The Skin Map, by Stephen Lawhead

Let me get this off my chest before I start: I am not a big fan of time travel novels or novels that jump back and forth between sets of characters in different time periods. With that said, I must acknowledge that I liked Stephen Lawhead’s new book, The Skin Map, more than I thought I would. It was a far cry from his excellent Song of Albion trilogy, but still not an utter waste of time.

The story starts out with the protagonist, Kit, being accosted in a London alleyway by his great-grandfather Cosimo and dragged through time/space to the seacoast of England in the 1600s. Cosimo tells Kit that they are journeying along “ley lines,” an ancient travel method that has been forgotten by modern man. When Kit returns to London, he tries to show his girlfriend Wilhelmina what happened to him. They take a saunter down the same alleyway, and poof! Kit is back to 1600s England, and Wilhelmina is…somewhere else entirely. Cosimo, angry at Kit for bringing Wilhelmina, declares that she could be anywhere or anywhen and they must find her before she changes the course of history.

As Cosimo decides how best to begin the search for Wilhelmina, Kit begins to familiarize himself with the world of four centuries ago, meeting Sir Henry Fayth, a scientist who is good friends with Cosimo, and Lady Haven Fayth, Sir Henry’s incredibly attractive niece. He also learns of the existence of the “Burley Men,” nefarious characters who are able to jump the time/space continuum and who desperately want Cosimo’s piece of the Skin Map, an important artifact that will guide them in this travel.

Besides following the thread of Kit’s story, the book jumps continuously between three other threads: Wilhelmina’s culinary adventure in 1600s Prague, Lord Burleigh’s evil escapades in feudal Japan and Napoleonic Egypt, and Arthur Flinders-Petrie’s seminal journeys that explain the creation of the skin map itself. As often happens with stories that change focus like this, one of the stories is far more interesting than the others, and you wish the author would just stick to telling that one.

In this case, the most interesting story out of all four, is Wilhelmina’s adventure. Shocked out of her senses at first by the unexpected transportation to a new world, Wilhelmina proves resilient and resourceful. She falls in with a baker named Etzel and, being a baker herself, introduces him to several new, modern recipes. She helps him start the first coffee house in Prague and ends up introducing the tasty, new beverage to the Emperor himself. Ironically, Kit thinks he needs to rescue Wilhelmina, but in the end, it is she who has the wits and wiles to rescue him when the Burley Men turn ugly.

This novel is the first in a projected trilogy called Bright Empires. It ends on a cleverly constructed cliffhanger, Lawhead’s attempts to get the reader to read on when the next installment arrives. If ever a book could be described by the adjective “okay,” this book would be it. The Skin Map was mildly interesting and eminently forgettable. Perhaps books two and three will have a stronger story grip, although my experience with Lawhead says that the first novel in his trilogy is usually the best of the lot.

The Shack, by William P. Young

When a book has been the talk of the town for over two years and on several best seller lists, it’s hard to say anything in your review that hasn’t been said already. Since William P. Young’s book The Shack debuted, I have heard several friends and family members discuss it. Opinions were diverse; some thought it spiritually helpful, others thought it gross heresy. It’s a little bit late in the game, but I’ve finally read it cover to cover, and I’m ready to weigh in with my belated thoughts.

The Shack’s opening storyline–a young girl being abducted by a serial killer–builds a compelling plot and makes the character of Mack, the girl’s father, easy to sympathize with. In an age where shows like CSI top the viewer ratings, it is easy to see why this plot would attract readers. Three and a half years after his daughter’s murder, a bitter and grieving Mack receives a mysterious note in the mail–ostensibly from God–asking him to return to the shack where her torn and bloody dress was found. Bewildered, Mack makes the journey back to that painful place and there encounters the three persons of the Trinity in a miraculous way that brings healing to his life.

Many objections have been voiced about William P. Young’s portrayal of the Trinity in the story. After all, the images of the Father as a big black woman, the Son as a goofy Jewish carpenter, and the Spirit as an Asian fairy seem hardly orthodox. Looked at in the light of a fable, however, I think there is room for a little artistic latitude in this area. And although the relationship between the members of the Trinity is theologically suspect (are you saying that the Father died on the cross as well as the Son?), I don’t think that this aspect of the story presents as big of a stumbling block as other aspects more central to the author’s goals.

