A Review of Gilead by Marilynne Robinson
“Grace is not so poor a thing that it cannot present itself in any number of ways.” p. 240
Grace surrounds us, as though Creation itself is insufficient to contain the evidence of God’s proud pleasure for His world. This world in which we live, though marred by sin, still declares the glories of God.
Robinson does the best job I’ve seen in capturing the grace-drenched world in which each of us live, move, and have our being. Gilead, the 2005 Pulitzer prize winner, depicts the story of a dying minister who is reflecting back on his own life, and reflecting forward on the life of his son. John Ames is 76 years old and facing death of a weak heart. This news prompts him to reflect on his life with his much younger wife and his seven year old son, the offspring of their May/December union.
The narrative of Gilead consists of a series of these thoughts, jotted down to his son, in which John shares about God, life, pain, forgiveness and grace. He also shares the passionate relationship between his own grandfather (a one-eyed, fiery abolitionist minister who worked closely with John Brown) and his father, an equally stubborn pacifist.
Gilead is a novel about fathers and sons, and their relationships both loyal and prodigal. Gilead also captures the often complicated relationship between pastor and parishioners. Marilynne Robinson has a writer’s eye. Her eye is every bit as exacting and precise as the grandfather’s own one eye that John lives in fear of offending.
For example, it is a rare gift that can see the grace of God in a child’s bubble:
“I saw a bubble float past my window, fat and wobbly and ripening toward that dragonfly blue they turn right before they burst. So I looked down at the yard and there you were, you and your mother blowing bubbles at the cat, such a barrage of them that the poor beast was beside herself at the glut of opportunity. She was actually leaping in the air, our insouciant Soapy! Some of the bubbles drifted up through the branches, even above the trees. You two were too intent on the cat to see the celestial consequences of your worldly endeavors. They were very lovely. Your mother is wearing her blue dress and you are wearing your red shirt and you were kneeling on the ground together with Soapy between and that efflugence of bubbles rising, and so much laughter. Ah, this life, this world.” p. 9
A walk to church becomes an opportunity to reflect on baptism and the newness of life that believers associate with water.
“That mention of Feuerbach and joy reminded me of something I saw early one morning a few years ago as I was walking up toward the church. There was a young couple, strolling along a half a block ahead of me. The sun had come up brilliantly after a heavy rain and the trees were glistening and very wet. On some impulse, plain exhuberence, I suppose, the fellow jumped up and caught hold of a branch, and a storm of luminous water came pouring on the two of them, and they laughed and took off running, the girl sweeping water off her hair and her dress as if she were a little bit disgusted, but she wasn’t. It was a beautiful thing to see…it is easy to believe in such moments that water was made primarily for blessing, and only secondarily for growing vegetables or doing the wash. I wish I had paid more attention to it. My list of regrets may seem unusual, but who can know that they are, really. This is an interesting planet. It deserves all the attention you can give it.” (p. 27-28)
Most of the time evangelicals engage with culture, we do so in an adversarial fashion. We poke and prod for hidden messages, count up profanities and double entendres, and deplore the God-forsaken wasteland of popular culture. Books like Gilead remind me that there is no corner of either our world or of our culture where God is not at work. The fact that even a secular jury awarded this novel the Pulitzer gives me hope.
All too often I’m overcome with the difficulties and obstacles of this life. Any random day on this blog gives evidence of the relatively minor difficulties that I encounter from time to time. Gilead is itself quite a gift in reminding us how wonderful our God-blessed lives are.
Marilynne Robinson rightly sees that it is not the Devil, but rather God who is in the details of our lives.
Grace surrounds us, as though Creation itself is insufficient to contain the evidence of God’s proud pleasure for His world. This world in which we live, though marred by sin, still declares the glories of God.
Robinson does the best job I’ve seen in capturing the grace-drenched world in which each of us live, move, and have our being. Gilead, the 2005 Pulitzer prize winner, depicts the story of a dying minister who is reflecting back on his own life, and reflecting forward on the life of his son. John Ames is 76 years old and facing death of a weak heart. This news prompts him to reflect on his life with his much younger wife and his seven year old son, the offspring of their May/December union.
The narrative of Gilead consists of a series of these thoughts, jotted down to his son, in which John shares about God, life, pain, forgiveness and grace. He also shares the passionate relationship between his own grandfather (a one-eyed, fiery abolitionist minister who worked closely with John Brown) and his father, an equally stubborn pacifist.
Gilead is a novel about fathers and sons, and their relationships both loyal and prodigal. Gilead also captures the often complicated relationship between pastor and parishioners. Marilynne Robinson has a writer’s eye. Her eye is every bit as exacting and precise as the grandfather’s own one eye that John lives in fear of offending.
For example, it is a rare gift that can see the grace of God in a child’s bubble:
“I saw a bubble float past my window, fat and wobbly and ripening toward that dragonfly blue they turn right before they burst. So I looked down at the yard and there you were, you and your mother blowing bubbles at the cat, such a barrage of them that the poor beast was beside herself at the glut of opportunity. She was actually leaping in the air, our insouciant Soapy! Some of the bubbles drifted up through the branches, even above the trees. You two were too intent on the cat to see the celestial consequences of your worldly endeavors. They were very lovely. Your mother is wearing her blue dress and you are wearing your red shirt and you were kneeling on the ground together with Soapy between and that efflugence of bubbles rising, and so much laughter. Ah, this life, this world.” p. 9
A walk to church becomes an opportunity to reflect on baptism and the newness of life that believers associate with water.
“That mention of Feuerbach and joy reminded me of something I saw early one morning a few years ago as I was walking up toward the church. There was a young couple, strolling along a half a block ahead of me. The sun had come up brilliantly after a heavy rain and the trees were glistening and very wet. On some impulse, plain exhuberence, I suppose, the fellow jumped up and caught hold of a branch, and a storm of luminous water came pouring on the two of them, and they laughed and took off running, the girl sweeping water off her hair and her dress as if she were a little bit disgusted, but she wasn’t. It was a beautiful thing to see…it is easy to believe in such moments that water was made primarily for blessing, and only secondarily for growing vegetables or doing the wash. I wish I had paid more attention to it. My list of regrets may seem unusual, but who can know that they are, really. This is an interesting planet. It deserves all the attention you can give it.” (p. 27-28)
Most of the time evangelicals engage with culture, we do so in an adversarial fashion. We poke and prod for hidden messages, count up profanities and double entendres, and deplore the God-forsaken wasteland of popular culture. Books like Gilead remind me that there is no corner of either our world or of our culture where God is not at work. The fact that even a secular jury awarded this novel the Pulitzer gives me hope.
All too often I’m overcome with the difficulties and obstacles of this life. Any random day on this blog gives evidence of the relatively minor difficulties that I encounter from time to time. Gilead is itself quite a gift in reminding us how wonderful our God-blessed lives are.
Marilynne Robinson rightly sees that it is not the Devil, but rather God who is in the details of our lives.
(I'm not sure of the proper etiquette for a reading hat tip, but I first encountered this book as a review in the Rabbit Room).
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