Book Commercials & Misanthropic Observations

Dear Jeff Burton

Thank you, thank you, thank you for lending me your copy of Crazy for God by Frank Schaeffer.

This was one of those books that would have taunted me for years as I would be heading for some light reading by Mark Twain with strains of “ aren’t you curious to know what an insider has to say about the Christian Coalition? Come on, buy me instead ”.

It has taken me so long to read because I found myself needing breaks from the venom and utter self-absorption of the author, and yet, unwilling to give up getting to what I thought would be “the good stuff”: his years on the evangelical lecture circuit.

It was page 73 before he said one kind thing about his parents- I remember because I noted the page aloud to Hannah when I finally came across some measure of compassion for his father’s humanness and imperfection. His point was well made by then, I am forever repulsed by his mother. This is the same effect that gossip has in my daily life- my opinion of people is formed before I ever know all sides - and a positive effect of this book is that I will be quicker to run from such talk, I hope.

I appreciate his disgust of hypocrisy, shining of a spotlight on my own tendencies to pretend, to avoid the unsafeness of dealing with real people, hiding pregnant girls away, of parroting the “party line” without thinking it all the way through. His chapter on how the republican and democratic parties fell on the sides of abortion they did is something I am still happily chewing on. He’s not an idiot, but boy is he resentful and arrogant. And that acidic style drove me to take 3 and 4 day breaks in my reading.

There was a false humility, presented as “being real” in his presentation of himself. One can “share” what an ass they are, be all self-effacing, laying themselves bare and still come across with an unbelievably high opinion of themselves. Frank Schaeffer seems to be an acquired taste, a recurring story is how his friends would get to know him and begin to see him as less of an ass, love his honest style. I have not acquired this taste.

I actually felt guilty at the end of this book- as if, because I did not like him, I was just one of the stupid groupies he so often mentioned.

I also realized that this autobiographical style is one of two possible types. I have read autobiographies that focus on the things the author observed and experienced; the story of the people around them. This style is different- the author cares so much more about himself than anyone or anything else.