E. L. Doctorow’s novel,City of God, stands as a testament to his
most daring, intellectually stimulating, and contentious work yet. It navigates
a universe of significant themes, intertwining elements of (1) cosmic evolution
and earthly progression; (2) the enigmatic realms of particle physics, theories
of creation, cosmology, and the mysteries of the stars; (3) the City as an
iconic notion, with New York epitomized as its urban heart; (4) theology,
theodicy, and religious rituals; (5) reflections on the Holocaust; (6)
philosophical musings on meaning, language, love, existence, reality, and
progress; (7) the intricacies of music theory; (8) the art of cinematography;
(9) nostalgic tunes from the early 20th century accompanied by insightful
commentary; (10) glimpses into the lives of remarkable figures such as Ludwig
Wittgenstein and Everett’s own family; (11) cinematic ideas, including plots
revolving around Nazi hunters.
The novel's essence flows from what is described as a "New York City novelist's
workbook," teeming with story snippets, tales of romance, "reflections on the
essence of popular songs," screenplay concepts, "fascinations with cosmic
phenomena," and other raw narratives. Yet, the dust jacket's portrayal of
Everett—a key figure in the novel—as a vast repository of contemporary ideas
and historical calamities seems somewhat overstated as the narrative meanders.
Despite the bountiful ideas his mind harbors, he doesn’t quite embody "a
virtual repository" of the prevailing ideas and historic tragedies of the era.
Nor does it seem plausible that Everett is the singular creator of such a
complex tapestry of stories and philosophical thoughts, even though references
abound regarding his ongoing attempt to weave the tale of City of God
into a screenplay.
Illustrations appear as the narrative progresses. After Everett gets
permission from Episcopal minister Pemberton to document his life story, he
meets with him for feedback on the draft. Everett roams the city, seeking the
perfect backdrop for Pemberton's church, altering its name and locale to please
Pemberton. He also seeks Rabbi Sarah Blumenthal’s insights on his portrayal of
her father's Holocaust experiences. At the climax of City of God,
Everett presents "the hero and heroine of the movie [sic], a deeply spiritual
duo," who lead "a small progressive synagogue on the Upper West Side." Despite
Everett’s notable contribution to the narrative, understanding the novel in its
entirety demands appreciating it as a standalone tale, rather than solely as
Everett’s intellectual offspring.
Readers delving into City of God will soon confront two profound
mysteries. Neither easily unravels amid the mosaic of scenes, scientific
lessons, diary entries, dialogues, and vignettes populating Everett’s workbook
and Doctorow’s intricately chaotic narrative. The first enigma, an ominous
incident unveiled early in the story, has left critics scratching their
heads—its resolution undisclosed, yet inviting acceptance of Doctorow’s plot at
face value, sans a definitive explanation.
An Intriguing Heist
Central to the mystery is a robbery—Doctorow’s term—by unknown entities
(possibly a group, given the rundown area) of an eight-foot hollow brass cross,
customarily stationed behind the altar of St. Timothy’s Episcopal, a
beleaguered church with a shrinking congregation in the East Village. Adding to
the perplexity, the cross finds a new home on the rooftop of an avant-garde
Synagogue of Evolutionary Judaism on West Ninety-Eighth Street, nestled between
West End and Riverside Drive. Somehow, the cross—or crucifix, as Doctorow
interchangeably refers to it—traverses "from the Lower East Side to the Upper
West Side," moving from the domain of Reverend Thomas Pemberton, a freethinker
soon ousted for his radical sermons, to the domain of another visionary, Rabbi
Joshua Gruen, and his spouse, Rabbi Sarah Blumenthal. Earlier, Reverend
Pemberton, self-declared "Divinity Detective," pursued church pilferers,
recovering various stolen items like an antique gas refrigerator and choir
robes, all thanks to his network among street vendors. Yet, the cross’s
mysterious relocation elevates the entire church theft into an altogether
surreal dimension.
The second enigma swirls around the title, borrowed from a vast and
intricate work of Christian apologetics—a defense and rationalization of
Christianity while critiquing other belief systems. This monumental piece was
penned by none other than the esteemed Bishop of Hippo, residing in North
Africa, a luminary now venerated as St. Augustine. Over thirteen years, from
413 to 426, he sculpted this colossal manuscript, christened in Latin as
Civitas Dei—or, in its full glory, De Civitate Dei. Within Will
Durant's The Age of Faith (volume IV of his epic series The Story of
Civilization), this tome is hailed as "a philosophy of history—an endeavor
to elucidate the events of recorded time through a single universal principle."
