When world building, either think about your world–or have it built for you.
The most important part:
Ultimately, of course, all this is just silly speculation. After all, Star Wars is the work product of secular humanist Hollywood elites who doubtless would be horrified to think that they were telling a tale that can be interpreted as a Christian allegory.
As an aside, my wife and I rewatched Babylon 5, and the idea of a self-professed atheist writing fiction that is respectful of religion seems odd to us today–but it was done in spades for this show. For his writing on The Parliament of Dreams, J. Michael Straczynski received considerable praise from various religious groups. Beyond that, there are several Christian motifs which are common in literature and which we have soaked in for most of our lives: the Christ figure, the Good Shepherd, the Garden of Gethsemane, stories of great falls and great redemptions. Christianity in particular is particularly full of symbolism that we all can relate to, since the image of Christ (being executed on a Roman instrument of torture next to two common thieves) is one of “the highest in the lowest”, and from that great stories of individual heroism and redemption flow naturally.
But you need to do your own world building.
Otherwise others may do your world building for you. And when that happens–or when you forget what your world means to you (for forget to leave notes to your later self), a throwaway line that is supposed to suggest the power of a particular character can blow your entire mythology out of the water. That happened when George Lucas, seeking a way to explain how a child Anakan Skywalker was so powerful, relied on “midi-chlorians,” which completely destroyed the original Star Wars mythos by turning the force from something accessible by all to something that is inherited, like blue eyes.
And suddenly a gnostic universe where anyone can awaken to Reality becomes Nietzsche’s “ubermenche” universe where only a certain select few, selected by having the correct genetics, can elevate themselves.
Now most authors and movie makers don’t want to engage in the sort of world building that make a story coherent. After all, they want to tell a dramatic story, or a tear jerking story, or a story with spaceships crashing and pod racers running around in circles in a sports arena.
But what differentiates science fiction and fantasy from other genres of fiction is the world building.
And what makes a number of science fiction or fantasy stories and movies powerful is, in fact, the exposition which introduces us to the world that you built. (Think of the first time you see elves in the Lord of the Rings movies, or the way the world of Avatar is introduced. I would suggest a number of Science Fiction and Fantasy movies, devoid of the requirement to introduce the world in which they are set, would be half their length and nowhere near as interesting.)
If you don’t have a consistent world, your story will eventually fall apart–and you may be better off sticking to historic fiction instead. (And that’s okay, in a way: after all, the movie Avatar could have been told in 18th century America on the western frontier with Indians instead of Na’vis, and the U.S. calvary instead of a private security force. Jake could have been a private assigned to work with an anthropologist sympathetic to the Indian tribe being displaced, and the hidden beauty of some canyon (with waterfalls, ‘natch) substituting for the night-glowing creatures.)
So if you’re going to introduce an element of magic to your story–as is the Force in Star Wars–work out to the nth detail what it is and how it works. Don’t be afraid to dive into gnostic works or theology or works of philosophy in order to work out how your magical system works. Don’t even be afraid of a sort of “Deus Ex-Machina”: that is, don’t be afraid to have your system work thanks to some hidden God-like figure. Just honor the internal logic of your story (and your universe), rather than tossing everything out the window in the third act because you can’t think more than two acts ahead. (The only reason why having a god show up during a Greek tragedy works is because of a shared–but unspoken–understanding of the Greek gods–and would be similar to having a principal of a school show up half-ways through a fight between two high school students. We know what a principal is and what her powers and limits are.)
Again, think of the first time we see the elves in the Lord of the Rings movies. They don’t just flit by, all pretty and glowey, never to be seen again, having no baring on the movie at all. That way is lazy; it just shows you have too much in your special effects budget. No; elves play an important role in the rest of the movies–so we’re not just seeing extra effects budget being burned; we’re getting our first glimpse of a much deeper and more sophisticated–and consistent–universe. A peek of things to come. And even their departure is hinted at but never explained fully in the movies–their departure represents the transition from the second age of angels and divine beings to the third age of man.
It’s also why the very last scene in the latest Star Wars movie was the most signifiant to me, for reasons which will be clear if you’ve seen that movie. (This link describing the scene contains minor spoilers.) We’re seeing the Star Wars movies course correcting: going back to the first movie, hinting that the mysticism of The Force is accessible to all of us, though some of us happen to be more sensitive.