For three years, I judged Christian novels for Christianity Today's Novel of the Year Award. One year it was almost unbearable. I found the contenders all but unreadable.
The authors had set their tales within a “Christian bubble” that was safe and nice, and although these authors would nod their heads at the reality of vices such as smoking pot or smart-mouthed teens, there was no real sin, no real suffering, no Dostoevskian “crucible of doubt.” Nor was there any passion or catharsis, probably because the characters (and their dialogue) sounded like they were sketches from a recalled 1990s PBS special.
Flannery O'Connor—the great twentieth-century Christian novelist—understood this well and often wrote about it. In one instance she shows how the Christian novelist has a tendency to stay away from the dirty.1
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