There is a quiet embarrassment that many Christians feel but rarely admit. It surfaces in college classrooms, in conversations with scientifically minded friends, or even in our own private thoughts when we read the opening chapters of Genesis. Talking snakes. A universe spoken into existence. Light before the sun. The supernatural texture of Scripture can feel, at times, out of step with the modern world.

We live in an age deeply shaped by materialism—not always as a declared philosophy, but as a quiet assumption. Through education, media, and cultural habits, we are trained to treat the physical world as the most reliable layer of reality. Science, rightly practiced, studies what can be observed and measured. But over time, this method easily hardens into a worldview where what cannot be measured begins to feel less certain, less solid, or less real. And so when we open the Bible and encounter its supernatural claims, we feel pressure—not necessarily to deny them outright, but to reinterpret, soften, or distance ourselves from what they plainly declare.

This pressure does not always lead to disbelief. More often, it produces something subtler: discomfort. We may still affirm that Genesis is true, but we are unsure how it fits in a world dominated by scientific explanations and natural causes. We are left wondering whether the Bible’s stories belong in the same category as ancient myths—meaningful perhaps, but not quite describing reality as it actually is.

But what if that discomfort reveals something deeper? What if the tension we feel is not because the Bible is primitive, but because we have absorbed assumptions about reality that are far thinner than we realize? What if the supernatural world of Scripture is not an embarrassment to overcome, but the very foundation of what is real?

This foundation is in the heart of every man, but we don’t really know what to do with it. Instead of understanding the Scriptures, we create our own escapes. Superheroes, zombies, horror stories, and fairy tales dominate our literature and streaming services. We have a desire for the supernatural, but when it’s real, we struggle with it.

C.S. Lewis had this very tension when he first looked at the Gospels. He found the stories utterly incomprehensible. As he became more convinced that the stories of Jesus Christ were true, he still insisted that he “couldn’t see … how the life and death of Someone Else (whoever He was) 2,000 years ago could help us here and now—except in so far as his example helped us.” In fact, Lewis found that the story of Christ’s death was not only “very mysterious,” but even “silly or shocking” (The Essential C.S. Lewis, 55-56).

Through this struggle, Lewis came to accept the Bible as truth with the help of J.R.R. Tolkien, who explained to Lewis a different understanding of the word “myth.” Lewis loved mythology, and with Tolkien’s influence, Lewis came to believe the Gospels were a myth—but a “true myth.” A myth that actually happened.

In effect, Tolkien was giving Lewis permission to see the supernatural in the Scriptures.

As he came to realize (and as we’ll explore), Lewis’s idea of the Gospels as a “true myth” not only shaped how he read the Bible but also enriched his life experience. It will do the same for you.

While we see where Tolkien and Lewis were going with this description of the Bible as a “true myth,” the phrase seems oxymoronic: how can a myth, by nature, be true?

Part of the confusion lies in what we mean by the word myth. In modern usage, a myth is something false—a powerful story, perhaps, but not grounded in reality. Tolkien, however, was reaching for something deeper. He was trying to describe a story that carries the weight, beauty, and imaginative force of mythology, yet is anchored in actual history. In other words, he was circling around a concept that might be better captured by another word: fantasy.

Not fantasy as mere escape or fabrication, but fantasy in its older and richer sense—something that makes the invisible visible, that presents to the mind realities beyond ordinary experience. If that is what we mean, then the Bible is not a myth in the sense of being untrue. It is something far more daring. It is a supernatural story that insists it actually happened.

And that brings us to the heart of our question: What if the Scriptures are not myth at all, but what we might call True Fantasy? Can we think of the Bible as “fantasy”?

When you hear the word “fantasy,” what comes to mind? When I’ve asked people that question, a few people think of perversions. But most people instinctively think of a fictional escape—imaginary worlds detached from reality, filled with dragons, magic, and impossible adventures meant to distract from ordinary life.

Fantasy is often associated with make‑believe, childhood stories, or entertainment that is fun but ultimately unreal, a genre that trades truth for wonder and seriousness for spectacle.

In this common view, fantasy is something we grow out of, a pleasant illusion that has little to say about the real world beyond temporary amusement. It is seen as the opposite of fact, history, or meaning—something invented rather than revealed, enjoyed but not trusted, imaginative but not true.

But what if that assumption is backward? What if fantasy, at its root, is not the opposite of reality, but one of the primary ways reality is revealed?

You see, fantasy is not the same as fiction. Yes, some fantasy is fiction, but fantasy, at its core, is not necessarily myth or invention. At its heart, at its core, fantasy is simply storytelling. The story can be true, or it can be fiction. In fact, the etymology of the word fantasy is from the Greek word phantazein, which means “to make visible” or “to present to the mind.” The root of this Greek word conveys an element of “showing,” creating a mental picture for the reader or listener.

Some aspects of fantasy lead us into the world of the divine, revealing something beyond ourselves. Again, this can be true or fiction. Writers throughout history have shown us that storytelling is one of (if not the) most powerful ways to convey a point of view or a truth.

Before the Bible was written, men created myths to explain the history of the world, the great flood, and even the power of the gods. The writers of these fantasy stories had no inclination that their stories were true. They were simply trying to explain the world the best they could. Then came historical narrative and the Bible.

When the authors of the Bible wrote, their goal was to be as accurate as possible in their stories. They were trying “to present to the mind” of the reader the actual events as they occurred. Unlike the writers of mythology before them, their intent was to be truthful.

If fantasy, at its root, means “to make visible,” then the question is not whether the Bible contains fantasy elements. The question is whether it reveals something real. Scripture does not invite us into an imaginary escape from the world; it invites us to see the world as it truly is. It claims that the invisible God has acted in history, spoken into time, and made Himself known. In that sense, the Bible is not fantasy as fabrication. It is fantasy as revelation—the making visible of what materialistic assumptions tell us cannot be seen.

This is precisely where our embarrassment begins to fade. We have been trained to believe that only the measurable is meaningful, that only the physical is trustworthy. But the deepest longings of the human heart—our hunger for justice, beauty, transcendence, and purpose—cannot be weighed or placed under a microscope. The Bible does not shrink reality down to what fits inside a laboratory. It expands our understanding of reality to include the One who stands behind it. It tells us that the visible world is not all there is, and that the Invisible is not silent.

When we begin to see Scripture this way, the supernatural no longer feels childish or out of step with modern life. Instead, it becomes the key to understanding it. The talking serpent, the parted sea, the empty tomb—these are not embarrassing relics of a pre-scientific age. They are declarations that reality is deeper than matter and richer than mechanism. They challenge the thin story of materialism and offer a fuller account of existence—one in which meaning is not invented, but revealed.

If you have ever felt hesitant or uneasy when reading the Bible’s supernatural claims, you are not alone. But perhaps that discomfort is an invitation. What if the stories that seem most fantastical are actually the truest? What if they are not asking you to suspend reason, but to enlarge it? True Fantasy is not an escape from reality. It is the unveiling of it. And once the Invisible God is made visible to the mind and heart, the world itself begins to look different—more ordered, more purposeful, and far more hopeful than materialism ever allowed.

Keep Reading: Chapter 1: The Fantastic Power of the Spoken Word