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5 min read

Symbols in culture – the interface between the Seen and the Unseen

Open your eyes.

Theodore is author of the historical fiction series The Wanderer Chronicles.

an all seeing eye hovers above a renaissance style picture of the supper at Emmaus.
Pontormo, via Wikimedia Commons.

As December gives way to January, we become conscious of time rolling on from one year into the next.  

The moment is often marked by that most famous image of the New Year: the Roman god Janus standing sentinel at the threshold; two-faced, gazing back into the past, but also forwards into the future.  

The double-faced god is a striking symbol to depict this interface of time. But we also often find symbols at another important interface: the place where the Seen meets the Unseen. 

Symbols have always existed at this touch-point - between the spiritual and the material. We might even say between heaven and earth. Symbols possess a power which goes beyond the strictly rational. They are more than their constituent parts. 

In the moment when Jesus effectively instituted the church, he tells his disciple Peter: “Behold, I give you the keys to the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.” Here, Jesus not only uses symbolic language with his image of the key, he also assigns Peter (and so the church) a divinely-appointed role: to stand there at this threshold between the seen and the unseen, and to have an effect. 

The mission then, to occupy and influence this frontier between both realms, is significant. It’s worth considering – especially at this liminal time of year - what a culture’s symbols say about its direction of travel. What are the symbols that saturate our conscious and unconscious world? What effect are they intended to have by their creators? What influence do they actually have in the seen and unseen? 

Our culture is saturated with symbols that were always meant to exert influence in the unseen. Some consciously; other maybe less so. 

The notion that symbols act on reality is not a merely Christian concept. Far from it. In many cultures, the origins of written communication have often been interwoven with both mystery and magic. The futhark, for example – the basis of the Old Norse runic alphabet in Scandinavia – developed directly out of shamanistic practices. In a word: witchcraft. Certain symbols were graven into material objects in order to have a specific effect. A rune for protection carved into the haft of a warrior’s axe; a rune for fertility on a woman’s comb or belt. Symbols to curse; symbols to bless. All intended to manipulate the reality around them. Effectively they acted as a kind of spell. 

Roll the wheel of history forward a bit and we see the cross itself became a powerful symbol across the developing civilizations of the world, especially in Europe. Making the sign of the cross became synonymous with an invocation of God’s blessing or else protection against some evil. An outcome all the more extraordinary when one considers the origin of its use – a shameful incident of execution, standing on a lonely hill. 

Similarly, the Crescent represents one of the great symbols of history, often in antagonism with the Cross. Think of the symbolic reversals still visible in the architecture of some parts of Spain. When the Iberian peninsula fell to Moorish conquest in the early eight century, the cross was torn down, all symbols of Christian faith effaced, only to return eight centuries later with the Reconquista. Today, you can see still the Cross surmounted on clearly Moorish architecture, a visible sign of those historic conflicts. 

Such warring symbols of unseen spiritual realities are hardly consigned to the history books. Witness perhaps the most live example playing out all across the cities of Europe. The Star of David opposed and disdained by those waving black, green, red and white flags. 

Nor is the clash of symbols simply a matter between the great religions of the world. The rainbow flag represents a certain positioning within the realm of the unseen wherever it is planted. In other contexts, our culture is saturated with symbols that were always meant to exert influence in the unseen. Some consciously; other maybe less so.  

Apple’s ‘apple’ is not just an apple. It is an apple with a bite taken out of it. Elsewhere, symbolic representations of devil horns proliferate – to be expected on heavy metal t-shirts and album covers; perhaps less so throughout myriad children’s TV shows and movies across our streaming channels. Yet they are there.  

The ‘One-Eye’ symbol has been associated variously with freemasonry, Luciferanism, Satanism and the occult. It appears in anything from pop videos to movie posters to political protest logos (“Just Stop Oil” anyone?). Even a ubiquitous pose-for-camera for celebrity photo-shoots. Once you clock it, you’d amazed how prevalent this symbol is across our culture.  

Does it signify anything? Or nothing at all? 

You have to assume that the creators of such symbols don’t include them by accident. Some are hidden in plain sight; others are brazen and bold. Either way, they are meant to be there. But why? 

