I was going to cull some of the fouler anti-Christian sentiments from mostly positive reviews of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, but there's nothing particularly remarkable about foul anti-Christian sentimentalists.
Well, except perhaps that the unremarkable hatred directed at Christianity runs deep. It is not like the casual, fashionable prejudice of hating the French, nor a sort of at-a-distance dislike of generic foreigners. It is more like the hatred of a mean gym teacher you've had three years in a row, or of a neighbor who plays his music too loud and too late. It is a personal hatred that, if not always expressed, is always smoldering. It is Cato preaching our destruction and Kruschev prophesying our burial. It is a hatred to the death, quite likely past death, and if as it hopes and expects it were to survive to see the death of Christianity, it would not merely be satisfied, it would exult and rejoice.