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Improbably, two missionary stories have captured the imagination of America's reading public, along with the usual tales of vampires and star-crossed lovers. Barbara Kingsolver's The Poisonwood Bible remains (as I write) number 12 on the New York Times Book Review's Best Sellers list, after 27 weeks there. John Grisham's The Testament is at number 4 after 11 weeks on the list. In Kingsolver's case, sadly, the interest seems to be spawned by her derision toward the evangelical missionary enterprise. In Grisham's case, his ability to slam-dunk a plot line accounts for his bestseller status; readers looking for inspiration about whether to answer the missionary call would be better served by biographies of Jim Elliot or Adoniram Judson. To his credit, Grisham lends theological cogency to the story where Kingsolver is theologically clueless. Finally, though, in the case of these contrasting missionary tales, I appeal to the apostle Paul, who wrote to the Philippians, "What does it matter? The important thing is that in every way, whether from false motives or pure, Christ is preached. And be cause of this I rejoice" (1:18, NIV). Whether or not the depiction is fair and the narrative transporting, countless readers who are more familiar with the CIA than the CIM will find in these novels at least a glimpse of what some people will do to follow the one called Christ. For this, I rejoice.
It is powerful testimony to the force and majesty of Barbara Kingsolver's narrative that she managed to pull me through every one of The Poisonwood Bible's 543 pages despite the fact that many times I felt like heaving the book across the room in frustration. First, as a long-time Kingsolver fan, I couldn't believe she had written such a contrived book; second, as a Christian, I found it particularly grating that she framed her novel in theological terms and advanced the plot by dismantling that frame, undaunted by her utter failure to grasp Christian theology and missiology. One critic called this book Kingsolver's "magnum opus"; another called it a "triumph." I call it a capitulation.
The book centers on the Price family, natives of Georgia who move to the Belgian Congo in 1959 on the brink of the country's independence from Belgium. I should say, to be more precise, that the Price family is hauled off to the Congo by the husband/father Nathan Price, a Southern Baptist pastor and buffoon. The Congo experience is narrated through the eyes of the four Price daughters: Rachel, the oldest, a perpetual "material girl"; Leah and Adah, the twins, the former possessing a misplaced devotion to her warped father, the latter born with a handicap that causes her to lean and limp and refuse to speak; and Ruth May, the sweet baby of the clan, who makes surprising inroads with the local children through a disarming game of Mother-May-I.
Orleanna Price, Nathan's wife and self-described "Southern Baptist by marriage," interrupts the narrative of the girls every now and then, directing haunting recriminations at the Price daughter who died in the Congo (the identity of whom is revealed only late in the book). So the narrative comes down to four sassy women (the daughters) and one disconsolate one (the mother) spending 500-plus pages ruminating about their survival—survival not so much of the harsh living conditions they endured in the Congo, nor the incendiary political situation, though all that demanded every bit of their resolve, but rather their survival of their father and his—as they see it—absurd sense of calling.
Kingsolver's account of day-to-day life in the Congo bears unmistakable authenticity. She and her family lived there for several years when she was a child, and she drew on her journal entries from that time to add personal color. She also made many trips to the Congo in the course of writing the book.
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