By weaving together Plato's vision of a heavenly utopia, St. Paul's notion of a
community of saints, both living and departed, and Donatist Tyconius's belief
in a divine society juxtaposed against a satanic counterpart, St. Augustine
wove the core thesis of his narrative—a tale of dueling cities: the earthly
domain of mortal men engrossed in ephemeral pleasures and duties, and the
celestial domain of devout worshippers spanning past, present, and future ages.
As the narrative of Doctorow's social and religious novel, set against the
backdrop of New York at the dawn of the Second Millennium, gradually unfolds,
the puzzle of why such a profound work served as inspiration becomes apparent.
The narrative intertwines a confounding event—strange, seemingly senseless, and
deeply unsettling—with the formidable concept of the City, unlocking a plethora
of critical social issues.
Yet, beneath the intricate web of societal themes Doctorow unravels, lies a
labyrinth of ambiguous symbols, tempting readers toward hastily drawn
conclusions regarding the author's underlying intent. Prudence is advised for
those pursuing simplistic or facile interpretations. For instance, early in the
narrative, Reverend Pemberton chronicles in his diary the turmoil he faces upon
losing the majority of his congregation when his diocese reassigns his homeless
outreach program, merging it with another across town. To him, this is nothing
short of a "big-time heist." Initially troubled by the theft of the cross, his
perspective shifts to a more hopeful view. Perhaps the thief "had to do it,"
and in that act, isn't it "blessed? Christ going where He is needed?"
However, when the Episcopal cleric confronts Rabbi Joshua Gruen and his
spouse, Rabbi Sarah Blumenthal, upon discovering the cross atop their synagogue
roof, Pem (as Reverend Pemberton is affectionately known) insists on restoring
it to its rightful place unaided, declining their generous offers of help.
Shortly thereafter, he assesses the situation: his cross, akin to building
materials, lies dismantled and stacked behind the altar, not to be
reconstructed and displayed "in time for Sunday worship." This, however, suits
him, as it presents a sermonic opportunity. He muses, "The shadow... of the
cross on the apse. We will offer our prayers to God in the name of His
indelible Son, Jesus Christ." Let it be noted that Doctorow's City of
God resists reduction to a mere sentimental or inspirational tale affirming
existing beliefs, offering instead a narrative sculpted for contemplative
minds, challenging the reader to delve deeper than surface skimming or
selective passage examination.
Everett, the novelist with a notebook brimming with insights for his future
storytelling pursuits, becomes intensely captivated by the curious saga of the
missing cross, which improbably reappears atop a nonconformist synagogue across
town. "Having seized upon the St. Tim's heist as a story and having befriended"
Father Pemberton, Everett finds himself now "at the mercy of his life." Pem's
actions and their timely revelation render Everett a "literary dependent" of
Pem's unfolding drama. While Pem basks in the attention, unease simmers as he
wonders if Everett is pilfering "his mind's life, his being." Everett does not
dismiss the notion. As their camaraderie deepens, they evolve into kindred
spirits, verging on intellectual soulmates.
A primary social issue in City of God is the exploration of
Christianity's relationship with the Holocaust—a grim chapter where Adolf
Hitler masterminded the annihilation of Jews, Romani people, and others deemed
undesirable across Europe, orchestrating this genocide under Nazi rule in
pursuit of global domination. The Holocaust's horrors resound through the
diaries of Sarah Blumenthal's father, recounting his harrowing youth in a Kovno
ghetto during the Nazi occupation. These poignant entries illuminate the
unspeakable atrocities of the twentieth century—Jews herded into cattle cars
bound for concentration camps, only to face forced labor, torture, or the cold
finality of gas chambers. This tragic turn of history profoundly influences the
narrative, altering the lives of Pem, Sarah, and Joshua, and leaving an
indelible mark upon the tale's unfolding.
Upon meeting the enigmatic duo regarding the enigmatic theft and mysterious
relocation of the crucifix, Pem's curiosity about Judaism blossoms,
particularly in the realms of sociology and theology. As a fervent critic of
the status quo, this "child of the sixties"—a title Pem proudly carries—stirs
the waters of the Episcopal hierarchy. His bold public declarations rattle
their perception of stability and order within the diocese. Ultimately, the
culmination of ecclesiastical provocations leads to what the Bishop terms "the
last straw," a "doozy" that results in Pem's removal from the pulpit, rendering
him "more or less permanently unassigned." Consequently, Pem finds himself
offering solace at a cancer hospice on Roosevelt Island. His final act of
defiance, he recounts to Everett, occurred during a guest sermon in Newark,
where he posed a question to the congregation about Christianity's reaction to
"the engineered slaughter of the Jews in Europe." He questioned why only Jewish
theologians should address the Holocaust's impact, and pondered what
"mortification, what ritual, what practice" Christianity might offer in
response.
