Sex as the Religion of Unbelief. Book Review: A Month of Sundays by John Updike
Finally, I have finished A Month of Sundays. When I tell my wife, there is sure to be an exasperated expression of rejoicing, given that she has already lined up several more books for me to read (we have formed a sort of book club between ourselves, which she has dominated so far- it’s hard being the slow reader. You don’t have much say when you are always lagging behind. Oh, the powers of swift reading…but I digress). I would be embarrassed to admit how long it took me to actually read this book; I’d like to blame my faltering starts and slow progress on the busyness of seminary and work, sudden crises or even on the book itself; however, the fault is mine. Reading is a discipline; as such it requires a sacrifice (however enjoyable) of time, mental space, and the temporary setting aside of all the anxieties and concerns which so easily out-volume the flow of the text. It takes me a good minute to sigh into the world of the book; sadly, many of attempts to read begin with the mental volume so high I can’t hear anything else. The tyranny of business and work buffets my mind, “What am I supposed to do tomorrow? What am I forgetting? Did I lock the door?,” supplemented by the simple wonderment of life, “Am I the only sane person left? Why does the sweat on my head smell different than the sweat under my arms? Why do some people never stop talking?” For a mind as high-strung as mine, reading is often as much a strenuous exercise in forced relaxation as it is a concentration-building routine. Letting go of my ambitions, worries, frustrations, and reveries long enough to get lost in the story requires as much faith as public speaking as far as I’m concerned. (Indeed, perhaps for most of us who have trouble reading, the real difficulty isn’t “a lack of concentration” but an over-concentration which results from the tyranny of anxiety.) I was after all the child whom my mother had to persuade into sleeping, telling me to “Shut your brain off.” I wish I could claim such thoughtfulness as a virtue or, at least, a strength. However, I’m resigned to the opinion that such mental restlessness causes more problems than it solves J
Regardless of how long the book took me, I enjoyed it. For a book that I read in fits, I remembered it well as I went, and found it pleasurable on the whole throughout. Updike’s rich, dense prose delighted me; its thoughtfulness and carefulness at times have the aroma of poetry. Updike is clearly a master of wordplay (I wouldn’t want to challenge Updike to a game of Scrabble!); one of the excellencies of the book is the playful footnotes, most of which are the narrator’s self-aware, self-interpreted Freudian slips. I am sure that Updike had fun writing this book; I imagined him cracking himself up as he wrote the narrator’s elaborate and zany interpretations of himself. Knowing that the author had fun writing it certainly encourages me to enjoy reading it. This ironic, sly, self-aware sense of humor ornaments his dense prose, which might otherwise sink under its own weight. Dense prose is not inherently good; I remember reading Joseph Conrad and having the feeling that I was trudging through a swamp, albeit a good one. Updike’s voice shines through in such a way that after reading only this one novel by him, I think I have a rough idea of how a conversation between him and I would turn out.
The novel consists of 31 ramblings of the protagonist and narrator, Reverend Tom Marshfield, who has been sent to a desert retreat as discipline for his scandalous sexual immorality, committed with and against the members of his own congregation. The desert exile set-up, however, seems more like a vacation than a chastening: Tom spends his 31 days writing, playing golf, drinking and playing poker with the other fallen clergy, all of whom are strictly forbidden to discuss or read anything ecclesiastical, religious, philosophical or otherwise spiritually engaging. While I’m sure I haven’t mined all the ironies of this pseudo-monastery set-up, it does provide the perfect setting for Tom Marshfield’s ungodly reinterpretation of the faith, which is as empty, hollow, colorful, and deadly as the desert in summertime.
In fact, to call Tom’s theology “a reinterpretation” of the Christian faith is really quite generous. It is more like a cherry-picking co-opting of Christian symbolism, inconsistently, carelessly, and variously used to 1) flesh out Tom’s atheistic existentialism 2) supply Tom with a plethora of allusions and quotations for his witty wordplay 3) idolize sex. Of course what makes all of this so ironic and so wrong is that Tom is a practicing minister. Unfortunately, what also makes it so believable and so funny is that his thinking is really just a satirical version of 20th century theology. Sadly, what distinguishes Tom from many liberal ministers is not his unbelief but his brazenness. His sermons are zanier, but no more unfaithful, than the kind of drivel proclaimed from many of the liberal pulpits across the Western world today.
Some of the best insights and humor in the book, in fact, come from Tom’s interaction with various theologies. Tom is conversant at least with neo-orthodoxy, classical liberalism, Christian existentialism, higher criticism, Calvin, the Puritans, and the mysticism of Thomas a Kempis. He has several profound insights, well worth pondering, which I can’t seem to find after thumbing through the book. In general, most of these insights concern exposing the hidden unbelief present in all forms of heterodoxy (I am picturing Doug Wilson nodding in agreement at this point). The two which come to mind have to do with the atheism inherent in both Barthianism and mysticism, where God alternatively becomes either so separate and hidden from the world or else so equated with it that He effectively no longer exists. Tom knows exactly what he is doing when he talks like a liberal; the only thing he doesn’t understand is faith.
