Edgedancer by Brandon Sanderson offers readers a quiet novella nestled between the titanic conflicts of his larger Stormlight Archive—the second and third books, Words of Radiance and Oathbringer respectively. Yet in its brevity, it holds one of the most moving theological truths in the series. Through the eyes of a minor character, Lift—a strange, streets-smart, stubborn young Radiant—we encounter a reflection of Christ’s heart for the least of these (Matthew 25:37-40). This short tale cuts through epic battles and divine intrigue with a single Ideal of an Edgedancer: “I will remember those who have been forgotten.”
As a Lutheran pastor, this oath struck me like thunder. Not because it’s grandiose, but because it echoes the softness of God’s heart in the Gospel. It echoes every whispered prayer of the shut-in left behind in their own home or a nursing home, every lonely parishioner passed over by society, every soul wondering if God—or anyone—still remembers them (cf. Psalm 13). Lift’s story is not just a fantasy; it’s a reminder that in the Kingdom of God, none of God’s saints are forgotten, no matter how lowly or ignored.
Lift and the Theology of the Little Ones
Lift is a Radiant unlike any other. She refuses to grow up—literally. She eats pancakes like sacraments, slips through the cracks of noble society, and speaks to her spren, Wyndle, as if he were both annoying and divine. But beneath her antics lies a child with a fierce, Christlike instinct to notice those whom the world discards like rubbish.
The story of Edgedancer is not about defeating armies or solving cosmic puzzles. It’s about a girl chasing a murderer whom she calls Darkness through the slums of Yeddaw, simply because she cannot let the forgotten die alone. In her own words, “Someone has to remember the people who get stepped on. Who get squished. Someone has to care, or else everything’s just gonna keep happening, again and again.”
Here is the theology of the cross in action—not in abstraction, but incarnate in a child who cares. Jesus says in Matthew 25:40, “Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me.” Luther comments on this verse in his Church Postil: “God does not consider the great and noble, but He turns His eyes to the poor and humble. He will judge us according to how we have treated the lowly” (LW 79:321). Lift lives this. She runs after orphans, heals the wounded, and breaks into hospitals not for vengeance but to sit with the dying.
“I Will Remember Those Who Have Been Forgotten”: A Pastoral Ideal
When Lift finally speaks her Second Ideal of the Edgedancers, she does so not in triumph but in compassion. This oath is not a declaration of power—it is a pastoral promise. As pastors, we are called into this same vow. It is too easy to forget the shut-in, the widow, the chronically ill, the autistic member at our church. They’re out of sight, and so the world—and even the Church—leave them out of mind. But Lift reminds us of our vocation. She refuses to let bureaucracy, fear, or even common sense keep her from remembering the forgotten. She encompasses God’s own remembering in Scripture—when she remembers, she doesn’t merely remember they exist(ed), but she acts.
This Ideal echoes David’s cry in Psalm 27:10, “When my father and my mother forsake me, then the LORD will take care of me.” And it is embodied most fully in Christ Himself, who says, “I will not leave you orphans; I will come to you” (John 14:18).
Lift’s oath is not idealistic—it is incarnational. It is the echo of Christ who came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance (Luke 5:32). It is reminiscent of the Good Shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine for the one (Luke 15:4). And when she kneels beside those who are dying and forgotten, Lift becomes a sacramental sign: a living, breathing reminder that mercy still walks among the ruins.
Pancakes and the Supper: Lift’s Eucharistic Vision
Lift’s obsession with food—particularly pancakes—is more than a quirky character trait. It becomes a theological symbol. Throughout Edgedancer, Lift is sustained by food in a way that evokes the Lord’s Supper. She treats it as a gift, a necessity, and a reminder she is still alive and still called. When she says, “I’ll eat your stupid food, stupid voidbringers. You can’t stop me from being me,” we hear not just pre-adolescent rebellion (and humor), but eucharistic defiance. Like Luther at Worms, she is saying: Here I stand. I can do no other. God help me. She receives, and she resists.
In the Lord’s Supper, we also eat and resist—not with our strength, but with trust in Christ. We receive the true body and blood of Jesus “given and shed for you,” and in doing so, we are remembered. Lift’s hunger is not just physical—it is spiritual. She hungers for a world in which no one is forgotten. And each time she eats, she declares grace is still at work.
The Forgotten Spren: Wyndle and the Voice of the Church
Lift’s bond with Wyndle is comical but deeply theological. Wyndle is a gardener in Shadesmar—a cultivator (cultivationspren). He’s not flashy or aggressive. He speaks softly, reasons patiently, and calls Lift to faithfulness. In many ways, he’s the voice of the Church: reminding her of the path, calling her to speak the Words, and urging her to remember who she is.
In Lutheran theology, the Church exists to deliver Christ. It does not save, but it speaks the Word that saves. As we confess in the Augsburg Confession, “Our churches teach that one holy Church is to remain forever. The Church is the congregation of saints [Psalm 149:1] in which the Gospel is purely taught and the Sacraments are correctly administered” (AC VII, 1). Wyndle does this. He brings Lift the Words, and she speaks them not for glory, but for love.
Darkness and the Temptation of Law Without Mercy
The antagonist in Edgedancer, whom Lift calls Darkness, is terrifying not because he’s evil, but because he is lawful—he follows the law to the very iota. He executes his duties with precision and calming detachment. He believes in order and judgement, but he has forgotten mercy. When he justifies killing a child because “the law must be upheld,” Lift responds not with theological argument but with tears and action, much as Jesus wept because God’s Law must be upheld by exacting death (John 11:1-35). She embodies Micah 6:8, “What does the LORD require of you but to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?”
Darkness shows us what happens when righteousness is divorced from compassion. Lift reminds us that true justice remembers the person, not just the rule. She is a walking embodiment of Christ’s command: “Go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy and not sacrifice'” (Matthew 9:13; cf. Hosea 6:6).
Remembering the Forgotten in the Name of Christ
Edgedancer may be a simple novella, but it contains one of the most Gospel-centered oaths in all of The Stormlight Archive: “I will remember those who have been forgotten.” This Ideal is not just for fantasy knights—it’s for pastors and Christians who feel the ache of loneliness in their pews, who see the fading names on the shut-in list, who kneel beside hospital beds and wonder if it matters.
It does matter.
Lift teaches us that remembering is holy, that presence is power, and that mercy is light. In a world obsessed with efficiency and spectacle, she shows us the quiet, radiant glory of the small things—the visitation, the prayer, and the Word spoken over the forgotten.
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