In all the philosophical conversations that inundate the book, the author’s primary goals are to vindicate God in the age-old “problem of evil,” and to establish the boundlessness of God’s love for us. These goals are both very worthy. Unfortunately, the author in carrying out these goals, pays little attention to what the Bible says on the matter.

The problem of evil, simply stated, is this: how can God be good when evil things happen in the world? There are only a few answers to this question, and only one of them Biblical. William P. Young adopts the position that God allows evil to occur (in order to allow man to have free will) but does not desire or will for it to happen. In the words of the African American Papa: “Mack, just because I work incredible good out of unspeakable tragedies doesn’t mean I orchestrate the tragedies. Don’t ever assume that my using something means I caused it or that I need it to accomplish my purposes.” Problem solved. William P. Young has salvaged the goodness of God and allowed Mack to trust in Him once more.

But looked at in another way, Young’s solution to the problem of evil also destroys our ability to trust in God. If God is always desiring our good, and yet is forced to allow evil to happen to us whenever another human being’s free will determines to harm us, then God is ineffectual. We can no longer trust that He will work out all things for our good because another human being’s free will might counteract His plan. At that point, all God can do is pick up the pieces and try to patch things together. Although Young thinks he is vindicating God of being a bully, he has in the process reduced Him to being a weakling. His solution also ignores key passages of Scripture such as Isaiah 45:7 (“I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the LORD do all these things.”)

The second admirable goal of the book is to demonstrate the infinite love of God for mankind. As the members of the Trinity try to explain this to Mack, they continually use the analogy of his love for his five children. Does he love any of them more than the others? No, he asserts. Does he love any of them less when they misbehave or act wrongfully toward him? Not at all, he says. Well, God is the same way. He loves all of His children equally and never stops loving them no matter what they do.

Whether most parents would give the same answers to those questions as Mack did is debatable. But, putting that contention aside, let us look at the practical outworking of this kind of love. In the story, we find that God loves Missy, the little six-year-old who was murdered. We also find that God loves the serial killer who did the horrendous deed. Mack is told that he must forgive the murderer and that God will deal with him in His own way. But if God loves all of His children equally and never stops loving them no matter what they do, in what way is God going to deal with the serial killer? God has already said: “I don’t need to punish people for sin. Sin is its own punishment, devouring you from the inside. It’s not my purpose to punish it; it’s my joy to cure it.” So, if the murderer of his own free will repents and turns to God, well and good. If he doesn’t, then Mack’s only hope for justice is that the killer’s conscience will prick him. There certainly won’t be any eternal punishment–God is too loving for that. In his attempts to assert the love of God, William P. Young has destroyed the justice of God. And if God loves an unrepentant serial killer too much to do justice for Missy’s murder, then does He really love little Missy?

As I showed in the previous paragraph, William P. Young’s God does not punish for sin, and throughout the book, it is a little bit ambiguous what sin really is. In his conversations with them, Mack keeps asking members of the Trinity what he’s supposed to do. What are their expectations of him? Invariably, there answer is that they don’t expect anything from him. He is under no obligation. When he brings up the Bible, God says, “The Bible doesn’t teach you to follow rules. It is a picture of Jesus.”

“But,” argued Mack, “if you didn’t have expectations and responsibilities, wouldn’t everything just fall apart?”

“Only if you are of the world, apart from me and under the law. Responsibilities and expectations are the basis of guilt and shame and judgment, and they provide the essential framework that promotes performance as the basis for identity and value. You know well what it is like not to live up to someone’s expectations…. Honey, I’ve never placed an expectation on you or anyone else.”

‘So much for, “If you love Me, keep My commandments.” Mack finds that it is through relationship with God, not a dusty old book, that he will learn to know what God desires (not expects!) him to do. Sarayu, the Holy Spirit character, tells him, “You will learn to hear my thoughts in yours, Mackenzie.”

Mack is worried–understandably–about the subjectivity of this kind of revelation. “What if I confuse you with another voice? What if I make mistakes?”

“Sarayu laughed, the sound like tumbling water, only set to music. ‘Of course you will make mistakes; everybody makes mistakes, but you will begin to better recognize my voice as we continue to grow in our relationship.’”