Indeed, faith is the only obstacle which ultimately confounds calloused Tom Marshfield, whose only goal in life appears to be sexual gratification, enjoyed in the comforting glow of ecclesiastical respectability and domestic stability. For Updike Tom embodies American adultery: his spiritual and moral malaise, convictionless drifting (a la Ephesians 4), cowardly attachment to maintaining the status quo and hedonistic worship of sex and comfort roundly damn the American adulterer. Tom starts calling his latest woman of interest Ms Prynne (Is it significant that Tom calls her “Ms.” rather than “Mrs.”), placing his adultery in the larger context of American letters, the Puritans, and the founding of the country. How closely Updike intends to associate Tom with mainstream American culture and/or American Christianity is unclear; whatever the case, Tom’s insolent ennui is several steps further down the wide and easy way to destruction than is the guilt-racked, shame-packed, tortured conscience of Dimmesdale. Perhaps the most conspicuous absence in A Month of Sundays is a prophetic fear of God, which is, of course, ironic, given that Tom is a minister.
In course of his 31 journalesque entries, Tom disjointedly recounts the tales of his sexual conquests, all of which were successful, save one- Mrs Frankie Harlow. Tom says it well, “Distilling my ministry, I find this single flaw: Frankie Harlow never did get to feel my seed inside her, sparkling and burning like a pinch of salt” (158). Tom’s failure to sexually conquer Mrs. Harlow provides much of the forward momentum of the book, which does tend to drag a bit. There isn’t anything resembling a “plot” in the ordinary sense of the book; the tales of Tom’s adulteries, his amusing ramblings, and his attempt to seduce the manager of the retreat center through his writing provide the only momentum of this book. Although it kept me reading, there was a point near the middle where I wondered, “What is this book about and where is it going?” Now that I’ve gotten to the end of it, I would say that the two most significant events in the book are his impotence with Mrs Harlow and his concluding success with Ms Prynne, both of which directly comment on what I would describe as the theme of the book: sex as the religion of unbelief. The only moments of true worship in the book are when Tom revels in descriptions of his mistresses. The only moment of true regret and shame is when Tom fails to achieve an erection with Mrs Harlow, who is also the only true believer. Tom is awed and humbled, not in the presence of the holy God in whom He does not believe, but in the presence of true faith, which he cannot comprehend. Tom seems simultaneously frustrated by and attracted to this faith; he disdains it, he cannot believe that she believes, but knows that she does. But he also idealizes and is intimated by the true believer, such that he cannot complete his adultery with her. Even the hardened Tom cannot, in spite of himself, violate the only holy, intact thing in his life- the faith of Mrs Harlow. For Tom, the only sacred mysteries are sex and faith, both of which he has irreversibly polluted and emptied. But even adulterous sex and a faith to which Tom only pays lipservice, still have the power to humble, guide and frustrate. Hypocrites and unbelievers be warned: even the trappings of holiness have the power to conquer.
Bottom Line: A Month of Sundays is a novel in which the chastened, unbelieving, liberal minister Tom recounts in a series of journal-esque entries his sexual conquests of parishioners, co-opting the Christian faith to eulogize sex as the modern-day religion of unbelief; Tom, despite his unbelief, however fails to conquer sexually in the face of true faith, but recovers himself later, seducing the manager of his retreat center.
Recommendation and Reread Value: While this book was an enjoyable read, I wouldn’t call it edifying or life-changing. This book inclines me to think that Updike is a “writer’s writer;” that is, much of the enjoyment of this book comes from admiring the richness of Updike’s verbal craftsmanship, something which not every reader relishes. There is certainly much more insight and many connections I could mine from this book, but I doubt I’ll be getting back to rereading it anytime soon. The richness of the connections, good writing and theological/cultural/personal insight has to counterbalanced with the malaise of unbelief and the polluted feeling of reading the details of the hard-hearted sexual escapades a hypocritical, unbelieving minister. I would not recommend this book to those who are easily offended by sexual material, the very sensitive conscience, or those who prefer the more traditional, plot-driven novel.
Favorite Quotations:
The ones about Barth and mysticism, which I can’t seem to find at the moment L
And “We are naked Paul tells us, if Christ be not raised- ‘if there be no resurrection of the dead.’ Yet how heavy, how heavy then and how heavier now, it is to lift the dead in our hearts! How stony and blue they lie on the hospital dollies! How irreversible the progress of demise traced by radiographs and biopsies! And, for the living, how acceptable the death of the dead, how quickly the place seals over where they were, how slyly grateful we are for the little extra space they bequeath us! We would abhor them were they to return. One of the profoundest fears, indeed, is that the dead will return; the resurrection of the dead is a horror story. As a child, let me confess, I was terrified that I would pray too well, and out of the darkness Jesus would answer by walking through the door of my room, and that He would demand from me my favorite toy.” (208-9).
