Gilead (Oprah's Book Club): A Novel

I've read many good books, many bad books, and many mediocre books over the course of my lifetime. There is a fourth category, however, which I call "Books-That-Stir-Your-Soul" (BTSYS). You know, the ones that start something warm coursing down your chest, speaking to you in a way you never knew possible, and making you conscious in a new way. Books in this category are few, but include Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea, Faulkner's Light in August and As I Lay Dying, and Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights. Your list will probably differ, but you get the idea. There is now an addition to my BTSYS list, a novel by Marilynne Robinson called Gilead (Picador, New York, 2004). This is not a new book, but I only encountered it upon reviewing Marilynne Robinson's recent book of essays, When I Was A Child I Read Books. In the process, I found myself in awe of Ms. Robinson's ability to express the ineffable with words that wrap themselves around you and then pull tight the knots of meaning in an unforgettable way. The book's title refers to a place, a small community in Iowa, not far from the Kansas border. The time frame is the early 1950s. The narrator is a man named John Ames, a seventy-six (soon to be seventy-seven) year old Congregationalist minister. The entire book is a letter to his six-year old son. John's heart is giving out, and he will soon die. In the letter, he is telling his young son--born of a late-in-life marriage to a much younger woman--about himself, his life, his family, and his faith. In this letter, Ames confronts his family's history. He is the son of a preacher, whose grandfather was an abolitionist preacher during the years of "Bloody Kansas." His grandfather hovers over this story and reminiscences abound about how the old man rode with John Brown and how he sometimes stood in the pulpit with a pistol and bloody clothing. These were the stories John Ames heard from his father, but all he remembered about Grandpa was the way the old man would look at him, as if knowing what was in his mind, and how he had a habit of just taking stuff from other people. The people around Gilead just came to accept the old man's idiosyncrasies. The love story between Ames and his wife, who showed up at a service on a Pentecost and who seemed to be taken by the much older man's kind and gentle ways, is the reredos behind the story: the curtain is parted only slightly in his portrayal of the woman, but she remains largely a mystery to us. We do know that she loved John enough to give him a child in his old age and to fill his life with love long after he lost his first wife and child. When the ne'er do well son of his closest friend, a Presbyterian minister he grew up with, arrives back in Gilead John begins to notice that his wife and son seem taken by the younger man and John's creeping mortality begins to work on his fears for the future. The themes that streak though this novel include respect, something people had for one another in earlier times; and light. Images are constantly appearing about the light, and it intrudes upon life in the most unexpected moments, such as when his young son and a friend are playing in the sprinkler: "The sprinkler is a magnificent invention because it exposes raindrops to sunshine. That does occur in nature, but it is rare... I've always loved to baptize people, though I have sometimes wished there were more shimmer and splash involved in the way we go about it. Well, but you two are dancing around in your iridescent little downpour, whooping and stomping as sane people ought to do when they encounter a thing so miraculous as water." The phrase "in the way we go about it" refers to the fact that John's denomination baptizes by sprinkling, not immersion. This issue and many other religious questions pop up in his letter, only to make very evident that there is a real difference between his faith lived and that same faith observed from outside. This is why atheists as well as Christians should read Gilead. Much of what those who attack Christianity base their attacks on are misunderstandings. For example, when confronted with a sincere question about salvation, particularly the famously Calvinist notion that God has pre-determined who is saved and who is damned before they are born, John addresses this question with a startling lack of dogmatism and comes down decidedly on the side of a merciful God. John Ames is not a man who bases his life on dogma. He is a believer who understands the intricacies of faith and does not rest on its supposed certainties. And, in spite of the fact that Christianity is often seen as a life-denying faith, John's statement in this letter to the child he will not see grow up makes it quite clear that his faith is anything but. In fact, faith is the element in his life that adds the sparkle to existence. "Remembering my youth," writes John, "makes me aware that I never really had enough of it, it was over before I was done with it...Oh, I will miss the world!" This is a book to ponder, to read and re-read, and to carry through life as we grow older and find ourselves feeling the need to explain why we are the way they are to those we are about to leave behind. Most people don't really think about it, however. What a shame. Letters like this from parents a just might help to make our children better human beings. Unfortunately, the notion of what a "better human being" is may seem strange to a world that demands empirical demonstrations for every concept. If you are among those, don't read this book. Unless you want to rethink some of your basic assumptions.

