The Sacred Space of Imagination

The Sacred Space of Imagination: Why Christian Artists Must Interface With Wonder

"Can you even do that at a Christian university?"

This is the question I've heard rumbling—and sometimes said out loud—in response to our recent production of The Prince of Egypt. Over 4,000 people filled Henderson Auditorium across multiple performances, making it our most successful production to date. Audiences laughed, wept, and wondered as they watched Moses wrestle with his identity, his calling, and his God. And yet, some remained troubled by a single question: Is it appropriate for a Christian institution to stage a musical that imagines conversations between Moses and Rameses that aren't recorded in Scripture? That depicts a romance with Tzipporah that Scripture only hints at? That gives emotional depth to Pharaoh's household in ways the biblical text does not?

My answer is unequivocal: Yes. Not only is it appropriate—it is essential.

In Essentials, Unity; In Non-Essentials, Liberty

The old maxim, frequently misattributed to Augustine, provides our framework: "In essentials, unity; in non-essentials, liberty; in all things, charity." The essentials of the Exodus story are clear and non-negotiable. God called Moses. Moses obeyed, though imperfectly. Pharaoh’ heart was hardened. God delivered His people with a mighty hand. The Red Sea parted. God is faithful to His promises. These are the bedrock truths that no creative interpretation should—or could—undermine.

But the non-essentials? The texture of Moses's relationship with his adoptive brother? The conversations between Rameses (if that was even his name) and his father about legacy and power? The moment Tzipporah first looked into Moses's eyes? These details are not prescribed in Scripture, and that silence is not an accident. It is an invitation.

God did not give us a screenplay. He gave us a story—one that begs to be inhabited, explored, and imagined. When we bring the ancient narrative to the stage, we are not rewriting Scripture; we are wrestling with it. We are asking, "What does it feel like to be called by God and to leave everything behind? What does it cost to say yes? What is lost when we say no?"

These are not trivial questions. They are the questions that move a story from the head to the heart.

The Work of Imagination Is the Work of Empathy

Within the visual and performing arts, we are called to do something that other disciplines often overlook: we must imagine the humanity of these stories. We must ask what it was like for Moses to flee Egypt in shame and fear. We must consider the implications for his adoptive family—the confusion, the sense of betrayal, the questions that must have haunted them. We must picture Tzipporah seeing Moses not as a prince or a prophet, but as a broken man learning to trust again.

Makoto Fujimura writes, "Art is not a luxury, but a necessity of life. It is the language of the soul, the voice of the spirit." When we take Scripture and bring it to life on stage, we are engaging in the essential work of translation—not of words, but of experience. We are inviting audiences to step inside the story, to feel the weight of God's call and the cost of obedience, to see themselves in Moses's hesitation and Tzipporah's courage.

This is the same work that has made The Chosen resonate with millions of viewers worldwide. As long as we treat the Bible as our authority—as the unchanging foundation—then other imaginative interpretations are secondary and fall squarely within the realm of liberty. They are not competing with Scripture; they are serving it, helping us to encounter it with fresh eyes and open hearts. The goal is never to replace the text, but to illuminate it—to help audiences remember that these were not mythological figures, but real people who walked dusty roads and made impossible choices and learned, as we must, to trust in the Lord with all their hearts and lean not on their own understanding.

The Jesus Who Looks Like Us

Consider how many churches throughout history have imagined Jesus looked exactly like them. European Renaissance painters depicted Him with pale skin and light hair. Ethiopian iconography shows Him with African features. Asian Christian art renders Him with East Asian characteristics. Historically accurate? No. Imaginative? Yes.

And there is a beauty in this. God becoming man is such a huge and amazing jump that we can't help but imagine He is like us. This is not heresy—it is a testimony to the profound mystery of the Incarnation. When God took on flesh, He took on all of humanity. He became approachable, relatable, knowable. And so we picture Him in ways that help us connect with His humanity, even as we worship His divinity.

The same principle applies when we imagine the humanity of Moses, of Rameses, of Miriam and Aaron. We are not diminishing their stories—we are inhabiting them, making them accessible to audiences who need to see themselves in the ancient narrative of God's faithfulness.

The Danger of Gatekeeping God's Story

Some will insist that any extrabiblical detail is a step too far. That to depict a scene not explicitly recorded in Exodus is to add to Scripture, to take liberties that are not ours to take. I understand the concern—truly, I do. Scripture is sacred, and we must handle it with reverence and care.

