The inner spaces that a good story lets us enter are the old

Hear, O seekers of wisdom, the words of John Updike, who declared: “The inner spaces that a good story lets us enter are the old apartments of religion.” In this vision he does not belittle faith, nor does he exalt literature beyond its due place; rather, he reveals the kinship between storytelling and religion, between the tales told by poets and the mysteries preserved by priests. For both open doors to realms within us—realms of awe, of fear, of hope, of transcendence—that have long been the dwelling places of the sacred.

The origin of this saying flows from Updike’s lifelong contemplation of the relationship between art and faith. A man steeped in both literature and theology, he often explored how the sacred moved through ordinary life, and how narratives, whether biblical or fictional, guided souls toward meaning. When he speaks of the “old apartments of religion,” he imagines that the places once filled by ritual and dogma are now, in a secular age, furnished anew by stories—by novels, plays, films, and poetry that awaken in us the same sense of mystery and reflection once evoked by prayer and hymn.

Consider the meaning more deeply. A good story does more than entertain; it transports us, carrying us beyond the surface of daily life into inner spaces where we wrestle with our mortality, our guilt, our longing for redemption. Religion once occupied these inner chambers, providing myths, parables, and rituals to frame the human struggle. In modern times, many have drifted from those sanctuaries, yet the need remains. And so, a story well-told becomes like a chapel, its words like stained glass, letting us glimpse the eternal through the fragile light of imagination.

History bears testimony to this truth. In the ancient world, the epics of Homer were not merely entertainment, but sacred texts for the Greeks, teaching them courage, loyalty, and reverence for the gods. In India, the Mahabharata and Ramayana were both scripture and story, shaping the moral imagination of generations. And in every culture, tales of heroes and gods, of saints and sinners, carried the people into the same inner spaces that religion once fully inhabited. Updike’s insight reminds us that this pattern is not new; it is as old as humanity’s hunger for meaning.

Think also of our modern age. The multitudes who have never opened a holy book still weep at the struggles of a character in a film, or are stirred to courage by the journey of a hero in a novel. When audiences gather to experience such stories, they gather as once congregations did—to be moved, to reflect, to find meaning in a world of chaos. Whether it is the redemption of Jean Valjean in Les Misérables, or the sacrifice of Frodo in The Lord of the Rings, these tales echo the sacred dramas of old, carrying us into the “apartments” where religion once lived.

The meaning, then, is neither cynical nor despairing. Updike does not say that religion is dead, only that its work continues in new forms. Stories now perform what myths once did: they guide us through grief, they inspire sacrifice, they awaken hope. The apartments of religion are not abandoned, but inhabited still—by storytellers who, knowingly or not, act as priests of imagination, opening the door to mystery for a people still hungry for transcendence.

The lesson for us is clear. Seek stories that deepen you, not those that only distract. Read and listen with reverence, as though entering a sacred place. Recognize that in the tales of others—whether told around a fire, written in books, or acted on a screen—you are being led into the inner spaces of your own soul. And above all, remember that every story worth telling is, in its essence, a reflection of the eternal story: the struggle of man with meaning, the longing for truth, and the hope of redemption.

Thus let the words of John Updike endure: “The inner spaces that a good story lets us enter are the old apartments of religion.” For in them lies a reminder that though the world may change, the hunger for the sacred remains, and the path toward it may still be found—in temples, in scriptures, but also in the enduring power of a good story.