Jesus in America
Behind the wild success of a theological thriller lies a centuries-old urge to recapture the original Jesus
Way back in February of 1804 President Thomas Jefferson, ever the enlightened rationalist, sat down in the White House with two identical copies of the New Testament, a straight-edge razor, and a sheaf of octavo-size paper. Over the course of a few nights, he made quick work of cutting and pasting his own bible, a slim volume he called "The Philosophy of Jesus of Nazareth." After slicing away every passage that suggested Jesus's divine nature, Jefferson had a Jesus who was no more and no less than a good, ethical guide.
The third U.S. president is credited with being among the first wave of Americans to tinker with the traditional image of Jesus. But that wave was far from the last. As two new scholarly studies show, for more than two centuries Americans have been busy recasting the image of Jesus to suit contemporary sensibilities and to advance personal or political agendas. From the revivalist sermons of the 19th century's Second Great Awakening to the '70s rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar to Mel Gibson's forthcoming film depicting Christ's Passion, those engaged in representing Jesus always claim to be returning to the real Galilean. And typically, as Richard Wightman Fox points out in his soon-to-be-published Jesus in America, these Americans believe they are recovering the true meaning of Christianity. Adds Stephen Prothero, chairman of the religion department at Boston University and author of a new book, American Jesus: How the Son of God Became a National Icon: "One way you figure out your place in America is figuring out what you think about Jesus."
Today, of course, the most successful instance of this ongoing revisionist enterprise is Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code, a gripping thriller suggesting that some of the fundamental beliefs held dear by millions of Christians are not only wrong but were deviously foisted upon believers by the Roman Catholic hierarchy. A surprise blockbuster with 4.3 million copies in print, it has become the "it" book in book clubs and the talk of Internet chat rooms, with many readers convinced of its far-fetched premise--"that the greatest story ever told is, in fact, the greatest story ever sold."
The Code owes part of its popularity to impeccable timing. Published at a moment when doubts about institutional integrity were running high, the book confirms many readers' worst suspicions. Brown "is riding the wave of revulsion against corruption in the Catholic Church," says Fox. "Really, the book is in many ways about how bad the church is."
For those who haven't read it, the Code is a present-day murder mystery set in Paris and London in which a gallant Harvard professor renowned for his work in the imaginary field of "symbology" meets up with an enchanting French female cryptographer at a crime scene inside the Louvre. Soon, the duo are off on a high-stakes scavenger hunt in which they variously commandeer an armored truck, seek refuge in a French château, and hitch a ride on a private jet--all in their attempt to uncover the Holy Grail. At each turn, they are mere steps ahead of the French police as well as of an albino monk who is working for the right-wing Catholic group Opus Dei (box, Page 48) to bury forever the truth of the Grail.
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