But let us be honest: every interpretation involves imagination. The pastor who describes Moses's inner turmoil in a sermon is imagining. The Sunday school teacher who voices Pharaoh in a flannel-graph story is imagining. The visual artist who paints the parting of the Red Sea must decide what the sky looked like, how the water moved, what expression was on Moses's face. None of these details are prescribed, and yet none of us would call them heretical.

Why, then, do we reserve our harshest judgments for the stage?

Too often, would-be gatekeepers appoint themselves as arbiters of what is and is not permissible in Christian art. They draw lines that Scripture does not draw. They demand uniformity where God has offered liberty. And in doing so, they do not build up the body of Christ—they burden it.

Skepticism is a healthy part of engaging with any art—indeed, with all of the sciences and humanities. We should think critically, ask questions, and wrestle with how stories are told. But there is a difference between thoughtful discernment and destructive criticism. As Paul writes in 1 Thessalonians 5:11, "Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing." If our critiques do not edify, if they do not build up the body of Christ, then we must ask ourselves whether we are speaking from wisdom or from a desire to control.

No one is being forced to participate in or attend any production. If you have strong convictions about how a biblical story should or should not be portrayed, you are absolutely free to abstain. That is your right, and it is rooted in a desire to honor God, which I respect deeply. But to insist that others must share your scruples—to declare that a Christian university has erred simply by staging a musical adaptation of Exodus—is neither edifying nor charitable.

It is also worth noting that our production of The Prince of Egypt was done with excellence. Our students, faculty, and staff poured themselves into every detail, crafting a performance that was technically masterful, emotionally resonant, and spiritually meaningful. Colossians 3:23 reminds us, "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters." Excellence in art brings glory to God—not because it is perfect, but because it reflects the care and intentionality with which He has made us.

A brouhaha over whether Anderson University can produce The Prince of Egypt is not a meaningful endeavor. It is a distraction from the real work: pointing people to the God who calls, who delivers, who provides, who loves.

What God Has Made Space For

I believe—deeply, fundamentally—that God provides space and liberty for imagination. He could have given us a detailed script for every moment of Moses's life. He did not. He could have forbidden artistic interpretation of His Word. He did not. Instead, He gave us minds to wonder, hearts to feel, and hands to create.

The doctrine of creation affirms the arts. We are made in the image of a Creator God, and when we create—when we tell stories, build worlds, imagine possibilities—we reflect His nature. This is not arrogance; it is obedience. It is worship.

As was included in the program under The Prince of Egypt Faith Note, our goal is to use our storytelling to point to the Lord and to provide a focus through which the audience can experience a Christian worldview. The Prince of Egypt did exactly that. It asked audiences to consider the cost of discipleship, the allure of worldly security, and the faithfulness of God. It invited them to trust in the Lord with all their hearts, even when the path ahead is uncertain and costly.

Four thousand people encountered that invitation. Four thousand people encountered the character of God through story. And I am confident that God was honored—not despite the imagination we employed, but because of it.

Onward

The arts train us to imagine, to interpret, and to connect. They cultivate judgment, emotional intelligence, and creative problem-solving. But more than that, they teach us to see the world—and the Word—with fresh eyes. To enter into stories not as passive consumers, but as active participants. To ask not just "What happened?" but "What does it mean? What does it cost? What does it change in me?"

This is the work we are called to in the visual and performing arts. Not to replace Scripture, but to serve it. Not to diminish the sacred, but to make it vivid, urgent, alive.

So to those who wonder if we can "even do that" at a Christian university, I say: We must. Because God is not only the God of the essentials—He is also the God who invites us into the liberty of the non-essentials. He is the God who speaks in whispers and burning bushes, in plagues and parted seas, in stories that demand to be told and retold and reimagined for every generation.

None of us were there to know exactly how it happened. But God has given us the freedom—and the responsibility—to wonder. And in that wondering, we find not only art, but worship of the God who called his people out of Egypt and into relationship and identity.

To everyone who participated in this production—who sang, danced, built, designed, and poured their gifts into this work—thank you. To the thousands who came and allowed yourselves to be moved by this story—thank you. And to those who have wrestled with these ideas, who have asked hard questions and engaged thoughtfully with what it means to honor God through the arts—thank you. These conversations matter, and they sharpen us all.