Reading The Da Vinci Code

Religious allegory has become part of the fabric of reality. And living in that reality helps millions of people cope and be better people.
Dan Brown, The Da Vinci Code

The Da Vinci Code succeeded because it made readers think that they’re smart.
Benjamin Murphy

Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go.
Walt Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs


I had been resisting all along, but with the movie on the verge of being released, I finally succumbed to the hoopla and read The Da Vinci Code.

Is it a great book? Not even close.

Is it a good book? Well, that depends on a reader’s expectations.

Speaking for myself, I don’t think that, as a thriller, The Da Vinci Code works well. The motivations and the situations the characters are caught in—especially the annoyingly preppy Robert Langdon—are implausible. And what I most expect from a well-formulated thriller is for the action to take place in the realm of the possible. Such narratives require this illusion

The question then becomes, if the book doesn’t actually work at what it purports to be—a crime novel—how is it that Dan Brown was able to seize, and impressively retain, the world’s attention?

A great measure of The Da Vinci Code’s success, I believe, is due to the deciphering scheme embedded in the text. This, as my good friend Benjamin Murphy suggests, allows the reader to believe that he or she is actually playing an important role in solving the enigmas Robert Langdon and his companions encounter.

But it’s the premise, the prime engine of the plot—disguised as a subversive theological dilemma—which allows Brown to hold the reader in his clutches: the question of Jesus’ divinity versus his humanity. As a writer, Dan Brown understands, and perfectly, that there’s a great measure of voyeurism involved in reading something that many of us have been told, since childhood, should never be questioned or speculated upon.

And it is here, when Brown pushes the delicate boundaries of personal and collective faith, where the controversy arises.

The question the novelist poses—could Jesus have been married and produced offspring?—provoked the ire of those who believe that it’s disrespectful, if not sacrilegious, to consider such matters, even for the briefest of moments. This is because to pose the question, and then provide quick, simplistic answers, which Brown aptly does, constitutes a threat: it is a sharp object capable of causing a slight tear in that “fabric of reality” in which many clothe their faith.

Interestingly, Dan Brown exhibits compassion for those whose devotion depends on the unquestioned acceptance of Christ’s divinity. At one point, the central protagonist, Robert Langdon, asks, “What about those who are not blessed with absolute certainty?” And if we assume that the Harvard professor is the author’s alter ego, then Brown’s concern for how this “truth” would devastate the lives of those who cannot deal with doubt appears to be genuine.

Brown knows that faith is, indeed, a fragile thing. And then, as a writer, he proceeds to exploit the vulnerability that dwells at the heart of all spiritual belief systems.

Ultimately, and as usual, dogmatic Christians overreacted to what amounts to an insignificant threat to their faith. Sir Leigh Teabing, the character that seeks to set Christians straight by revealing the true nature of the Holy Grail, is on an impossible quest: he will never be able to prove his theories and, in the process, save the world from obscurantism. In Christianity, as is the case with every religion, allegory and truth have become one. No longer can historical fact be extricated from myth because of the intransigence of religious dogmatism: it is a steel ball that makes it impossible for original thoughts to leak out, or new ideas to penetrate.

Yes, the reaction of doctrinaire Christians was excessive—and to the point of absurdity, I’d say. If one reads The Da Vinci Code dispassionately, the notion of the existence of secret society of apostles of Mary Magdalene is categorically juvenile. Take, for instance, the idea that Walt Disney’s life work was to educate us—subliminally, of course—about the Holy Grail and the sacred feminine.

Think about it for a moment . . . Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs as a metaphor for Mary Magdalene and her followers.

Now, really, after Robert Langdon suggests this, how can we take the rest of The Da Vinci Code seriously?