Explorations of Sacrifice and Power
In City of God, Pem's social concerns extend deeply into theological
discourse and religious practices. During a section where he addresses the
Bishop's examiners evaluating his suitability for the Episcopal ministry, Pem
delves into themes of sacrifice and power, "speaking the intellectual's
language." He illustrates examples of sacrifice in the animal kingdom and
traces the historic and mythological origins of sacrificial practices, from
Greek legends to biblical narratives and Western history's sanguinary chapters
of persecution and conflict. Pem draws a parallel between sacrifice and
religion, while also highlighting its ties to power. He interprets "the
struggle for Jesus" as a battle for dominance; "a politically triumphant Jesus
[was] forged from the early Christian conflicts, and has remained a political
figure throughout history...." He scrutinizes the Catholic Church's past: the
Crusades, the Inquisition, and the church's intricate connections with emperors
and monarchs. He also reflects on the Reformation's emergence and
Christianity's entanglement in state conflicts and population control,
presenting a continuous saga of power dynamics. This line of reasoning
culminates in Pem's plea to the Bishop's Examiners to spare him from becoming
another victim of political machinations.
Personal and Professional Reflections
Pem's introspective and professional reflections on religion—particularly
Christianity—represent a significant theme that resonates with many in City
of God. Early in the narrative, as Pem engages in pastoral work among the
needy, he encounters Samantha, a widow plagued by doubt after "reading Pagels
on early Christianity." She questions whether it was all mere politics. Pem
affirms her suspicions: indeed, the victorious faction shaped what we see
today. The widow laments, pondering if the entire belief system is fabricated,
and Pem, with empathy, holds her close. In a rhetorical moment, Pem questions
whether faith must be blind, and why it seems born from a human "need to
believe." Intriguingly, throughout Pem's journey in the novel, he is drawn
closer to Rabbi Sarah, especially after her husband Joshua's tragic death. This
bond deepens, leading them towards marriage and Pem's eventual conversion to
Judaism. When Everett probes about the influence of Pem's affection for Sarah
on his decision to convert, Pem is at a loss for words, stating that Sarah
influences his choice both entirely and not at all, and he resents the
question's implications.
Good Works and Social Conscience
Pem's spiritual and religious inclinations manifest in a related social
concern: the commitment to good works, a timeless path towards salvation
in Christian philosophy. His mission is to uplift the downtrodden, offering
care to the sick, the needy, and those burdened in spirit, aiming to lighten
the load of life's adversities. Prior to his role at the cancer hospice on
Roosevelt Island, Pem had been counseling a "terminal" patient, one in the
final stages of an incurable condition, at a facility on Lenox Hill. Yet Pem's
most profound contribution to the narrative emerges with a revelation near the
novel's climax—an insight into a social concern that religious minds may not
recognize until confronted by specific circumstances. Though Everett, as a
secularist, struggles to grasp these matters, Pem endeavors to illuminate them.
But first, some contextual understanding is required.
Just as Pem stands on the precipice of joining Sarah in matrimony and
embracing Judaism, he and Everett independently find themselves at the evening
service of EJ, the Synagogue of Evolutionary Judaism, where Rabbi Sarah leads.
Though the ceremony departs from the norm, it bookends with traditional
liturgy, delivered in English rather than Hebrew. In its heart, the service
transforms into a thoughtful exploration—not through a sermon, but a guided
seminar discussion led by the rabbi herself. On this particular evening, the
congregation delves into the depths of the 613 commandments outlined in
Leviticus, sparking an animated conversation about the balance between
old-world adherence and the modern inclination to streamline the obligations of
Jewish faith. Essentially, it becomes a spirited debate between the values of
Orthodox Judaism and the adaptive philosophies of Reform, Reconstructionist, or
Evolutionary Judaism. Rabbi Sarah champions the latter, asserting that
tradition reflects human nature, not the divine. It encapsulates our desires
and obsessions, our grand narratives. An elderly voice rises in protest,
arguing that such epic stories belong to the Greeks, reminding all that the
Creator bestowed the Torah upon the Jews, who must bear "the yoke of the
Kingdom of Heaven" or else face emptiness.