Symbols have always been used in the casting of spells. These days, we give so much head space to the consumption of culture, myriad symbols flashing in and out of our consciousness as we scroll ever onward, have we any idea what spells we are subjecting ourselves to – irrespective of whether we believe they are effective or not? 

Against such murkiness, perhaps this season of Christmas rolling into the New Year is a good time to consider what some might consider the ultimate symbol appearing in our reality of the Seen: the Incarnation.  

In a way, Christ identified himself as the visible interface between the seen and the unseen when he said: Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.  

And yet, the Incarnation also transcends the mere symbolic. Yes, Christ points to an unseen reality, but he is also the ‘thing’ itself. He is both Seen and Unseen in one. Not a symbol pointing to something else, but the thing to which all symbols ultimately point: the central reality in the universe where God and creation meet. 

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Monsters
7 min read

I came for the demon-fighting pop stars and stayed for the existential crisis

A Netflix kids’ film made me rethink shame, friendship, and my Spotify algorithm

Harry Gibbins  is a doctoral researcher at the University of Aberdeen. His PhD concerns the intersection between autism and Christian ministry.

K-Popm Demon Hunters lean forward wielding weapons
Rumi and friends.
Netflix.

I am not the target demographic for the hit film K-Pop Demon Hunters. My knowledge of K-pop is incredibly limited, and I’m pretty apathetic about musicals. In fact, my only real encounter with K-pop was as a youth worker, where I distinctly remember its first ‘wave.’ Suddenly, groups of mostly teenage girls were eager to tell me all about BTS, a boy band that rose to popularity the late 2010s. Their dancing was impeccably choreographed, their lyrics a mix of English and Korean; for as much as it wasn’t my thing, I got the appeal. International media finding a place within the British zeitgeist has happened before. I’m of the generation where Pokémon did an excellent job of distracting me from learning my times tables. Yet, the seven very handsome boys that made up BTS seemed to cast a spell over my young people like I’d never seen.  

Flash forward seven years. Much has changed. A global pandemic is in the rear-view mirror, and I’m trying to find my place in the north-east of Scotland. I’m sitting in the car trying to simply transport my two wonderful daughters from Point A to Point B. Many parents will know of the strange hypnotic effects of children’s songs in the car. A fifteen-year-old Harry would be mortified to know that Metallica no longer feature in the top spots of my Spotify most-played artists. Now, upon that throne sits an assortment of Disney Princesses, and they rule with an iron fist. Today is different, however. “What do you want on today?” I ask, ready for that day’s third rendition of ‘Let it Go.’ “K-Bop Bear Hunters”, replies my youngest eagerly.  

Here, my daughter is trying her best to remember the name of a song she’s heard at gym class. I work it out eventually, K-Pop Demon Hunters, amused by the swapping out of ‘Demon’ for ‘Bear.’ My wife puts it on, and to my pleasant surprise, the songs are like a breath of fresh air. I read a bit about K-Pop Demon Hunters, working out that it’s an animated film on Netflix, and I get the general gist. However, I’m surprised to hear that it’s recently become the streamer’s most-watched film ever. My wife and I decide to watch it together that night, and I’m blown away. I’m seriously not the target demographic for this film, yet it has me completely hooked.  

The film follows the three members of a K-pop girl group, Huntr/x (pronounced hun-tricks). We quickly learn that Rumi, Mira, and Zoey, use the power of music to fight off demons, many of which are based on real Korean mythology. Their singing empowers a magic barrier, the Honmoon, that keeps the demons at bay; yet, trouble emerges when a demonic boy band arrives seeking to stop Huntr/x and allow demons to take over the world. High jinks ensue, there are some cracking songs, and, of course, a surprise romantic subplot.  

As the film ends, I find myself left with an unusual feeling. Ever since I was told as a boy that the big lion in Narnia was really Jesus, I’ve been intrigued by stories that tell me something of faith. Now, to be clear, I do not think the writers of K-Pop Demon Hunters set out to create a story about Christian faith; it would be very naïve and quite inappropriate to suggest a film so heavily inspired by Korean culture was actually about Western Christian values the whole time. However, I am still personally challenged by the themes it brings up, especially considering the film’s emphasis on belonging, togetherness, and authenticity.  

