I can date precisely when my dangerous dalliance with Harry Potter began.
I had seen the news stories, of course, which mostly consisted of long lines of nerdy boys and girls waiting outside of bookstores each year in glasses and striped ties. Since Harry Potter bears a striking resemblance to the title character of Where’s Waldo?, I could not tell whether these were Harry Potter release parties or Where’s Waldo? conventions—which would, it seemed to me, be exactly contrary to the spirit of Where’s Waldo?. But no sooner had I begun to separate Harry and Waldo in my mind than I was informed by these reports that I, as a Christian, was supposed to be Gravely Concerned about Harry Potter’s corrupting force upon children.
I had never met any such Christians, but they must have been out there in droves, because that was all these reporters talked about. Apparently the county franchise of Gravely Concerned Christian Parents was keeping constant surveillance over the local goat populations, fearing bands of children might be roaming the countryside with broomsticks between their legs in search of sacrifices for someone whose name sounded like Lord Value Mart. They had not yet caught any such nefarious bands of prepubescent children—which was surprising, because it’s not easy for ten-year-olds to run with goats slung over their shoulders and broomsticks clutched between their legs—but the Value Mart got lots of free publicity and the local cow-tipping clubs nearly went out of business.
These reports and their solemn warnings still lingered in my memory when, on Thanksgiving in 2002, I first heard Harry Potter read aloud. Living in Princeton, New Jersey, I had been invited to the home of a Christian theologian of formidable reputation. This man, towering in mind and frame (he is closer to seven than six feet in height), discussed football and beer with the same dry, languid world-weariness that characterized his lectures, as though his mind had so penetrated the mysteries of the cosmos that nothing could excite him. Yet when he read Harry Potter, he was animated and joyful.
I became Gravely Concerned when I saw a pen of goats and pigs watching nervously from a neighbor’s yard—but I was a student who wished to make a good impression, and his children did not have that look in the eye that children get when they’re about to sacrifice hoofed mammals. So I sat and did nothing while this man whom I admired recklessly endangered the spiritual welfare and eternal destiny of his children, the safety of the local goat herds and the future of mom-and-pop stores that cannot compete with Value Mart.
It was not difficult to see why his better judgment was overpowered. Rowling’s writing is not without its virtues. Every stone at Hogwarts is finely and lovingly crafted. Filled though it is with satanic rituals like Quidditch and the rampant underage drinking of butterbeer, Rowling’s world is clearly the product of an endlessly fertile creativity. (Can you say deal with the devil? Judas K. Rowling can. And so can your children.) Some of her characters are archetypes, some caricatures, yet those who occupy the emotional heart are so familiar you might have known them in school. Rowling spins a new world into being, yet never lets it lose its emotional axis; she expands the sphere of the imagination with dragons and dementors, gryphons and grindylows, yet the center always holds in universally human experiences of growing up, falling in love, facing fears, confronting death.
So, my moral reflexes dulled by tryptophan and a bottle of Guinness, I relaxed the spiritual musculature that protects the Christian from demonic influence. In retrospect it is clear that Satan was at work, or at least Lord Value Mart, for even my intellectual pride softened its usual protest. I was exchanging Kierkegaard for Kreacher, Levinas for Longbottom, Camus and Sartre for Crabbe and Goyle, and I felt no shame. I should have known I was under some sort of Confundus charm when Dobby seemed like the height of comic genius. But I was led astray. If this renowned theologian could delight in Harry Potter, then certainly I could do the same with no loss of self-respect.
It was self-control that should have concerned me. For thus began my terrifying descent into Potter-mania.
Yet the long tendrils of the devil where slithering around my neck. My friends began to shun me for my embarrassing behavior. Instead of asking them to sit beside me, I reached out my hand and said Accio! When the pastor complimented my wife on her disarming smile, I muttered Expelliarmus! beneath my breath and smirked. I developed an unnatural fondness for the word “git” and once finished a public prayer by replacing Amen with Alohomora. Whenever I walked past goats I felt an inexplicable desire to do them violence.
Yet the downward spiral is steepest near its end. In the summer of 2007, when the final book in the septet was about to be released, I hit rock bottom. You might recall the frenzy of anticipation. Children were holding séances in the streets. Every night reporters interviewed the Gravely Concerned Christian Parents. Farmers hired security guards, and goat’s milk hit $20 a bottle. Even on the campus of St. Olaf College, where I had gone to conduct dissertation research, the sulfurous smell of Wicca was in the air.
Desperate to know how the story ended, I downloaded a bootlegged copy onto a library computer and spent hours squinting at the hastily-scanned pages. Soon I was afflicted with a Hagrid-sized headache, and I wandered the bookstacks pleading for someone to take me to Madame Pomfrey. At night I clambered back into my chair and kept reading, hoping beyond hope that Harry and Hermione would survive. (Ron could eat it, as far as I cared.)
Yet I still had plenty lefty to read on the day the book was released. A giggling horde of Girl Scouts had taken possession of the campus for a conference, and the bookstore announced it would stay open until midnight in order to sell the concluding volume to the girls.
Thus it was that I stood in line that night to receive my copy alongside hundreds of squealing little girls in pajamas and pigtails. I was the only one in the bookstore with a Y chromosome, the only one taller than Flitwick. Christians are called to speak the truth in love, so I should have told the girls something compassionate, like: “Soon you’ll all be selling cookies in hell!” But instead (see the extent of my sin!) I actually felt that we were all a part of something special together.
When I reached the cash register, the woman looked at me askance. “You don’t look like a Girl Scout.”
“Polyjuice potion,” I lied.
Even as I paid $6.66 for the book, I knew I would never tell my professors back at Harvard that I had fallen to impersonating Girl Scouts. But it comforted me to imagine that perhaps my gigantic theologian friend was out there somewhere too, pretending to be a Girl Scout with a severe hormonal imbalance.
Yet finally my eyes were opened. Standing in a sea of pink and purple pajamas as the Girl Scouts and I huddled out the door, I saw one girl OMG’ing her BFF on her cell phone, and oversaw this exchange:
“U got it 2? I’m totally siked!” wrote the girl beside me.
“U wanna meet up to read it 2gether?” answered her friend.
The girl smiled sweetly. “Totes! And then we can summon Beelzebub. Maybe burn some Bibles.”
“Egzactly. I mean, all Jesus needed was a simple Stupefy spell and he could’ve avoided the whole cross thing. ROFL. I’m so glad Harry Potter has shown me the way to devil-worship.”
Stunned, I resolved never again to read Harry Potter as soon as I had finished the last book. I had found Waldo, and Waldo was me. It was time to find Jesus again. Two days later I quit cold-turkey and I’ve been Potter-free for 2 years now.
All Christians should oppose Harry Potter. They can stand up for Jesus, for the humane treatment of animals and for independent convenience stores all at once by rejecting Harry Potter, protecting the local goat populations and bringing down Lord Value Mart once and for all.
UPDATE: This review has moved on up to the main website. Check it out at its new home.