Finding God in Country : THE VICAR OF SORROWS, <i> By A.N. Wilson (W. W. Norton & Co.: $23; 400 pp.)</i>

Of all the quaint and curious institutions that England boasts, surely for sheer eccentricity, none can rival its Church. This is a spiritual body founded originally by Henry VIII for the expressly temporal purpose of getting him out of one marriage, with dowdy Catherine of Aragon, and into another, with sexy Anne Boleyn; its titular authority ever since has been held by whoever happened to be the country’s monarch: and a motley bunch they have been, sacerdotally speaking, including, over the years, the libertine Charles II, the lunatic George III, and, presumably in the not too far distant future, the Man Who Would Be a Tampon. Its religious beliefs encompass all shades from more or less Catholic (High), to more or less Methodist (Low), to more or less atheist (but covering the bases)--a range so wide that there is even some conflict about whether a church, it is, or is not, Protestant: whence the expression Roman Catholic, a term coined by this handful of middle-class Englishmen to describe the--just slightly more numerous--members of that other Catholic church who acknowledge what’s his name in the Vatican. It is a restrained church, and non-intrusive, as suits the English character, and, if like Henry, you find yourself wanting to annul your marriage to your brother’s widow, membership is even jolly convenient; but as a ground for high flights of spirituality, it must generally be described as lacking.

Its literature, over the centuries, has reflected this. Both clerics and writers--Newman and Hopkins, Waugh and Greene--who have felt any deep pull of spirituality have inevitably gravitated to Rome; and while novelists from Austen to Trollope to Pym have drawn heavily on the clerical life as a framework for social comment--and C.S. Lewis has fashioned from it some pretty children’s fables--you will look long and hard for a truly religious adult novel set in the Church of England.

Which makes all the more extraordinary A. N. Wilson’s quite superb “The Vicar of Sorrows.” It is the story of Francis Kreer, vicar of St. Birinus in cozy Berkshire, a parish complete with all the Miss Marple trimmings of retired Wing Commander, unpleasant nouveau riche couple, spinster schoolmistress, Harvest Festivals and sherry parties after the Communion Service. So far, so pretty much familiar, and indeed, the story that attends these people--a surprise twist to Francis’ mother’s will, an unsuitable love affair that even Francis himself is aware has little future, a subplot about a Gypsy encampment--is well-trodden ground. What sets this book far apart from other superficially of its kind, is its exploration of the spiritual life.

Spirituality, in “The Vicar Of Sorrows,” is everywhere, seen from different angles, to different effects. On the one hand, Francis is presented as a vicar who is either too considerate, or too lazy, to mention that he has inconveniently lost his faith in God; he must go through a most unseemly--and rudely self-involved--nervous breakdown before he has any hope of discovering it again. On the other, the glib inadequacy of today’s conventional Christian message is quite heartbreakingly pointed out by Francis’ teen-age daughter, who, assured specifically by a clergyman that Jesus will solve all her problems, actually makes the mistake of believing him. A darker, sly twist on the same theme is provided by Francis’ silly wife when, faced with real sorrow, she turns for consolation to the discarded stuffed toys of her childhood, abandoned in the back of her (unmistakably C. S. Lewisian) wardrobe; while a young woman with no religion at all--although she flirts with Buddhism--achieves real prayer by playing her violin. “Human beings,” says Francis at the book’s end, “will always go on finding God.” It is how and where they find him--both within the Church and without--that provides the drama here.

Which is not to say that the book is lacking in social observation, far from it. Wilson’s eye on the minefields of English social and clerical life is devastatingly accurate; so much so that this reviewer--raised in England, albeit in a rather older and less-polite branch of Christianity than the Anglican--was passed over herself by many of the English church references, and must wonder how much an American reader will make of, for instance, dismissing chair cushions as “a bit John Lewisy,” or having a woman demonstrate stupidity by offering “a coffee” instead of “some coffee.” (It is disappointing, but sadly unsurprising, that the sole character who exhibits not one glimmer of grace is given, explicitly and for no reason of plot, Irish parentage). But the book is bigger than its English brand names and twists of etiquette; whether or not we know precisely what the author is talking about, his intent is never less than clear.

Besides, it is not as an English social book, but as an English religious, that it truly excels; nowhere is this better, or more joyously seen than in the Ascension Day morning of the retired Wing Commander--a veteran of the Second World War, and, by implication, a descendant of the Crusaders--whom we glimpse, a happy man following sex with his wife and a strong cup of tea, lovingly watering his lush English garden before the church service.

“The beauty of the morning . . . made him glad that he and his wife would be going to church at half past nine. Not that he really believed. . . . But you felt on a day like this that you wanted to say thank you--if only to the great immensities and mysteries of Nature itself, which could sometimes smile so benignly on the race of men.”

In a lesser book, such a transport could be nothing but a prelude to some catastrophic sorrow or soul-deadening sin. Wilson is wise enough and kind enough to let it alone; to allow the Wing Commander and his wife to attend their church service in more or less peace, before they return to their glorious garden and their virtuous, tranquil, quintessentially English life.

A curious religion, indeed. But seldom has it been better celebrated.