessing the supernatural events surrounding the death of Christ, the centurion declared that He was truly the Son of God. For examples in film, Darth Vader did not know he still had a capacity for love until he saw his son suffering out of love for him, and Elsa did not understand her sister’s love for her until Anna sacrificed herself to save her.

With the climax comes the reversal of the curse, the lifting of the exile, the restoration of the relationship. When the royal family is restored, the kingdom in turn is renewed. Anakin Skywalker reconciles with his son at the same moment the galaxy is freed from the Empire. Elsa’s openness to love enables her to thaw the snow in Arendelle. Te Fiti lifts the blight from Moana’s island home. Persephone’s travel plans ensure the return of spring.

​Adoptions, marriages, coronations, or political alliances ensure the continuation and stability of a family, a dynasty, a nation, or an entire world. Likewise, Christ’s sacrifice sealed the New Covenant in His blood; His ministry established the Church on Earth; and the Bible ends with the Wedding Feast of the Lamb.


PART II

When I point out biblical parallels in a secular work of fiction, I do not assume that they were intentional on the writer’s part. But stories often reveal truths about God and the Gospel regardless of a writer’s intentions. The enduring popularity of stories that follow the pattern of the Gospel is evidence that they resonate with something deep in the human psyche: our spiritual needs and our ability to recognize truth.
 
Myth and Fact

Why does the Christian mythos seem to be embedded in so many others? Is it divine inspiration, spiritual warfare, cultural osmosis, artistic imitation, or some combination of these?

The second-century saint Justin Martyr pointed out in his First Apology that many pagan myths are analogous to aspects of the Christian story. Many involve virgin births, half-divine heroes, and dying gods. Mythologist Joseph Campbell recognized the structural consistency of different cultures’ folktales, and believed they were variations of the same truth.

But this does not mean that Christ is simply one more deity among many, or that Christianity is no truer than any other mythology. C. S. Lewis’ conversion to Christianity, described in his autobiography Surprised by Joy, hinged on the realization that Christ was the only instance when a myth—that is, a symbolic truth—also became a historical event. Lewis writes in his essay “Myth Became Fact”:

"God is more than a god, not less; Christ is more than Balder, not less. We must not be ashamed of the mythical radiance resting on our theology. We must not be nervous about “parallels” and “pagan Christs”: they ought to be there--it would be a stumbling block if they weren't. We must not, in false spirituality, withhold our imaginative welcome."

So, why do disparate cultures have variations of the same story, even predating the coming of Christ?

Justin Martyr theorized that demons overheard the prophecies foretelling Christ, and inspired similar tales in pagan poets so that Christ would appear to be merely one of many such legends.

Personally, I think more in terms of the Image of God and the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. God has “set eternity in our hearts” (Ecclesiastes 3:11). Even before the Incarnation, people could perceive that the world is not the way it should be, and sense that a hero is needed to heal and restore it. God “shows no partiality” in revealing truth (Acts 10:34). Thus, some pre-Christian philosophers and folktales pointed to Christ without being conscious of it.

Brian Godawa examines Joseph Campbell’s famous “Monomyth,” also known as “the hero’s journey,” in Hollywood Worldviews: Watching Films with Wisdom and Discernment. Godawa argues,

"Christians need not deny a Monomyth that is reinterpreted through different traditions. We need to only understand it in its true nature from God’s own revelation. After all, God is the ultimate Storyteller, and the Scriptures say that he has placed a common knowledge of himself in all people through creation and conscience … Christianity is itself the true incarnation of the Monomyth in history, and other mythologies reflect and distort it like dirty or broken mirrors." (Godawa 69-70)

St. Basil the Great also used the imagery of mirrors in his “Address to Young Men on the Right Use of Greek Literature.” He argued that young Christians should study the works of pagan authors, in which they could “perceive the truth as it were in shadows and in mirrors,” as preparation before studying the deeper, clearer truths of sacred scripture.

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm believed that the oral tales of their culture contained religious meanings that had been forgotten as they were passed down. They considered the folk tales “remnants of ancient faith expressed in poetry,” as G. Ronald Murphy, S.J., explains in The Owl, the Raven, and the Dove. The Grimm brothers’ collected stories synthesize elements of not only Christianity but also German, Norse, Greek and Roman mythologies. Their characters’ adventures represent the soul’s spiritual journey, with tests and failures, betrayals and reconciliations, separations and reunions, death and resurrection.

Like Samwise Gamgee says in the film version of The Two Towers, such stories stay with us even if we do not fully understand them at the time. Our hearts, made in the Image of God, can still recognize their truthfulness. We keep returning to stories of rescue, redemption, and reconciliation because they speak to our deepest longings. We dimly remember a happy past, and we yearn for a future where things will be better.

 
Why does this matter?

Christ calls us to evangelize, and entertainment media reaches people of all different worldviews. An awareness of the salvation story pattern can help us talk about our faith in the context of the culture we live in. And whether a story develops or deviates from the pattern of the Gospel, it can help us articulate our beliefs by providing points of comparison.

Obviously, not all stories adhere to every step of the pattern. But even those that do not can still point to Christ in an imperfect, incomplete way. One long-beloved example of this is the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. Orpheus seems to prefigure Christ in his journey to the Underworld, but he fails to bring his bride back to life. His failure demonstrates that human beings cannot save themselves from death. Plato argues in his “Symposium” that the reason Orpheus failed was that he was not willing to die in order to save Eurydice. In this way, the myth of Orpheus illustrates humanity’s need for a divine Savior who is willing to lay down His life for His beloved.

Learning to recognize our values in a story can deepen our appreciation of them as we view them in a new context. It is one thing to talk about the concepts of justice and mercy; it is another thing to see Jean Valjean and Inspector Javert wrestle with them in Les Misérables.

St. Basil points out that even stories with elements directly opposed to Christian values can help to strengthen them by providing contrast. As Steve Turner says in Imagine: A Vision for Christians in the Arts, “the ideas we end up disagreeing with can have the effect of making our faith more vital by forcing us to examine what we really believe.”

Finally, recognizing echoes of the Gospel in popular media can create organic opportunities to talk about faith with other people, even in casual settings. Simply explaining why the latest movie resonated with you may open the door to share your worldview with someone.

To be a Christian is not merely to believe in the historicity of a long-ago or far-off story. It means believing that our lives are part of a story, which is still unfolding and ultimately will have a happy ending. It means accepting the invitation to play a role in the plot and participate in the resolution. It is, in a sense, to believe in “happily ever after”—or, as Julian of Norwich put it, that “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

​Learn more from the corresponding podcast episode.