The Da Vinci Code

“We fear what we do not understand, Aringarosa thought.”

Ironically, Aringarosa cannot see the truth of his own words. He opposes any kind of progress in the Church; he views any deviation from the status quo as a degradation of orthodoxy.

“In the battle between the pagan symbols and Christian symbols, the pagans lost…”

Langdon explains how the early Christian Church appropriated pagan iconography into its own mythology, and, in the process, demonized the pagans as heretics and Satan worshippers. In a highly successful propaganda campaign, the Church not only swayed millions of people with its claims of a divine, male-centered theology, but it also buried all evidence of the role of women in Jesus’s life and ministry. The illiteracy of the majority of its followers during its early years and into the Dark Ages virtually assured that the truth would remain buried for centuries.

“This is not American television, Mr. Langdon. In France, the laws protect the police, not criminals.”

As Langdon, under suspicion for the murder of Jacques Sauniére, pleads his innocence, he imagines the truth will be enough to acquit him. Sophie disabuses him of that notion, convincing him to run rather than to trust in the Judicial Police. She also plays upon an old stereotype about the American criminal justice system—that criminals have all the rights, and victims have none.

“A weapon of death has no place in a house of God.”

As Silas enters the Church of Saint-Sulpice seeking the keystone, he leaves behind the gun he used to kill Sauniére and the other Priory brethren. He makes a clear distinction—in his own mind—between killing members of the Priory and committing any violence inside a church. It is a distinction without a difference—murder is still murder, regardless of the physical environment. The church proves no safe sanctuary for Sister Sandrine. Silas bludgeons her with a candle holder rather than shooting her, and his moral distinction crumbles under the weight of his own violence. 

“The mysterious magic inherent in the Divine Proportion was written at the beginning of time. Man is simply playing by Nature’s rules, and because art is man’s attempt to imitate the beauty of the Creator’s hand, you can imagine we might see a lot of instances of the Divine Proportion in art this semester.”

Langdon’s spirited class lectures revel in nature’s secrets. Here, he discusses the Divine Proportion—also known as the Golden Ratio—a number found with such regularity in nature, art, and architecture that it’s difficult to brush it off as a coincidence. It’s a number that would inevitably be part of the Intelligent Design argument of creation, the claim that nature is so complex, an outside hand must have influenced its genesis. Even Langdon, scholar and historian, refers to it in a religious context, using the terms “Divine” and “Creator’s hand.”

“The priory believes that Constantine and his male successors successfully converted the world from matriarchal paganism to patriarchal Christianity by waging a campaign of propaganda that demonized the sacred feminine, obliterating the goddess from modern religion forever.”

The priory questions one of the most basic tenets of Christianity by arguing that Jesus’s divinity and the Church’s opposition to paganism were political moves meant not to perpetuate a sacred religion but to unify and sustain an empire. Waging a disinformation campaign of such magnitude and maintaining it for centuries is certainly a conspiracy theory of the highest order. If true, it would qualify as one of the most insidious—and successful—campaigns in history.

“The translation, Aringarosa feared, was that the man was actually arrogant enough to think he could rewrite God’s laws and win back the hearts of those who felt the demands of true Catholicism had become too inconvenient in a modern world.”

Aringarosa sees the current papal administration as dangerously liberal. Rhetorical phrases like “rejuvenating the Church” are, in his mind, code for policies that will water down the Church’s original doctrine. Aringarosa’s concerns are the concerns of every traditionalist confronting change: either remain rigid because change is uncertain or take the risk of adapting to changing times.

“In the bizarre underworld of modern Grail seekers, Leonardo da Vinci remained the quest’s great enigma.”

Brown explores the many mysteries surrounding Da Vinci’s artwork as well as his membership in the Priory, as well as the rumored connection between the two. Brown’s phrasing—“bizarre underworld” and “enigma”—evoke an aura of secrecy and conspiracy. The fact that da Vinci’s work is so well-known evoke the possibility that hidden mysteries lie just beneath the surface.

