Bland
Recently, I picked up a book by Sara Miles entitled “Take This Bread” in hopes that it would be the sort of book I could recommend to people who are secretly struggling with the problems of faith.
Her tack is peculiar in that faith for her came about as a consequence of the idea of communion. She had been raised as a generous atheist but through a series of events found herself in an Episcopal church in San Francisco and it was here that she ran into the idea of communion as partaking in the “real presence” of the body and blood of Christ. So it was the fleshy part of communion–the drinking of blood and eating of body–that drew Miles into the church. Yet, not only did it draw her into the church, it confirmed her vision of the world, for she had always believed that food and its vast socio-political apparatus was part of the dark heart of human civilization. In communion she saw God feeding people and that provided the kind of deity she was comfortable enough to believe in.
This path into the church is interesting but it only exists substantially in about 10 pages of the book while the rest is a journalistic account of her life over the past 20 years. It is a life full of all the elements that make a great story: girl grows up, girl goes to Mexico, girl sees people die of hunger and political mayhem, girl meets guy, girl marries guy and moves back to US, girl and guy have house & kid, girl divorces guy so guy can marry other guy, girl marries other girl, girls raise kid together, girl meets God, girl works at soup kitchen, girl finds out that not all Christians are nice people, girl realizes that all people need love, girl writes book.
The issue I have with the book is that Miles seems to have forgotten that when writing a memoir (spiritual or otherwise) the telling of the story is more important than the story itself, for it reads like a therapy journal rather than a creative venture. In my opinion, Miles has gotten caught up in the fact that all of this is her life and therefore of enormous importance to her but it’s never clear why it should be important to anybody else.
Thus I’m left asking myself, why did she write a book? Why leave this chronicle to posterity? Why think that a grocery list of individual experiences is so striking that people will want to read about it twenty years from now? Why not just write an essay about the power of communion and leave the individual details to a private diary (or a blog!)?
To answer my own question, I think it’s because we all still seek immortality but in a world of materialism we unconsciously recognize that it is only possible through the production of a material representation of “us”.
I guess the other option is that there’s more money in hardcover books than diaries. But that seems so cynical.




