In the conclusion, Beal confesses that he has not written the kind of book that he thought he was writing. "The book I intended to write ABOUT religion has become...a RELIGIOUS book." I can think of no better summary. I suppose we could categorize it as a "spiritual travelog" but in a complex dual sense: as Beal narrates his journeys to these odd and out-of-the-way sacred sites, he also narrates his own journey of faith.

And THAT's what makes this book so fascinating. It is not just a well-executed (and often stunning) analysis of the religious and cultural import of artifacts from "roadside America," but Beal very deftly turns that same critical eye upon his own assumptions and reactions. This book achieves a level of honest reflection I've rarely seen. The evangelical Christians who have constructed such oddities as replicas of the Holy Land and garden-junkyards of crosses are not presented for derision and mockery. They are not objects of ridicule; even better, they are not "objects." They are people with stories that deserve to be told and heard.

Being from the Pentecostal tradition, I will admit that I was saddened by Beal's very apparent struggle with the sincere Evangelical faith of his childhood that he felt forced to abandon. At a couple points, I could swear that his tone was elegiac...

This is a book that, if it makes no other point, would at least make this: Observe everything. Overlook nothing. You can find the deepest significance, or as Beal would say it, the "sacred," in the most mundane of places and objects. lf you'll pardon this Pentecostal, such sacredness has another name: the Spirit of God that rests upon the earth like a mother hen brooding her chicks. And I must testify that, as I read this book, I had to take moments to pause for I felt that feathery Presence. ( )