Then, an imposing figure stands, challenging this orthodoxy as mere ancestor
worship, blinding us to the illumination of newfound knowledge. He unveils the
origins of the majestic single deity of the Hebrews, once a local guardian over
crops, land, and tribal conflicts, whose relationship with humanity was
ambiguous. From this starting point, he embarks on a cosmic journey, narrating
the universe's inception fifteen billion years ago, its explosive growth and
unending expansion, the dance of space and time intertwined, gravity's
mysterious influence, the enigmatic anti-gravity, and the proliferation of
galaxies and dark matter yet to be comprehended. He entertains the possibility
of multiple universes alongside ours, crafted by a Creator who fashioned the
tangible from the unfathomable realms of "wave/particle functions" or
"cosmic-string vibrations." This all emanates from the Creator, whose grandeur
surpasses this evolving Creation, which includes the slow awakening of human
consciousness. The speaker implies that traditional titles like Lord or King
barely capture the essence of such a deity, and his words hang in the air,
ensnaring the room in thoughtful silence.
Later, at a bustling restaurant, Everett and Pem reflect on these
revelations. Pem is profoundly moved by the discourse and inquires about the
enigmatic speaker. To his astonishment, Everett identifies him as Murray
Seligman, a Nobel laureate in physics, and recalls their shared history at
Bronx High School of Science. Everett paints a picture of Seligman as a
disheveled, dependent figure, often borrowing from others and inattentive in
class, even leaning on Everett for his algebra solutions. Yet, for Pem, the
transformation of the once awkward Seligman into a celebrated scientist is
nothing short of extraordinary, a stark contrast to Everett’s dismissive
recollections. Pem experiences a profound revelation, a moment of clarity that
holds the key to understanding Doctorow’s seemingly profound message through
his writing. It also illuminates Pem’s central existential quest: to transcend
beyond personal confines and uncover life's greater purpose, including the
possibility of connecting with a Higher Power. Everett's skepticism only fuels
Pem's enthusiasm as he seeks to impart his newfound insight to an intimate,
especially one who is secular and skeptical, much like Everett himself.
Pem muses over the concept of a divine influence in human lives, suggesting
it must manifest "in the manner of our times." Such an influence does not
descend from on high but emerges subtly into our everyday reality—amidst the
hustle and bustle, almost indiscernible, "cryptic," and gradually gaining
understanding akin to how scientific truths unfold. Pem remains both cautious
and inspired, yet resolute in his belief. He turns to Everett, implicating him
in this unfolding revelation. This divine presence flows through Everett on a
profoundly human scale—like the cross hoisted onto the synagogue’s roof, Pem’s
love for Rabbi Sarah, Everett’s unrefined schoolmate metamorphosing into
Seligman, the acclaimed physicist at the service, and ultimately, Everett’s
"glorious delusion" of being able to pen a book about it all.
In Pem's final example, a striking revelation emerges: Everett's grave
misjudgment of his own literary prowess is a puzzle left for the readers of
City of God to untangle. There's a resonant echo to Pem's awakening
found in Sarah Blumenthal's speech at the Conference of American Studies in
Religion, held amid the storied backdrop of Washington, D.C. Her inquiry dances
gracefully around the same religio-social themes previously pondered upon by
Pem. She questions whether one can uphold religion's "behavioral
commandments..., its precipitate ethics or positive social values," without
invoking God's divine authority. The conundrum she presents is whether, after
stripping away religion's "exclusionary ... sacramental . .. ritualistic, and
simply fantastic elements," a "universalist ethics... in its
numinousness" might still be maintained—an ethics suffused with a
supernatural glow.
Sarah ventures an answer to this profound question. Imagine, she suggests,
that within "a hallowed secularism," we could embrace "the idea of God as
Something Evolving, as civilization has evolved...." What if this concept of
the divine could "be redefined, and recast," as humanity ascends to a loftier
plane of understanding, both metaphysically and scientifically, acknowledging a
historical trajectory towards greater sophistication? In such an expansive
cosmic expanse, where the immensities of the universe meet the minuscule
subatomic realm, we might "pursue a teleology"—a search for a grand design or
purpose—demonstrated by one enduring truth: our human journey bears "moral
consequence." From this vantage, God is seen as the pinnacle of moral
authority, discerned only through "our evolved moral sense of ourselves." In
this light, God is no longer petitioned in prayer, enshrined within sacred
rituals, or confined within the walls of a temple.
