We are constantly told by those who deny the historicity of many Old Testament narratives that, on the supposition that they are fictitious, their value is not impaired; they still teach the same lessons and with the same force. They are compared to the parable of the prodigal son, which, it is said, has as great value as if it were a true story. They are also compared to a certain class of novels which enforce moral lessons with great power, though they are known to be fictitious. This is a very plausible plea. It is doubtless believed by those who urge it, and it is readily accepted by those who are this way inclined. But is it true?

      The comparison involves the assumption that the moral force of a real example and an imaginary one is the same. The moral force of Abraham's example in offering Isaac at the command of God has been felt by all believers in all ages. We are asked to believe that it would have been equally effective had all believers in all ages understood that Abraham never offered Isaac--that the story is a fiction. Let a man preach from that text a sermon intended to arouse his hearers to personal sacrifices in the service of God, closing with the statement that the story is all a fiction, and see what effect his sermon will have.

      The difference in effect of the two classes of narratives is this: That in moral fiction we are told how men ought to act, but in true narrative we are told how they did act. The former has the force of precept; the latter, the force of example. The hearer or the reader can parry the force of the former by answering, Oh, that is well enough to talk about, but nobody ever acted in [308] that way, and you must not expect me to do it. But the force of the latter can not be voided, because what one man has done another may do.

      As to novels, dramas, and all such literature, their moral effects are grossly exaggerated. While they often move the feelings very deeply, they seldom show fruit in actual life. The inveterate novel-reader, and the constant attendant on the playhouse, are among the most selfish beings. They learn to indulge in emotion as a luxury, and not as a stimulus to active benevolence. The lady who heard the play of "The Three Orphans," which had a great run a few years ago, and wept profusely in sympathy with the unfortunates, and then, as she started home, spurned from her presence three real orphans who stood at her carriage door, is a fair representative of the whole class, and a good illustration of the practical value of fiction.

      As to the story of the prodigal son, the assumption that it is fiction is without a shadow of foundation. Amid the countless multitude of rich men with two sons, both of whom have acted parts almost identical with those of the parable, it would be strange indeed if none had ever done precisely what the parable narrates. The Lord's parables were realities, and not fictions. No man can prove of a single one of them that it had not actually transpired. There is a double deception, then, when men assert that the narratives of the Old Testament would be just as effective if regarded as fictions, and then appeal to any of the parables as examples in point. As well declare that a picture of a thunderstorm, or an imitation of one by all orchestra, would as thoroughly purify the atmosphere as the storm itself. In an actual event there is the power of an example. In a fictitious narrative there is only the power of a supposed example. [309]

[SEBC 308-309]