‘What It Sounds Like’ 

Rumi, our protagonist for this story, hides a secret, a secret which propels the events of the film. It is established early on that you can tell a demon in disguise by the intricate patterns on their arms; sharp tattoo-like symbols that resemble lightning bolts coursing across their bodies. As Rumi gets to the bridge of the song ‘Golden,’ we see her looking at herself in the mirror. The sleeves of her jacket sloping off her shoulders to reveal that she too holds these patterns; Rumi is part demon. This all happens in the first few opening scenes of the film. The audience holds onto this secret alongside Rumi as she tries to hide these patterns from her bandmates. She believes that her job is important, crucial even. The Honmoon must be protected; the barrier to the demon world must be strong. However, Rumi’s secret becomes a thorn in her side, risking their mission. This was where I saw the potential of the story roll out in front of me. What started as a colourful, poppy, sickly-sweet kids film developed into a tale that demonstrates the power of friendship, community, and love. To try and illustrate this more clearly, I want to pick up on some of the lyrics from the song sung at the film’s climax, ‘What It Sounds Like,’ tracing Rumi’s journey as she deals with the secret she hides. 

If ‘Golden’ was to set the stage, illustrating the juxtaposition between the song’s words and Rumi's insecurities, then ‘What It Sounds Like’ is the fulfilment of Rumi’s wish. Whilst Rumi originally sang of a duty that provided her strength, “cause we are hunters, voices strong and I know I believe,” now she recognises that she relies on her friends to go her through, “I don’t know why I didn’t trust you to be on my side.” The suspicion Rumi holds that her friend won’t understand the quite literal patterns she hides has only led to division; now, through the authenticity she has learnt to value, through the support of her friends who cast away their prejudices, a new reality is found where Rumi no longer holds shame for who she is.  

I am not surprised at all to hear that queer writers have acknowledged the allegory for the shame many queer people hold around coming out. Needing to hide a part of herself, Rumi demonstrates the philosophical cornerstone that has caused this story to resonate with queer folk. This is most potent at the crescendo of ‘What It Sounds Like,’ where all three girls come together and sing as one, “why did I cover up the colours stuck inside my head? I should’ve let the jagged edges meet the light instead.” What I believe is demonstrated here is a rejection of the thin understanding that ‘Golden’ prioritised. Originally, these bandmates came together because of a responsibility that has been placed on them; demons are bad, get rid of them. Now, a more nuanced reality emerges. As the light spills out of them, meeting these “jagged edges” of life like a prism, the world no longer seems as black and white as they first believed. Rumi, being part demon, is not in conflict with their desire to love each other. 

Carrying and caring 

Fantasy writing does a good job of using a physical object to represent the philosophy of the story. The One Ring in The Lord of the Rings both represents the burden Frodo carries and is literally the burden he carries. K-Pop Demon Hunters takes a similar approach, just not physically. As Huntr/x sing of the scars they carry, of covering up things they thought would lead to discrimination, they acknowledge that they have “listened to the demons, we let them get between us.” The fight they have is with magical creatures from the underworld, yes. But these demons also represent the division between Rumi and those she cares about. However, this shame is rooted in reality; we see early on that Rumi’s friends probably wouldn’t understand her part-demon heritage. What is needed here isn’t for Rumi to simply rip the plaster off and be honest. The shame she feels might well be internal, but it is still projected upon her by the attitudes of others. Instead, as demonstrated by the lyrics, it is only through a genuine life-giving care for one another that these three friends can come together to conquer darkness.  

To summarise, K-Pop Demon Hunters spoke more to me about the human experience of community, friendship, and togetherness than most so-called ‘grown-up’ films have ever managed. I am pleased that a film that, I imagine, my children will watch over and over again holds such a comforting message. Against a backdrop of children's media that only exists to empty my wallet, K-Pop Demon Hunters—against all my assumptions—truly demonstrates the artistic value of animated films. I look forward to the enviable barrage of sequels and copy-cats. 

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