Updike's title refers to his novel's structure. We're reading the daily diary of the Reverend Thomas Marshfield, whose sexual indiscretions with his organist (only one among Updike's many double entendres) have resulted in his exile from family and flock. He has been banished to a desert retreat run by the impregnable Mrs. Prynne, where he reflects on his errors and continues to write ad libidum (there Updike goes again) sermons that he will never deliver.
This is one of the novels where you can tell the author had a lot of fun writing it. What New York Times reviewer Anatole Broyard called "double-entendre schizophrenic word salads" are the manifestations on the page of Updike doing what every good writer does: enjoying the written word and testing its limits. Yes, A Month of Sundays is often a pain to read because of Marshfield's bombastic style, and the thinly-veiled metaphors of sin and pleasure and repentance are just too weak, but appreciate this novel for what it is: a step in the developing career of a great writer.
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