Be forewarned: Gilead is not a page-turner. The action does not drive the plot. All the themes of a great adventure story are there, but what happens in the novel is secondary to what the action means. Gilead is a slow burn. Like life, the novel moves forward in time, backward in memory, and further forward in eschatological hope that Christ will reconcile all things to himself, and that our best efforts in ministry leadership will be found to be worthwhile. The novel takes the form of letters from an old and dying pastor to his young son. The protagonist, John Ames, reflects on his family, his church, his calling, his preaching, and his people—all the things that should weigh on the minds of ministry leaders.
These are thoughts that evade us in the day-to-day work of ministry—there is too much else to be done. But these thoughts should haunt our quiet moments. They should unsettle us in our times of confidence. In our greatest ministry successes and failures, we should hear our own voices echoing from the future: “So what? What does this moment matter?”
In Gilead, John Ames is finishing his race well, as I hope we all do. Writing to someone too young to understand, he re-lives significant moments in his pastoral formation, his family identity, and his ministry. In his twilight, he sees far more clearly in memory than he could see in his daily pastoral work. Looking back, he sees the courage of his people as they kept their faith through two world wars, a pandemic, and the Great Depression. He regrets the opportunity he missed to bring reconciliation before the black church was burned and its people all moved away. He truly appreciates only now, at the end of his life, the impact of his friend, fellow pastor, and theological-sparring partner Jack Boughton.
The value of a book like Gilead is found in the vicarious experience it provides. In reading any great novel, we are immersed in another world and in the lives of the novel’s characters. Great books allow us to live other lives, even if only for a few hours. But in that other life, we broaden our human experience. The other life that Gilead provides is one that most ministry leaders probably put off for far too long—deep and consequential reflection on our calling, our people, our weaknesses and failures, and our burning hope that one day, when we lay down our mantles, that our lives have glorified Christ and were useful to His kingdom.
I want to see these things now, not in thirty years. I want to appreciate the quiet faith and courage of my flock. I want to seize difficult opportunities before the weight of human sinfulness crushes the spirits of God’s people and those opportunities are lost forever. I want to build close friendships with beloved brothers in ministry. I want to finish well.
Reading Gilead, my heart aches for those things. And that’s the real value of a novel like this. Robinson’s writing steadfastly resists reduction to life hacks and preaching points. There is nothing quick and easy about it. For a dying man, time slows down. It’s easy to forget, in the prime of my ministry, that I am a dying man as well. I read Gilead because it transports me into the future and forces me to think about what I’m doing now and why it matters. I read Gilead because it reminds me that my ministry matters, that God’s people matter. Ames writes of his sermons, moldering in the attic: “they mattered or they didn’t and that’s the end of it.” Reading Gilead, I remember that every sermon must matter. Every saint must matter.
I believe every ministry leader should read Gilead for the deliberate and meaningful theological reflection it provides. When my voice has been silenced by the grave, Christ’s kingdom will advance, and I will be one voice in an eternal chorus of His glory in what Robinson describes as the “great and general incandescence” of the resurrection. But until then, I benefit greatly from stepping into the shoes of a dying man finishing well.
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