Gilead is the story of an elderly reverend recounting days of family history and personal thoughts to leave to his son. John Ames begins his book length letter to his son by saying his heart is failing. He does not expect to see his very young son grow up. John Ames comes from a line of preachers. His grandfather and father, also named John Ames, served as pastors. This does not mean they saw eye-to-eye on all matters. John writes of some of the conflicts between generations. His grandfather was a gun-toting abolitionist. His father, a pacifist, was ashamed of his father for his militant attitude that came out of the Civil War. the current John Ames, who writes the letter in the late 1950’s, did not disagree with his father so much, but still created some conflict by attending another church. For John, he hasn’t a conflict with his toddler son, but he does have a conflict with the son of his best friend, named after him – John Ames Boughton, also known as Jack Boughton. Jack Boughton is the son of a preacher too, but is certainly not one to carry on the tradition. John recalls Jack plaguing him as a boy, mischievously taking his things or damaging them. When Jack returns to Gilead in his adulthood, John is wary of him, repeatedly warning the addressee of this letter about the man. Eventually Jack admits his wrongs to John, since he feels he cannot admit this to his own father, proving John’s suspicions right, but also surprising him by what may be genuine seeking of spiritual guidance. Marilynne Robinson writes a story in which theology is lived by its characters. It is sometimes brought forth as it is integral to the narrator, but it is not didactic. The voice of John Ames is rather folksy, “When you encounter another person, when you have dealings with anyone at all, it is as if a question is being put to you. So you must think What is the Lord asking me in the moment, in this situation?” (p. 141). His voice, that is Marilynne Robinson’s voice, is also poetic. Ames writes, as he considers life’s end, “I didn’t feel very much at home in the world, that was a fact. Now I do” (p. 4). He notices the beauty of life, an appeals to the senses. One line, among many, that reflects the poetic voice: “Everywhere you stepped, little grasshoppers would fly up by the score, making that snap they do, like striking a match” (p. 15).

I selected "Gilead" in keeping with a self-imposed mandate to read at least one Pulitzer Prize winning novel each year. Set in the small Iowa town of Gilead, the novel is a series of letters from its main character, a preacher from a long line of preachers, to his young son. The Reverend is motivated by his failing health to write the letters. Certain that he will not live to see his son into adolescence and adulthood the Reverend sets out to document his family history as a legacy for his son. In doing so, it becomes clear that the history of the family is inextricably bound to the history of the country, the town and its people. Through these missives to his son, the Reverend is challenged with reconciling the measure of his life against his efficacy in pasturing to his flock. The letters also allow him to explore the boundaries of truth within the context of his religious faith. I enjoyed this novel on many levels. Robinson is a highly proficient story teller. The book creates an atmosphere that invites the reader in while allowing him/her to view the action as an outsider. Robinson's writing style is fluid and easily accessible, her use of language, exact. The story is framed in a biblical context that sent this reader to the King James Version on a number of occasions. The biblical references throughout the text allow the reader some reflection on our existence, our relationships to others and to a higher being. The characters' struggles and conflicts are primarily internal and the author does a superb job of capturing and depicting them. The most interesting aspect of the story for me is the way in which Robinson captures the interactions between the men of the novel. There is something quite real in how the author has captured the subtle, yet evident competition among the male friendships; how she has captured the respect, loyalty, love and the challenges of communicating the most intimate aspects of the soul one man to another. The novel is filled with deep and insightful passages many of which required a second reading to fully appreciate. I know already that I'll reread this novel in a few years, it's definitely the kind of story that you can grow on. Highly Recommended!

