A Trip to France Triggers a Midlife Crisis of Faith

Although the idea of a midlife crisis feels like an outdated concept these days, there is still something to be said about it. It may look different for men today, but they are still forced to confront certain personal challenges that arise around their forties. 

This is because men at this point in their lives often must assume responsibility for everything and everyone everywhere: at home, at work, and in the community. In order to successfully manage these responsibilities, men in their midlife learn to develop routines, clear moral structures, and a stoic outlook. This approach to life may seem dull and repetitive, but it also ensures the necessary stability and progress that enable lasting contentment. 

Nevertheless, there comes a time when a man must step back from the routines and responsibilities and reflect on their meaning. What goals does the father/employee/citizen/Christian/neighbor still have for himself? After all, many of these goals were set when he was a young man unconsciously adopting the ways of adults around him. Maybe he has grown out of these beliefs, or maybe they no longer fit with his world. Or perhaps they still hold, but require further refinement.

Such is the subject of Peter Giersch’s new book Talking of Michelangelo: Death, Judgment, Heaven, and Hell in the Burgundy Region. Right around his 40th birthday, Giersch – a father of five, former teacher, business consultant, and active Catholic – decides to visit France to take part in a spiritual retreat. What begins as a breezy pleasant travel log eventually deepens, however, into an emotionally fraught spiritual renewal that fundamentally changes Giersch.

Unlike many spiritual memoirs, Talking of Michelangelo is not a feel-good narrative of a distraught individual finding joy in his religious beliefs. Rather, it something more unusual and provocative: it is the story of a complacent yet virtuous individual experiencing an intense disturbance in his faith. 

Judging from its beginning, one would never suspect this kind of conflict from a man like Peter Giersch. From any angle, he comes off like a Catholic version of Ned Flanders, the corny Christian neighbor of Homer Simpson. He’s wholesome, devout, and even sports a goofy sense of humor. The very prospect of this type of person doing a retreat in France mostly portends gentle reflections on gratitude, grace, and good food.

And much of the book fulfills this expectation. As he makes his way to France, he recalls past journeys, the people on those journeys, and offers a thoughtful analysis about a decadent French comedy that he watches on the airplane.

When he arrives in Paris, he reconnects with old friends, attends Mass at Notre Dame, and enjoys a few hand-rolled cigarettes. He takes in exquisite views of the city, visits the Louvre and Eiffel Tower, and relates a time when he once played an extra in a World War II movie.

So far, so good. Giersch is obviously an intelligent, cultured person with a wealth of interesting experiences. And he is not a stuffy intellectual snob, but a down-to-earth goofball like the rest of us – his story proceeds enjoyably. 

All this changes as he leaves Paris and heads to the monastery in Flavigny, which hosts a weeklong Ignatian retreat. As if mirroring his emotional state, the weather becomes unseasonably cold and rainy. Giersch concedes that he began the retreat with no small amount of condescension, bragging about his accomplishments to the man guiding the program, Fr. Andre. The monk seems unimpressed and treats Giersch like everyone else anyway. At first, Giersch goes along with the program, thinking about the sermons and mental exercises that he is asked to do. 

But when he brings up a personal matter (something to do with contraception) with Fr. Andre, he learns that he’s in a state of mortal sin. This revelation triggers his conscience and a sudden doubt about God’s existence. The narrative soon drifts into a stream of reflections and arguments that Giersch furiously plays out in his mind to quell the existential panic seizing control of his soul. 

  He eventually finds peace after confessing, which has more to do with God’s forgiveness than with his own mental exhaustion. Unfortunately, the reader may experience similar fatigue trying to follow Giersch’s frenetic and tangled lines of reasoning. Perhaps he is trying to recreate the tumult of his midlife crisis or show how similar he was to the protagonist of T.S. Eliot’s poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” (from which the title of the book comes). Either way, the reader ends up feeling as much relief as Giersch does when the retreat concludes and he returns home.  

At the end, Giersch is humbled, but also shaken to his core. Presumably, he has learned to count his blessings and not take his faith for granted, but his previous joy and confidence have disappeared. The book ends with a scene of his young son reasoning that life is likely not a dream. For his part, Giersch seems done with this episode of his life, finally at a loss for words.

Some readers might find the lack of resolution dissatisfying, but it is true to life and ultimately to Giersch’s credit that he keeps his story honest. Many of the disturbing questions stirred up by a midlife crisis are not immediately answered with a few good arguments and a couple of moments of repose. In most cases, they haunt a person for years as the myriad demands of midlife return and that much-desired spiritual closure waits for deeper developments.

Altogether, Talking of Michelangelo is an intriguing memoir that speaks to something relatable and significant, treating an aspect of the spiritual life that rarely receives much attention. The narrative is not always smooth and predictable, but neither is the reality Giersch describes. Finding true happiness and attaining spiritual wisdom requires personal sacrifice and deep reflection – though doing this in a beautiful country like France helps.