This emphasis on relationship with God as the vehicle of love and revelation is contrasted with the idea of “religion.” Mack speaks disparagingly of church and Sunday worship, claiming that he never feels connected with God through that sort of thing. The Jesus figure in the book is entirely sympathetic. He explains that the true church isn’t an institution. “It’s all about relationships and simply sharing life. What we are doing right now–just doing this–and being open and available to others around us. My church is all about people and life is all about relationships…. So no, I’m not too big on religion.”

The author several times goes out of his way to emphasize that God has a distaste for ritual (funny, I never noticed that in the book of Leviticus). Whenever Mack asks one of the members of the Trinity if they are going to do an action they have already performed, they spontaneously do something else, something new. God’s not big on religion, and He’s not big on ritual. Later on, Jesus even admits that he’s not too big on Christianity either. “Those who love me come from every system that exists. They were Buddhists or Momons, Baptists or Muslims, Democrats, Republicans and many who don’t vote or are not part of any Sunday morning or religious institutions.”

The Shack was an interesting insight into modern evangelical Christianity. In many ways, there was no novelty in the doctrinal errors of William P. Young’s story. God cannot control evil, God loves everyone no matter what, the revelation of the Spirit is distinct from the revelation of the Word, God values relationship and hates religion and ritual–these are the current doctrinal errors that beset the majority of Christians in America. No wonder this book is a best seller.

The Children of Men, by P. D. James

I saw the movie of this same name (starring Clive Owen) a couple years ago when it came out in theaters. I vaguely remember it as a dystopian story featuring a very graphic birth scene, coming horrifically close to the birthing videos one would watch to get an EMT license. Recently, one of my Facebook friends commented that the movie was a travesty of the original book, that the altered screenplay had stripped away most of the Christian themes that the author P. D. James had penned. That comment intrigued me. How was the story in the book different than the plot of the movie?

The book’s title, The Children of Men, is a direct allusion to Psalm 90: 3, “Thou turnest man to destruction; and sayest, Return, ye children of men.” The year is 2021, the setting is England, and mankind has indeed been turned aside to destruction. The human race has lost the ability to reproduce; for a quarter of a century, all male sperm has been infertile. The last children to be born left the womb in 1995, a year that has come to be known as “Omega,” the end of all things. A world without children is a world without a future and a world without hope. The best that the aging population can hope for is to live in comfort and prolong their lives as long as possible.

A dictator named Xan has taken control of Britain, trying to maintain a stable society through questionable means. All criminals are deported to the Isle of Man, where they can brutalize and victimize each other as much as they please (and leave the decent citizens alone). Since the country needs young, able-bodied workers, Xan allows foreign Omegas–the generation born in 1995–to enter the country and work as slaves. Called “Sojourners,” these foreign Omegas have few rights and must leave Britain at the age of 60 before they can become a drain on the country’s resources. The octogenarian British, although indigenous to the country, are also perceived as a burden to society. They are encouraged (or perhaps coerced) to partake in a mass suicide ritual known as the “Quietus,” where they are sent out in a boat and drowned.

Xan’s cousin Theo is the main character, and occasionally the narrator, of this story. Theo is a teacher at Oxford, but with no young people to teach, he lectures to middle aged folk who want to escape the present reality by living in the literature of the past. A woman named Julian approaches Theo, asking him to help a subversive group known as the Five Fishes. The group would like Theo to intercede with his cousin Xan to change his policies regarding criminals, foreigners, and the aged. Theo agrees to help, but doesn’t get very far with convincing Xan or his council of advisors.

The second half of the story, titled “Alpha,” begins when Julian sends word to Theo that she needs him desperately. Xan has captured one member of their group, and when tortured, he is sure to reveal the identities of the others. Theo goes to Julian’s aid and learns the real source of her urgency–she is pregnant! Astounded at this miraculous conception, Theo helps Julian and the rest of the group run from the secret police. Julian is convinced that Xan will either try to kill her and the baby or else take the baby to use for his own purposes. The safe birth of the child is all important, for on that hangs the future of the entire human race.

As the group flees through the forests of England, one of their number–Luke–gives his life to save the rest. Theo learns later that Luke was the father of the child that Julian carries. As Julian’s contractions begin, they find their way to a deserted shed. But Rolf, a member of their group, has betrayed them and Xan is close on the trail. Theo, confronting his cousin outside the shed, does what he must to protect the child, and in the hour that the child is born, the country of England becomes free again.

