I thrill at the power of religious language. But it sets my alarm bells off in a hurry. After all, there’s an important difference between realism and usefulness, on the one hand, and confabulation, on the other. So while I don’t buy the theological tradition of Reverend John Ames, I do buy John Ames, wholly. I love him in a way that I haven’t loved another fictional character since Lyman Ward in Stegner’s Angle of Repose, Ántonia Shimerdas in Cather’s My Ántonia, and the blind woman in Saramago’s Blindness. One of the central images in Gilead is the “palpable currents of light” that arc between the rising moon and setting sun in the twilight sky of Kansas, where John Ames, then a young boy, and his father are tending to the blighted gravesite of grandpa Ames. There, the future Reverend Ames stands as a young boy, rapt between the rising moon and setting sun, between the birth and death of life at that very instant. The image nicely illustrates one of the spiritual insights of the synoptic Gospels. Anyone can participate in the miracle of reality, this present moment, here, now. “May those who have eyes, see; and those who have ears, hear.” And that’s precisely what John Ames does, he sees and listens to everything, to his friends and parishioners, to the prairie life of Iowa and Kansas, and to his own personal joys and sorrows. Then there’s the leitmotif of water. John Ames (again a young boy) throwing a baseball with his older brother Edward, who after working up a good sweat baptizes himself with a glass of tap water; or the couple who soak themselves with glistening beads of dew by shaking a bough of a tree. And lastly, Gilead offers powerful reassurance that the significance of one moment can redeem the darkness of many long years, and that the hope and faith we have in the existence of this one moment, beyond the horizon, isn’t entirely misplaced.