The Secret Lives of Church Ladies by Deesha Philyaw has Good Food and Complex Characters

“People say you’re supposed to put your faith in God, not men. Do you think God wants you, or anybody, to go untouched for decades and decades? For their whole lives? Like Sister Stewart, Sister Wilson, Sister Hill, my mother after my father died—all those women at church who think they have to choose between pleasing God and something so basic, so human as being held and known in the most intimate way” (10)

Let’s get one thing straight: this book was not written for me.

Deesha Philyaw’s debut short story collection, The Secret Lives of Church Ladies, is a celebration of Black women and their sexuality. I’m an asexual Catholic white girl who couldn’t be considered attractive if she had North and South poles. But I like to read, especially about religion and the individual, and one of my English let me borrow a copy of this book (thanks, Ms. Saunders!).

So here I am reviewing The Secret Lives of Church Ladies! Spoiler alert: it’s pretty darn good.

The stories are unabashedly sexual, but the depiction of sex is not gratuitous. Philyaw’s protagonists face bigotry from all sides, including from the Black Church to which they (nominally) belong. The bedroom is one of the few places where they can unashamedly be themselves.

“Note: in the event I do start to fall for you, you will know because I’ll stop responding to your text messages. This is for the best.

The austere tone of these instructions aside, I actually like you and can’t wait to fuck you. If I didn’t like you, if the thought of you didn’t make my panties wet, we wouldn’t be here” (154)

I have no clue whether the depiction of sex is accurate or not, but I can appreciate how Philyaw portrays food. In the story “Peach Cobbler,” for example, the main character’s mother bakes a dessert “so good, it made God himself cheat on his wife” (39). Meanwhile, “Snowfall” demonstrates an acute nostalgia for boiled blue crabs. While I’ve never had either dish, I can appreciate how they both add spice to the deliciously-complicated relationships between the characters that make them.

In general, The Secret Lives of Church Ladies excels at portraying interesting interpersonal relationships. My favorite story was “How to Make Love to a Physicist,” which follows a middle-aged art teacher who meets her soulmate at a STEAM conference but feels too self-conscious to open up to him. My Dad almost majored in physics (he got his PhD in math), so I can testify that the method of courtship is accurate. Both characters are huge nerds, and it’s a joy to see where their relationship takes them.

The story uses a second-person narrator, which I’ve never encountered outside of fanfiction before, to devastating effect. The opening question—”How do you make love to a physicist”—turns from a hypothesis into a plea as it is repeated.

Other stories that play with format are pretty cool too. “Instructions for Married Christian Husbands” manages to pack an emotional arc into a how-to-list. “Jael” juxtaposes the voices of a teenage girl and her religious grandmother, who is disgusted by her grandaughter’s homosexuality. Utilizing these formats is a fun way for Philyaw to challenge the hierarchies in which her characters live. But most of the stories in The Secret Lives of Church Ladies are literary fiction, and that’s not my favorite genre.

Nor is the straightforward prose, which clips along nicely but doesn’t stand out I also wish the stories featured more theology, but I understand that not every reader (or character) wants to get so nitty-gritty. As I said before, the stories weren’t written with me in mind, and they shouldn’t be. It’s obvious that they’re well-written anyway.

This year, The Secret Lives of Church Ladies won the English PEN/Faulkner award. Whether it will stand the test of time remains to be seen. I hope it does. Like organized religion, it’s got some really great elements, and it might just give meaning to a vast, complicated literary world.

“You take a moment to soak it all in. You think of your mother and the small version of God she clings to, the only version you’ve ever known and the one you’re afraid to let go of. Then you think of how your daily calls with Eric are a kind of ritual, and how when you finally meet up again, it could be a kind of consecration. You are thrilled and terrified at the prospect. Terrified because all you’ve ever known of religion is that it demands more than you can ever give”