After I finished this book, I was a little bit confused about whether it was a Christian story or not. There were a lot of Christian allusions and borrowed names, but I couldn’t pin down exactly what the whold thing meant. Upon consulting several reviews of the story, I found that P. D. James intended the story as a sort of Christian fable or allegory. The boychild who is born is Christ; his mother Mary (Julian) flees from the evil king Herod (Xan). After his birth, the magi (Xan’s council) come and view him with wonder. The name of Luke, the father of the child, hearkens back to the third gospel, the one with the fullest telling of the Advent story. And as you recall, the gospel of Luke was addressed to Theophilos (Theo). I found it an interesting play on words that the Isle of Man was the place of total depravity and corruption. So, as an allegory, it does tell a Christian tale.

However, if you take the novel as a novel and not as an allegory, then it becomes an interesting and depressing commentary on power and the corruption that it brings. Throughout the book, Theo speculates about Xan’s motives in becoming dictator. In the beginning, Xan seized power because he thought it was the only way to bring stability to the country. Even now, he was convinced that everything he was doing (even the Quietus) was for the greater good of society. Theo recognized that the power had warped Xan’s perspective, and like Tolkien’s One Ring, was something he could not bear to give up.

Throughout the book, Rolf–one of the members of the Five Fishes–wants to depose Xan, but more from feelings of envy than anything else. Rolf craves the power that he decries in Xan, and he hopes to use the birth of Julian’s child to take control of Britain for himself. Theo calls Rolf on the carpet for this scheme, arguing that Xan started out with good intentions too.

At the end of the book, after Theo kills Xan, he picks up the royal signet ring that Xan has appropriated for himself. In order to keep the council from harming Julian or the child, he realizes that he needs to assume the mantel of authority. Theo will become Xan for a time, just to keep things stable and safe. This gave a very sinister feeling to the denouement. Just what exactly will Theo become now that he has taken the reins of power? Will he be able to give up the dictatorship once it is no longer needed?

Whether or not you consider The Children of Men to be a Christian story, it was an interesting snapshot of what the future might be like, reminiscent of Brave New World or 1984. If you’ve read it, tell me what your take on it is.

The Chestnut King, by N. D. Wilson

As the second post in my blitz, I am reviewing The Chestnut King, by N. D. Wilson. I realize that N. D. Wilson really deserves three posts all to himself, since The Chestnut King is the third and final book of a trilogy, but one short post is all I can afford. I dislike giving lukewarm reviews, so I almost decided to pretend I had never read this book and just ignore it entirely. If you have already read and enjoyed The Chestnut King, consider yourself warned: you will not like this post.

The first book of the series, 100 Cupboards, was a fun read–albeit, kind of on the scary side, especially for its intended audience of 9-12 year olds. Wilson expands on C. S. Lewis’s idea of the wood between the worlds–from The Magician’s Nephew–creating a room with 100 cupboards that will each take you into a different fantasy world. The room with 100 cupboards happens to be in an attic room in Henry, Kansas, where it is discovered by a twelve year old boy named–of all things!–Henry. After many fabulous adventures, he runs afoul of the witch of Endor, accidentally leads her back into good old Kansas, and defeats her with the help of his cousins, aunt, and Uncle Frank (who knows more about the strange cupboards than he is willing to let on).

In the next book, Dandelion Fire, Henry discovers that he is actually a changeling and not from our world at all! He is the seventh son of Mordecai, a green man (translation: wizard who uses plants to attack people) who had fought the witch once before and bound her away into the darkness until Henry accidentally let her out in the last book.   Henry, his father, and his uncles defeat Darius, a super bad guy who is the servant of the re-vitalized witch of Endor.

I don’t have much to say about this middle book, mostly because I was completely confused while reading it. The mythology of the fantasy world Wilson was trying to create became as elaborate as the Silmarilion, and was conveyed in a much more haphazard fashion. Wilson’s writing style consists of many short, fragmented sentences. To me, this style is most well suited to action scenes, propelling the reader on quickly instead of causing him to linger thoughtfully. Unfortunately, many of the things Wilson is describing with his rapid-pace prose require the reader to slow down and absorb (otherwise he will not understand the backstory or remember who is who).