“Our battle, like all battles, will take sacrifice. Will you be a soldier of God?”

After the devastating news that the Vatican will cut ties to Opus Dei, the Teacher contacts Aringarosa about the impending release of the Sangreal documents, the possession of which will give Opus Dei enormous political leverage. With restored hope, Aringarosa girds for a theological and political battle with the Vatican, enlisting Silas as his primary foot soldier. The irony here is stark: that Aringarosa uses metaphors of war and battle when Jesus preached love and peace.

“The keystone is an encoded stone that lies beneath the sign of the Rose.” 

As he does throughout the novel, Langdon has an aha moment, breaking through the limits of his own assumptions to arrive at insight. For centuries, Grail seekers—Teabing included—have assumed the keystone was a literal, architectural keystone, spending countless hours searching the vaulted ceilings of every cathedral in Europe. The truth, Langdon discovers, has been sitting in a safety deposit box the whole time. 

“Teabing already had Sophie locked in his twinkling gaze. ‘You are a Grail virgin, my dear. And trust me, you will never forget your first time.’”

As Teabing prepares to enlighten Sophie about the true nature of the Grail—not where it is, but what it is—his mischievous humor emerges. Teabing is a character who delights in shocking the uninitiated with his ribald double entendres as well as unknown tidbits of history. Teabing lives for startled expressions of disbelief as he unravels truths known only to him and a privileged few.

“By fusing pagan symbols, dates, and rituals into the growing Christian tradition, he created a kind of hybrid religion that was acceptable to both parties.”

Teabing illustrates how the Roman emperor Constantine “created” and popularized Christianity for the masses. Constantine ruled during a critical time: paganism was still practiced by many Romans. The emperor had enough foresight to sense a sea change coming. In order to make the theologies palatable to both sides, he had to create a bridge between them. The result was a religion not based on divine instructions from above, but a hodgepodge of symbols and practices appropriated from a variety of other sources.

“‘It was all about power,’ Teabing continued. ‘Christ as Messiah was critical to the functioning of the Church and state. Many scholars claim that the early Church literally stole Jesus from His original followers, hijacking His human message, shrouding it in an impenetrable cloak of divinity, and using it to expand their own power.’”

Teabing and Langdon’s detailed exposition on the history of Christianity is crucial to Brown’s narrative. First, it provides ample motivation for Opus Dei to kill in order to protect the secret. Second, it feeds the novel’s conspiratorial tone. Teabing suggests that even religion is not free of human corruption.

“The word heretic derives from that moment in history. The Latin word haereticus means ‘choice.’ Those who ‘choose’ the original history of Christ were the world’s first heretics.”

According to Teabing, heretics were vilified for daring to choose the truth of Jesus’s life over the lie being peddled by the bureaucrats in the Vatican. Teabing illustrates the power of words and how twisting and subverting them can have long-lasting and devastating effects. He discusses how power structures fear free choice and free thought. Any deviation from the approved message may stir unrest which could weaken the stranglehold those in power have over their flock.

“‘Everyone misses it,’ Teabing said. ‘Our preconceived notions of this scene are so powerful that our mind blocks out the incongruity and overrides our eyes.’”

One of the most shocking revelations in Brown’s novel is that the figure on Jesus’s right hand in Da Vinci’s Last Supper is a woman, not a male disciple. She is none other than Mary Magdalene, trusted partner and wife of the Messiah but depicted as a sinful whore by the Church for centuries. As humans, we literally can’t trust our own eyes when our assumptions get in the way.

“The Holy Grail is Mary Magdalene…the mother of the royal bloodline of Jesus Christ.”

 At this point, Brown’s disclosures come fast and furious: the Council of Nicaea censored many of the true accounts of Jesus’s life; Jesus was a mortal prophet, not the divine son of God; Christianity was cobbled together from a variety of pagan sources and with a political agenda in mind; Jesus and Mary Magdalene were married; and now, Jesus was heir to the royal bloodline of King David, and Magdalene bore him a daughter, Sarah, whose progeny still exist. It’s a dizzying array of revelations, and it’s difficult to imagine a more divergent narrative from the one put forward by the Church.

