The Old Man and the Gospel

The world of ideas often mirrors more of a battle than a mere debate. We hold to our cherished truths with white knuckles, and oppositional voices appear as assaults to our defenses. This is especially true when it comes to the subject of God, and understandably so given the gravity of what his existence might entail. Recognizing the impasse created by intellectual arguments, author and Christian apologist C. S. Lewis believed a different tactic might yield better results. In his 1956 New York Times essay, “Sometimes Fairy Stories May Say Best What’s to be Said,” he wrote:

I thought I saw how stories of this kind could steal past a certain inhibition which had paralysed much of my own religion in childhood. Why did one find it so hard to feel as one was told one ought to feel about God or the sufferings of Christ? I thought the chief reason was that one was told one ought to. An obligation to feel can freeze feelings. And reverence itself did harm. The whole subject was associated with lowered voices; almost as if it were something medical. But supposing that by casting all these things into an imaginary world, stripping them of their stained-glass and Sunday School associations, one could make them for the first time appear in their real potency? Could one not thus steal past those watchful dragons? I thought one could.

We all have watchful dragons, hidden within our presuppositions and foundational beliefs. The moment an idea approaches that resembles a monster, the dragons growl and likely chase it away. But stories — stories get a free pass for some reason.

Fiction is often dismissed as mere escapism, while nonfiction is seen as the path to edification. At least, that’s the implication. But this is far from the truth. Nonfiction teaches a truth; fiction forces you to feel it.

Which leads me to Ernest Hemingway, a brilliant writer and well-known atheist who wrestled throughout his life with depression until, tragically, it consumed him. He rejected religion, embraced a materialistic search, and yet … I believe those watchful dragons were lulled to sleep by his own stories.

One of his greatest is The Old Man and the Sea — a quick read, its title summarizing the entire plot. It is no grand adventure filled with wars, dragons, and magic. It is still. It is slow. It is beautiful.

A key moment in the novel is when Santiago catches a great fish — and refuses to let go. He is old, tired, broken even, but he refuses to let go. It is a story of suffering, a story of existentialism. As if this is life: we are the old man, clinging to a fish that may very well kill us. For what end? To eat it? To live? To sell it — just to do it all again tomorrow? Santiago refuses to let go of this great fish that promises to change his life, so much so that the rope slowly cuts through his rugged hands. Pulling the fish alongside his small boat, Santiago returns to the harbor to find the fish completely eaten away by sharks. The valor and sacrifice of the old man was all for nought.

This outlook is heart-wrenching, but for the rugged materialist it is true. If life is mere matter and heat, then these ideas I write, the ideas you read, are nothing more than bubbles of chemicals, sound, and noise. It is near impossible to argue otherwise. The best of our efforts cannot evade the ravages of time. We are born and we die, and the exploits of the intervening time amount to nothing but the empty skeleton of a fish and unfulfilled dreams. This is a hard thing to believe. Not because it is untrue — much of life can feel like an adventure gone wrong — but because its truth empties the world of all significance.

Readers naturally see themselves as the Old Man holding on to the great fish who promises to change their life. I believe Hemingway likely saw himself that way too. But there is no self-saving in the gospel. There is only him. Too often, we grip the line, holding fast to whatever it is we desire to catch. And we bleed. And we cut. And we hurt. And we cry. And we curse. But we never catch it. We never return. Unlike Santiago, we are forever lost to our own ambitions.

The parable of the old man and the great fish counterintuitively points beyond itself, to something deeper. The bleakness of the story is unbearable, so much so that its truthfulness demands an unseen reality that transcends what we see and know. To feel the full weight of the corpse of a fish pulled from the mysterious ocean depths is to simultaneously long for a different ending to the story, a better country where moth and rust do not corrupt and thieves do not break in and steal (Mt 6:19).

The story of the gospel is not that we find a great fish that transfigures the bleakness of this life, but that Jesus is like the Old Man — and we are the fish, caught against our will.

God is one of pursuit — not apathetic patience. He is not a king waiting for you to arrive, wondering why you are taking so, so, so long. He is the ship that carries you, the armor-bearer who readies you, the wisdom that guides you, the courage that anchors you.

I understand that many who read this might think, “That is not my experience with Christianity at all.” But the story of the Bible is far more than the people who teach it.

The Bible isn’t a manual of instructions. Not a collection of principles. Not a net full of little fish we need to catch in order to make it past the pearly gates. No, it is a story. A story of better news than The Old Man and the Sea.

God’s pursuit of his people can almost seem foolish. Again and again, he rescues them, they love him, then they hate Him. Then bad things happen, and he rescues them again. They love him, then hate him, then love him, then hate him — until, at last, he steps on stage himself.

He hooks us, friends, and we resist. We flee. We swim. We thrash, trying desperately to shake the line. But Jesus is steadfast. He breaks. He bleeds. But still — he holds on. All to gather us into the boat, to gut us, and to turn us into something new.

I encourage you — read this book. Feel the longing. Long for someone else to be the Old Man. For us to be the one pursued, to be found by one who never lets go, no matter how much it costs him.

Devon Taylor is a writer, theologian, and aspiring fantasy author dedicated to weaving the enchanted into the divine. With a passion for storytelling and deep theological reflection, Devon explores the intersection of faith, wonder, and imagination, inviting readers into worlds where mystery and meaning intertwine.