A few months ago in en Esther Lowry lamented that there was so little Christian fiction around*.
Or at least so little good Christian fiction. She’s right: many of the novels on the shelves of Christian booksellers are clichéd and sentimental, stories in which things always work out neatly for the godly. There’s plenty to be said about why this is the case: there’s the legacy of 19th century evangelical squeamishness about entertainment and art, and the relatively small market for these kinds of books.
Maybe, though, the biggest problem is our feeling that God what really wants is a salesman or woman with shiny white teeth to do his job, one who can supply the before-and-after photos that show repentance as a perfect antidote to the struggles of this world.
Misogyny, rights & Rowling
It might have seemed as if the isolation of lockdown was making people mad last month when the stars of …