“‘In my experience,’ Teabing said, ‘men go to far greater lengths to avoid what they fear than to obtain what they desire.’”

As Teabing, Sophie, and Langdon debate the true identity of the Priory murderer, Teabing offers insight into human motivation, suggesting that humans are far more likely to kill to keep a secret than to gain material wealth. People, it seems, can live without riches, but they find shame worth killing for.

“‘Sophie,’ Langdon said quietly, ‘it’s important to remember that the ancients’ view of sex was entirely opposite from ours today. Sex begot new life—the ultimate miracle—and miracles could only be performed by a god.’”

Langdon spends a good deal of time on the differences between pagan and Christian belief. The differences are broad. One of the most fundamental differences regards sex; according to the Church it is a source of shame, only to be used for procreation. The pagan view, far more natural and less utilitarian, celebrates and reveres the sexual act as sacred and divine. It’s easy to see why the “ancients” would view the act of procreation as a miracle and the progenitors of that act as divine participants, in contrast with the narrative of a sinful Eve punished for her curiosity and of women cursed by their monthly periods. 

“Religious allegory has become a part of the fabric of reality. And living in that reality helps millions of people cope and be better people.”

Langdon offers a rare counterargument to uncovering the Church’s long-buried secrets. Truth is objectively preferable to falsehood. However, if millions of faithful Christians rely on those falsehoods as a moral compass, what carries the greater weight: Truth in the abstract or the comfort of millions of people? Langdon also argues that most Christians understand the metaphorical nature of scripture. He frets over causing needless harm by shattering their belief system.

“Would you have them die in vain? No, you will vindicate them. You will join the ranks of the great men you admire—Da Vinci, Botticelli, Newton—each of whom would have been honored to be in your shoes right now. The contents of the keystone are crying out to us. Longing to be set free. The time has come. Destiny has led us to this moment.”

When Langdon threatens to smash the keystone, destroying the information inside, Teabing refuses to take the bait. He offers, in his theatrical style, a rationale for aiding a murderer who also threatens to kill them. Teabing’s speech is a key to his character—his motives are grand and singularly myopic, and he assumes Langdon’s passion for history will outweigh any regret over lost lives.

“As Teabing passed, Langdon looked him in the eye. ‘Only the worthy find the Grail, Leigh. You taught me that.’”

As the police drag Teabing away, Langdon reveals that he has opened the cryptex, but, in a final and devastating blow to Teabing, he refuses to reveal the location of the Grail. Teabing will go to prison—and possibly to his grave—his life’s work unfulfilled. The tone of the novel projects a reverence for the secrets of antiquity, the truth of which must be earned by the virtuous. It’s a decidedly moral calculus—the wicked may not partake of the glory of history, for their motives are impure.

“The blind see what they want to see.”

As Aringarosa recovers in a hospital bed from a gunshot wound, he pieces together the Teacher’s Machiavellian plot. He realizes he was a witless pawn, too eager to save Opus Dei to be properly skeptical of the Teacher’s plan. Desperation made him careless, a flaw the Teacher could spot even before first contacting him. Only in hindsight does Aringarosa realize that a discreet, objective distance is necessary to avoid being used. 

“Langdon glimpsed an unimaginable web of connections emerging.”

As Langdon and Sophie explore Rosslyn Chapel and speak with the docent, strange coincidences begin to surface that Langdon and the reader begin to understand—the docent’s grandmother’s identical box with a rose inlay; the story about losing family in a car accident; Sophie’s recollection of Sauniére’s visit to this very spot when she was a girl. All that remains is for the boy’s grandmother, Marie Chauvel, to fill in the gaps. Sophie’s quest for the Grail is also a quest for her family, and that quest finally ends at a chapel rectory in Scotland.