The strength of voice in GILEAD is rather amazing. The novel is written as a series of meditations penned by the Reverend John Ames, a 76-year old who, fearing death is nigh, wants to leave some words of wisdom for his 7 year-old son. It is quite clear why the book won the Pulitzer; the tenderness of the language is nearly flawless, and although his contemplations are never particularly ground-breaking or revelatory, they brim with the kind of patient wisdom that you'd expect in a dedicated pastor who imagines Heaven to be just around the corner. However, although I can acknowledge the beauty of the novel's prose and poetry, it is hard to recommend it as a book. For one thing, there is virtually no plot whatsoever. There are a few elements that help bind Ames's thoughts together. He has much to say about fathers and sons, obviously. His grandfather (also a pastor) was an eccentric abolitionist who thought war was part of the call to God's grace, while his father (also a pastor) was a pacifist who struggled with his own embrace of the calling. The two did not get along. More troubling to our narrator is the return of his namesake, John Ames Boughton. Born to the narrator's closest friend, a Presbyterian minister referred to as Boughton, the younger John Ames is the novel's prodigal son figure. His "devilment" and penchant for trouble vexes both his father as well as the John Ames after whom he was named. Specifically, our narrator wonders quite a bit about the influence the young Boughton will have on Ames's wife and child when he is finally gone. The themes are as old as the Bible, and Ames doesn't really explore any new ground. He mostly comes to the conclusion that the world is a wonderful place, that you should enjoy every minute of it that you can, and that forgiveness is far greater a blessing for the one who bestows it than for those who receive. Pretty standard stuff for anyone who was raised in the church, as I was. I never felt excited to return to this novel, but I also never read the pages without admiring the skill they displayed. It is very much a novel for the mind, but only a patient and hungry mind. Ames writes that he tries "to write the way I think," and at least a dozen times in the novel he concludes a passage with "this is a remarkable thing to consider" or "I must think more about this." My favorite line was, "I have been thinking about existence lately. In fact, I have been so full of admiration for existence that I have hardly been able to enjoy it properly." This quote sums up what works and what doesn't about the book. Robinson seems to know this and, furthermore, doesn't seem to care, which I also admire. It might not be traditionally entertaining, but it's a real and solid vision. Ames says he's going to stop writing, but then he continues for many more pages. I had to grin, being reminded so well of my childhood when the pastor would finally say, "Let me end with this..." and then go on to speak for ten more minutes. Ames says, "I believe I may have found a way out of the cave of this tedious preoccupation," but his "way out" is more mulling and musing. For those who have the energy, focus, and patience for that sort of thing, there are riches to the book. My favorite moment is when Ames preaches from an old sermon -- reading straight from the paper he wrote it on many, many years earlier. He feels the inadequacy of the sermon and the way he is "preaching," while also discussing the content, which compares rationalism and irrationalism to materialism and idolatry. All this, while the young Boughton sits in the congregation with a false smile on his face. A literary major could eat the layers of this stuff up. It doesn't make for very good story-telling, though. As beautiful as the world's minutiae might be, there's an inherent tedium and laziness to making this philosophy and hope the centering force of a book on preaching, familial obligations, death, and God. I saw, heard, and smelled every moment of the book with stunning clarity, but I closed the novel feeling as if I'd just listened to a pastor preach to the choir.

Gilead is a slow-burning novel told in retrospect by an old Midwestern minister facing death. It is scattered and covers a wide range of experiences, as the minister's letter--meant for his child, who is too young to understand it yet--jumps between his childhood, his father's childhood, his time in seminary, the family drama of his neighbors, and his own love story with his much-younger wife. But the heart of the story is beautifully human and contemplative. This is not a story for the inattentive, or even for those who simply prefer a straightforward plot. Gilead's storyteller weaves back and forth between at least five different sub-plots, sometimes jumping ahead in one before telling us the meaning of the other. One almost needs to read it twice, simply to see again what he meant he made the reference to his grandfather in the first part of the story, before we had ever met his grandfather or known about his relationship with him. There is a central narrative of events that take place in the story's present, as the minister is writing, but this narrative is often sidelined by the stories of the past or general philosophical asides on Calvinist doctrine. This may make the book sound dull or didactic, but in fact it is neither. The Calvinist doctrine comes across more as a character trait than as the author preaching at the reader, and reflect more on the self and the needs of the soul than on the nature of sin and the cosmos. And while the book is definitely slow and contemplative--even the stories of the past rarely ascend beyond a shouting match, the human drama at the heart of it makes the entire story compelling in a way that should resonate with many readers. The minister has fears, doubts, and regrets like any man, but he is also, unquestionably, a good man, looking back at his life and struggling with jealousies and resentments he knows are unjustified. He is a good man without being an idealized one; a refreshing thing in modern fiction. Gilead is not a fiery book. It is not a fast book. It does not explode with passion or shout for your attention in the normal ways. It is wandering and thoughtful and at times conflicted. It is, in fact, most like sitting in the living room with a very old friend, talking of days that have gone by and days that are to come. It is a book for people of all ages, races, and creeds, and a book I thoroughly recommend.

