I only read the first six chapters of The Shack, and I won’t be reading any more. Author William P. Young uses a story about a man who loses a young daughter to violence, and then accepts an invitation from God to meet with Him at the scene of the crime, as a vehicle for his own pseudo-theological pontificating. I’d call it the philosophy of men mingled with scripture, but Young never quotes any scripture.
He’s a competent enough writer but, like too many I’ve read, he makes his protagonist have thoughts and feelings that are too easy just to move the story along.
Mack: “I’m angry about the death of my daughter.”
God: “Let’s talk about something else.”
Mack: “Okay!”
That’s my next problem with The Shack: as soon as Mack comes to the cabin to commune with God, God proceeds to welcome him with…a lecture about the nature of the Trinity. And it goes on for the rest of the chapter. I’m not sure which bothered me more: that Mack would so calmly go along with the plan, or that Young would have the audacity to use his character’s pain as a vehicle for selling his own ideas about religion.
And make no mistake about it, that’s what The Shack is for. Young has an axe to grind with anyone who “limits” God by suggesting that he has any kind of concrete church, truths, salvation system, or other such apparently trivial nonsense like that. You know, the little things that religion doesn’t really need. No, the God of The Shack is a stereotypical, multicultural, I’m-OK-you’re-OK, let’s-hold-hands-and-sing-Kumbaya kind of God, exactly the sort of silly, watered down, narcissistic Baby Boomer fantasy that gets made fun of with things like “Buddy Christ” statues. (more…)
It’s only on the title page of The Christmas Sweater that you’ll learn that Glenn Beck enlisted the help of two co-authors in the writing of his book. I don’t know just how much each of the three writers contributed, but I have a guess: though the book is uniformly plain throughout, there are segments that feel like little more than a glorified movie of the week, and others that produce some decently composed examples of subtlety, imagery, and thematic development.
I mentioned this book a few weeks ago, with only mild enthusiasm. The further I got into it, though, the faster I read through it. No, it isn’t as ambitious as
I love nder Farms, milk. I never realized just how much of it I drank growing up until I got a little older and saw much more often other people drank water and juices. I don’t drink nearly as much as I used to, but that childhood attachment has actually made milk one of my favorite comfort foods.
It’s a cliché in advertising that “sex sells,” but that really isn’t the driving force in our society anymore. The motor that runs America now is narcissism: the power of our collective all-seeing eye is now firmly focused on nothing more substantial than our own navels. 