After reading the second book, I resolved to not even attempt the third. What was the point? But after a few months of recalcitrance (during which I was lured in by a well-filmed book trailer), I ordered it from the library and gave it a go. For the first couple chapters, I felt like I was back in Dandelion Fire, overwhelmed by a barrage of names and past history as Wilson tried to catch readers up on everything that had already happened. But once the action started, I actually began to enjoy the book. After his mother, sisters, and cousins get captured by the Emperor (who is under the thumb of the evil witch), Henry and his father Mordecai set out on separate missions to destroy her. They combat powerful warriors called the “fingerlings” who are controlled by the witch, but are unable to reach the enchantress herself. Henry seeks out the help of the “faren” (fairies who live underground), but in order to secure their armies, he makes a promise to the Chestnut King that once the witch falls he will give up his own happy life and become the new Chestnut King himself.

As expected, the good guys find a way to win in the end, and the only thing left for Henry to do is to keep his promise. But instead of giving up his life to become the Chestnut King, Henry (or rather, his swift-thinking daddy Mordecai), decides that under the terms of the agreement, Henry can pawn off the onerous duty on one of his recently-expelled-from-the-faren buddies named Frank (not to be confused with Henry’s human uncle Frank). Frank gets the benefit of getting to join the fairies once again, and Henry gets to go home with his family. And all of the high drama of the story disappeared, just like that.

The 100 Cupboards trilogy contains many interesting concepts and ideas, but the second and third books fall short of perfect enjoyment through convoluted story telling.

Veiled Freedom, by Jeanette Windle

My friend Dave likes to talk about books and he likes to collect books, but he doesn’t always like to crack the cover and turn the pages. Recently, he handed me a book that he had purchased but never read, a book written by his cousin Jeanette Windle. The cover picture displayed several women clad in burqas behind the title Veiled Freedom. I wrinkled my nose—dubious, to say the least. A Christian novel set in present-day Afghanistan is hardly my normal reading fare. Neglecting Dave’s offering, I spent the next several weeks reading my way through Miracles by C. S. Lewis and exploring some retellings of Greek myths by Mary Renault. Cold and flu season hit just about the time that I ran out of library books. As I lay on my couch with a box of Kleenex and no TV, I resolved to give Veiled Freedom a half-hearted attempt. I had read no more than a chapter when I was hooked.

Jeanette Windle’s novel interweaves the stories of three individuals, creating a compelling tale of courage, danger, vengeance, and grace. Amy Marshall, an American aid worker in modern day Afghanistan, strives to build up a ministry to abused Afghan women and their children. Along the way, she encounters Steve Wilson, a private security contractor who works for her corrupt landlord. Steve was originally part of the American force that liberated Afghanistan from the Taliban, but the continued violence and lack of freedom in the country has caused him to become cynical about the value of the “liberation.” Although he is frustrated by Amy’s naivety, he does his best to keep her out of dangerous situations. In the course of her aid work, Amy employs Jamil, a mysterious young Afghan with a tortured past. As a devout Muslim, Jamil curiously questions the kindness that Amy shows to all around her. What kind of faith motivates such love?

The story surrounding these characters is filled with many twists and turns, mysteries and cliff-hangers. While the engaging plot propels you through the pages, the thematic elements of the book give you food for later thought. The issue of evangelism in a Muslim country is addressed in detail. Amy Marshall was given permission to come to Kabul as an aid worker, only under the express condition that she not share her faith with the Afghans. What should a Christian in Amy Marshall’s situation do? The book also leads you to consider the importance of freedom. America liberated Afghanistan from the Taliban, then allowed the citizens there to continue under the bondage of Muslim “sharia” law. Should the United States have done more to force these people toward freedom as we know it?

Throughout the book, Ms. Windle places you securely in the setting with seamless prose and realistic dialogue. The back cover of the book proudly proclaims that the author’s descriptions of affairs in Afghanistan are so accurate that government officials have wondered whether she somehow received classified information. Ms. Windle’s description of religion is as well drawn as her descriptions of people and places. She projects a three-dimensional picture of Islam without caricaturing its adherents and presents a full-orbed image of the Gospel without becoming cheesy. Veiled Freedom is a satisfying read and I am looking forward to the next two books in the trilogy. Thanks for sharing, Dave.