"Gilead" by Marilynne Robinson is a meditation on the miracle of being and a celebration of the simple, yet ecstatic joy of everyday experience. It is a unique work of fiction--breathtakingly beautiful in its prose and clarion clear with wisdom. It is a book that is probably best read slowly and carefully by a mature reader. I am afraid this work will, for the most part, be lost on the young who will no doubt find it boring and plodding. It may require the wisdom of age and close to half a lifetime spent battling one's own moral dilemmas in order to appreciate both this book's message and messenger. I take issue with a number of the reviewers here on Amazon that believe that only a Christian can truly love and understand this work. I am an unabashed atheist, but nonetheless, I firmly believe in the overriding importance of living a moral life. I have given a great deal of thought and time over the years to what it means to lead a moral life. I actively study books about religion, philosophy, and science that discuss underlying moral values and principles. In them, I look for what is universal and what my heart and mind tells me is right. Just like the protagonist, John Ames, I struggle every day to do what is right, and I learn from my mistakes. For me, the experience of reading "Gilead" was akin to experiencing one very good man's lifelong moral compass. I did not feel caught up any kind of preachy Christianity--in fact, I truly believe the author underplayed any specific religious elements. On the contrary, I felt overwhelmed with the universal humanity of it all. As I read, I felt like I was going through a profoundly secular spiritual experience. I read Marilynne Robinson's first novel "Housekeeping" over a quarter-century ago and it certainly remains one of my favorite books. I've gone back to it again and again over the years. My dog-eared paperback edition is underlined and starred with notes in the margins--I would not part with it for ten times its weight in gold. I am sure I will grow to feel the same way about "Gilead." It, too, is now underlined, starred, and with much in the margins. It will no doubt be the first book I will turn to whenever I feel the need for moral guidance.

Marilynne Robinson’s 2004 novel, ‘Gilead’, is basically one 247-page letter written by an aging Congregationalist minister, John Ames, to the adult that his son will become years after his father dies, which, based on Ames’ diagnosis of heart disease, may happen soon. If the title ‘Fathers and Sons’ had not already been taken, it would fit this novel perfectly. Various relationships between fathers and their sons are examined in Ames’ epistolary wanderings. Gilead is the town in Iowa where the Ames family settled decades before John Ames was born. He is the third generation of John Ames’s, and he is also the third generation of ministers. His grandfather had a rifle and wasn’t afraid to use it. A militant abolitionist, he went to Kansas to support John Brown, then fight the Civil War, in which he lost an eye, and later in life, got fed up with his life in Gilead and went back out to Kansas, where he died. When Ames the narrator was a boy, he and his father set out west to find the father/grandfather’s grave. A bitter rift had developed between the grandfather, who fought in the Civil War, and his pacifist son. The pilgrimage to the grave was an attempt at some kind of closure for the son, wanting his son to understand the continuity of the generations and not feel the same distance from him. Ames the narrator had a wife and child earlier in his life but she died in childbirth along with her baby. Unexpectedly, in his later years, a young woman named Lila starts attending his church and he makes a special point of inviting her to his classes. It becomes apparent that she reciprocates his interest and he remains a little surprised that this young, beautiful woman would be attracted to a man in his late 70’s. Ames’ best friend for many years is the Presbyterian minister, Robert Boughton. They are so close that Boughton names one of his sons after him, John Ames Boughton, known as “Jack”. Jack has been the black sheep of his family, a prodigal who returns after many years, now in his 40’s himself. Although Ames tries to be kind and generous to everyone, he bears a non-expressed resentment toward Jack. A few years earlier Jack impregnated a poor local girl who lived with her impoverished family, barely a teen herself. Due to unsanitary living conditions and the lack of affordable health care, the baby died and Jack left Gilead. Ames knows about prodigals, being the obedient son, and having a brother, Edward, who left to go to England to study Philosophy and returned an avowed atheist. Now that Jack is back in Gilead, he becomes friendly with Lila and their son. Ames fears that after his death, Jack will attempt to take his place as husband/father, a scenario that displeases him greatly. Jack leaves when Ames and his father are having one of their discussions and returns, usually inserting himself in the conversation with an awkward, exaggerated deference to Ames, often apologetic, which just increases Ames’ resentment. There is some unfinished