But the woman in charge seemed to think my participation was a problem.

The only music she allowed during the meetings was the kind with words, on the principle that musicians shouldn't just show off during worship. Was someone going to sing with me? No. Was I playing a hymn or a chorus? No. I had thought of playing some music written for the violin by Bach.

Bach?

Bach. Johann Sebastian Bach. A Christian who wrote show-off music (as I yearned to say).

There was a long silence in the tent, unbroken except by people slapping ferocious mosquitoes. At length, she said if the Bach song had words, I could play it. If not, well . . .

She gave me a songbook called "Sacred Classics" that she was sure would be more appropriate, out of which I offered to play Schubert's "Ave Maria." And what did this Baptist lady say to the famous hymn worshiping the virgin? It was from "Sacred Classics." It had words. Approved.

My "Ave Maria" was a hit with the protestants. But I felt resentful.

Evangelicals have a tortured relationship with the arts, and often use specious principles to discern good from bad. Exhibit A is Harry Potter.

Every summer I collect questions from our community to address in a sermon series. Last year, a mother said she couldn’t understand why her fellow believers have fits over J. K. Rowling, but let their kids read C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien. Is there any principle that distinguishes the one from the others?

Just for fun, let's recall what a principle is.

A principle is a timeless truth, a moral or spiritual reality that won't budge. The ten commandments, the biblical statements about God's character, the pointillistic wisdom of proverbs are all principles. We can reason about them. They apply consistently, though differently, across varying situations. They demand obedience.

Many evangelicals seem to have ditched principles in favor of ideals.

An ideal is a generalization that sounds emphatic but leaves goodness hazy. Neighbors ought to "care" for each other, movies ought to be "clean," and children should be taught "family values." Everyone can agree with such statements, but we can't reason about them or use them to make any real commitments. Their main appeal is nostalgia.

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Evangelicals seem to think of morality in the same sloppy way as the rest of our society: matters of conscience are really just strong preferences. So, peering into the "gray areas" of the arts through such lenses, evangelicals often blunder into hypocrisy.

Yes, Lewis has witches and Greek gods in his stories. Ideally, he would have left those out, but we know he was a solid Christian, and we'll assume his best intentions. Yes, Tolkien's stories are full of sorcerers and magic. Ideally, Gandalf would've been a prayer warrior, but Tolkien was a solid Christian too. We know what he was driving at, and there are such powerful pictures of Christ, etc., etc.

Rowling, on the other hand, is just glorifying witchcraft. So we draw the line at Rowling.

In fact, Tolkien's narrative treats magic far more seriously than Rowling's. Lewis believed that, in some senses, mythology contained divine truth, while Rowling has no such historical agenda. So, in terms of principle, a stronger case might be made against reading Narnia and Middle Earth than against Harry Potter.

But it's a case I have no interest in making. In lighting a bonfire for Tolkien and Lewis, I would be bound to throw in much Shakespeare, Hans Christian Andersen and all fairy tales, Star Wars, the vast majority of operas, and maybe even music without the purifying influence of words. To argue this way is to trivialize the actual moral problems of the arts: What is the difference between portraying sin and inciting it? Can art lie? Is mere entertainment corrupting?

The arts—whether literary, musical, or visual—are God's glory of creativity flowing out of the human imagination. He gave us his creativity so that we could reflect on life, not just its beauty but also its darkness.

Jesus himself used literary art.

We often forget that the parables were fiction—invented stories designed to challenge our perceptions. The parable of the dishonest manager (Luke 16:1-13), for example, seems to offer the lying slave as an example. But this is likely a trick of perspective. I think the main character is the master, who knows the power of releasing people from their debts (and who opens and closes the action, cf. vv. 1, 8). Jesus’ own application of the parable is that the Pharisees must align themselves with the priorities of their Master (Luke 16:10-13).

To treat parables like this one as if they were folksy sermon illustrations is to miss their essential quality: they show us the Kingdom by forcing us to question our perspective. In them, Jesus fuses his artistry and his message.

Our creativity is nothing less than a reflection of God’s nature, especially as he is displayed in Jesus Christ. As such, our creativity has redemptive potential. I think this principle is just as true as the commandment against idolatry, and ought to be obeyed with our whole beings just as strictly.

That evangelicals should be so seized with moral qualms about the imago dei is one of the most insufferable qualities of an already marginal subculture.

Which brings me back to the Baptist woman in Florida. The resentment I'm still capable of lathering against her foolish views of music in worship is deeply unhealthy. It is a bitterness from which I've often had to repent. But it's also a taste of what brews in the hearts of young people in evangelical households that won't acknowledge the good uses of God's beautiful, strange world.

The absence of an artistic vision of the Christian life among evangelicals is an emergency. We endure the symptoms of it daily: high rates of depression, boredom during worship, preaching that is often insulting to the emotions, and a lack of motivation to engage deeply with the presence of God. To me, the visceral reaction against Harry Potter is another symptom of an artistic vacuum.

It reflects an evangelicalism that can say no but fumbles when it tries to say yes.

Matthew Raley is the author of the novel Fallen, and The Diversity Culture: Creating Conversations of Faith with Buddhist Baristas, Agnostic Students, Aging Hippies, Political Activists, and Everyone In Between, newly released from Kregel. His blog is tritonelife.com.