Do you believe in a higher power? Are you sure? Portland author Jon Raymond’s new novel God and Sex might make you question your faith—or lack thereof.
Set in a lightly fictionalized Oregon university town—it’s kind of a mashup between Eugene and Ashland—the story follows Arthur, a New Age-adjacent writer struggling to find his way after a series of flops. It’s not a spoiler to say he does find his muse, because the path Arthur takes to unlock his inspiration forms the story’s real arc.
Many readers will already be familiar with Raymond’s work thanks to his meditative film collaborations with director Kelly Reichardt (Meek’s Cutoff, First Cow, Wendy and Lucy). In contrast, his latest novel is a plot driven page-turner, fit for summer beach reading. But amidst the action, it still delivers the quiet depth that fans of his screenplays seek.
As book titles go, God and Sex is pretty provocative, but it’s also honest advertising. There’s much talk of spirituality—both the Gaia and God varieties—and a healthy amount of closely-narrated fucking. And thanks to Raymond’s crisp, unsentimental prose, this all unfolds with a refreshing sense of realism, even as the drama levels rise with each turn of events.
Raymond’s clarity allows philosophical questions about faith, love, and our place in the world to crystallize around specific moments, which give the reader bouys to grasp as the existential crises swirl within his text.
The characters in Raymond’s story, on the other hand, are lost at sea, casting about for answers. But within their challenges to connect with the sacred, a potential path towards enlightenment emerges: a humble embrace of the great mystery of life. As Arthur muses, “the less we understood, the closer we came to God, and each other.” Amen.
In the spirit of embracing unanswerable questions, here are some of the mind-blowing philosophical conundrums you might find yourself mulling over as you read God and Sex:
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Is nature divine?
God and Sex could easily have been titled God and Sex and Trees. Many of the characters could be categorized as tree-huggers, worshiping at the temple of nature. In addition to the woo-woo-ness of Arthur’s book about the wisdom of trees, we meet an older couple who reverently steward the forests on Mt. Shasta and the novel contains an extended central episode set in a thinly-disguised version of Oregon hippie mecca Breitenbush Hot Springs.
But Raymond’s version of nature isn’t obviously imbued with godliness, at least not in a way that our human characters ever seem to truly access. Like his previous novel, Denial, this story is set against the backdrop of catastrophic human-caused climate change. His nature is dangerous, and not only does it not speak to us but it cares very little about humanity at all. Does that mean it’s not holy? Or just that some slices of the truth are not for us to know?
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Do miracles require maintenance?
Setting aside the debate over whether or not miracles are real, Raymond seems to ponder what it is, exactly, that makes them miraculous. Once the initial sense of awe begins to wear off, does a miracle revert back to coincidence? Wishful thinking? If a miracle happens in the woods and nobody is around to see it, were you just imagining it? Trigged by an unbelievable incident at the center of God and Sex, these uncertainties frame a subsequent devastating tragedy in a way that irrevocably shakes Arthur’s core beliefs.
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What’s the difference between knowing and believing?
Of course there is a long history of scholarly debate and philosophical theorems regarding this kind of thing, but how do we parse this question in our everyday lives? If knowledge exists in the rational mind, does belief begin in the body? The heart?
Arthur starts out confidently asserting his spiritual knowledge, engaging in pithy banter with his new professor bestie, and monologuing about his upcoming book. But as the story builds in emotional intensity and physical drama, his superego begins to fray at the edges. He begins to sound less sure of himself and seek answers and guidance from unexpected sources—at one point even calling his mom to ask if she thinks God is real. In the most thrilling passage in God and Sex, Arthur seems to cast off his inner critic and act intuitively, purely in the moment.
“When you call my name, it’s like a little prayer. I’m down on my knees, I wanna take you there.”
Thus quoth the famous 20th century theologian Madonna, in a sentiment echoed by Arthur’s mother, who advised him that God and sex are “the ways people communed with the divine. Or the way the mind broke.”
The exact relationship between desire, belief, and where we all fit into this Earthly creation is messy and unclear but nonetheless potent. Raymond’s book, at it’s core, captures the power of the feeling. If there really is a benevolent cosmic being up there, God and Sex will be made into another exquisite Reichardt movie, and “Like a Prayer” will blast in the background as Arthur—standing in for all of us confused and helpless humans—clashes with nature, desire, and the heavens.
Jon Raymon appears with fellow screenwriter Mark Roberts at Literary Arts, 716 SE Grand, Fri Aug 8, 6 pm, FREE, all ages—although that’s more a conversation about storytelling, and will not 100 percent focus on God and Sex. He’ll discusses God and Sex with Justin Taylor at Powell’s City of Books, 1001 W Burnside, Thurs Aug 14, 7 pm, FREE, all ages