business between the two of them that both of them probably feel should be resolved soon. Finally, Jack confides to Ames what has happened to him in his missing years from Gilead, an unburdening which lightens Ames’ feeling toward him. At least 50% of the novel, perhaps more, is devoted to Ames’ theological ruminations, which struck me as tedious. Although I acknowledge that they are justified in an understanding of the character, they make for unwelcome distractions from the more interesting interactions between the characters. If I were as concerned about theological matters, as Robinson obviously is, they might be more engaging. However, there are passages of wonder and beauty that shine in the midst of all the tedium, reminiscent of large portions of Robinson’s vastly superior debut novel, ‘Housekeeping’. Also, based on what I know about the two successive interrelated novels with ‘Gilead’, ‘Home’ and ‘Lila’, their narratives may, hopefully, flow more smoothly. Ames is a good, moral man who is compassionate and attempts to understand his fellow humans. That in itself does not always lend itself to very involving storytelling as most effective stories depend on conflict for their success and degree of insight. He is a glass half-full person. If he has insomnia throughout the night, he takes advantage of being awake early to appreciate the beauty of the dawn. I suppose it is worth wading through John Ames’ thoughts to arrive at wise passages such as this: “In every important way we are such secrets from one another, and I do believe that there is a separate language in each of us, also a separate aesthetics and a separate jurisprudence. Every single one of us is a little civilization built on the ruins of any number of preceding civilizations, but with our own variant notions of what is beautiful and what is acceptable - which, I hasten to add, we generally do not satisfy and by which we struggle to live. We take fortuitous resemblances among us to be actual likeness, because those around us have also fallen heir to the same customs, trade in the same coin, acknowledge, more or less, the same notions of decency and sanity. But all that really just allows us to coexist with the inviolable, intraversable, and utterly vast spaces between us.” I can’t think of a more perfectly expressed explanation of how we go through our lives, interacting and bridging connections, each of us in our own bubbles of solitude.

Deeply touching and powerful in its prose, this story will take the reader to a world where one can almost hear a dandelion seed glance against a tree leaf; a world where children's chores were still required and marriage was viewed as sacred. It is a world that is dying, with its memories passed on only in writing. The gentle brushes of the wind in this world are being replaced by the chaotic vortices of change in the twenty-first century. Its nuances are not to be experienced any more. But a close approximation can be, by the reading of this story. One should not view John Ames in the confines of his Christian beliefs, for these beliefs were only part of who he is. They were his personal schema; sometimes active, sometimes brought into his attentive consciousness, but at times replaced by others. One could easily view his beliefs as flexible, as tolerating different worldviews, or as ones where Christian steps can take different routes. "There are many ways to live a good life," he writes in the first paragraph. Being a minister, people insisted that he be a "little bit apart." He was not permitted to engage in humor, or appreciate the same. People changed the subject when they saw him coming, but also were able to confide in him things that they would never to anyone else. Religion is frequently a catharsis, but not always. He recognizes also the destructive power of anger, which them must be constrained by an upper bound, both in degree and frequency. And religious beliefs, like all others, find their origin in the surroundings, in the context in which one finds oneself. He was a "pious child" from a "pious household" in a "pious town". Such an environment affected his behavior greatly, he writes. He has read Ludwig Feuerbach as well as Karl Barth, and he holds the optimism of the former to be just as valuable as the wisdom of the latter. The atheism of Feuerbach he tolerates, because Feuerbach "loves the world." His optimism is refreshing and realistic. He wakes up every morning and celebrates his existence and the efficacy of his mind. Grief and loneliness are rare in this life; peace and comfort are the norm. And in a moment of exuberance, he tries to dance to a waltz, not having been trained in the steps. No mind as optimistic as his can finish life without a dance. It is impossible. Even his conception of God is interlaced with his optimism; bound tightly by it. It is one where God is not judgmental, but one where God takes pleasure in the viewing of his creatures. We are all "actors on a stage, " and "God is the audience." In the most awesome passage from the book, he declares with humility and with understatement that "this is an interesting planet. It deserves all the attention you can give it." He's right.