"New Jerusalem': Another side of Spinoza's story (2nd commentary)

New Jerusalem, David Ives's compelling drama about the trial of Spinoza, takes its rightful place alongside other stirring works in a genre that has been growing over the years. Let's call it the "test of faith" play, in which the protagonist, a noble thinker, holds steadfast to his/her beliefs"“ religious, political or scientific— no matter how controversial they may be, and as a result faces life-threatening consequences.

The dramatic event of the "test of faith" play is an interrogation (in some cases, a trial), presided over by a hostile establishment. The protagonist is depicted as heroic for refusing to bow under pressure and for accepting whatever punishment is meted.

As fortified by the Lantern Theatre's impassioned production, New Jerusalem, offers us a fascinating moment in history and a stellar protagonist for a "test of faith" play— namely, the young Jewish philosopher Baruch Spinoza (1632-1677), a resident of Amsterdam who expressed his idiosyncratic religious beliefs in the face of tremendous opposition, and paid the price.

His revolutionary views on God constituted a threat to both the Jewish and Christian communities of 17th-Century Amsterdam, and consequently he was expelled from his Portuguese synagogue and banished from the community.

Thomas More's refusal

Spinoza's situation bears remarkable similarity to that of Thomas More in Robert Bolt's 1960 play, A Man for All Seasons. More, the 16th-Century English chancellor, declined to endorse Henry VIII's plan to wrest power away from the Catholic Church, and consequently died for his beliefs by order of the king, his dear and trusted friend. "What matters is not what is true, but that I believe it," More declares in Bolt's play.

Like Joan of Arc in George Bernard Shaw's Saint Joan (1924), Spinoza was interrogated by his own religious leaders as well as his adversaries but didn"'t buckle.

Joan, a simple French peasant girl, maintained that she could speak directly to God without the church as an intermediary. She said that her "voices" called upon her to aid the Dauphin in the war against England. Captured by the English and tried by the Inquisitor in 1431, she was declared a heretic by both sides and condemned to life imprisonment. Instead, she chose to be burned at the stake, rather than be denied her freedom.

Galileo recants

Nor would the fictitious John Proctor in Arthur Miller's The Crucible (1953) bow to pressure from his 17th-Century community. Although Proctor was betrayed by his peers at the Salem Witch trials, he refused to name names (including his own) to save his life. "I have given you my soul— leave me my name!" Proctor cries, accepting death rather than make a false confession.

The Italian scientist Galileo Galilei of Brecht's The Life of Galileo (1947) was, like Spinoza, also a philosopher. Galileo's scientific theories— that the earth revolved around the sun— were considered heretical by the establishment of his day, too— namely, the Catholic Church. But to the dismay of his followers, when Galileo was interrogated at the Vatican in 1615, he recanted his beliefs.

To be sure, Brecht's Galileo was threatened with torture; Spinoza was not. Perhaps that's the key difference in these two cases, which occurred just 41 years apart.

But it's my impression that the playwrights— Brecht and Ives— had different points to make about Galileo and Spinoza, respectively. Brecht, an exile from Nazi Germany, focused on the absolute tyranny of the state and on irrational and fanatical authority— the kind that will break a man without compunction for his refusal to conform. Ives, on the other hand, focuses on the individual heroism in face of such authority.

Spinoza's later life

Sir Thomas More, Joan of Arc and the fictitious John Proctor all died for their beliefs. Galileo died a broken man, languishing away under house arrest. What happened to Spinoza?

According to most accounts, Spinoza lived a quiet life after his expulsion from Amsterdam at 23. He earned his living as a lens grinder and instrument maker, gave private tutorials in philosophy, and lived off the charity of friends.

He never married. His admiring Christian contemporaries described him as "saintly."

But he also continued to write, and he eventually completed his Ethics in 1676— the masterwork that earned him posthumous recognition as a precursor to modern philosophy. Spinoza died alone in The Hague of lung illness the following year at 45.

I wish Ives would write a sequel to New Jerusalem about those years after Spinoza's trial. Did he find satisfaction in standing up for what he believed? What personal rewards accrued to him for his heroism?

Also: Did he practice his own brand of Judaism? Did he find any joy in it? Did he gain peace of mind? Did he know any personal happiness?

My marrano ancestor

Ives's play got me thinking about one of Spinoza's contemporaries who must surely have crossed Spinoza's path: my own ancestor, Isaac de Rocamora (1601-1684).

Rocamora was a marrano— a "secret Jew"— who rose high in the ranks of the Catholic Church in Spain, where he was born. He served as father confessor to Princess Maria. But eventually escaped the tyranny of a culture that forbade Jews the practice of their religion.

After a perilous journey via Portugal, Rocamora emigrated to Amsterdam, where he lived openly as a Jew and changed his name from "Vincenze" to "Isaac." He became a physician, wrote poetry in Spanish and Latin, and served as a religious leader of the very same Portuguese synagogue where Spinoza belonged and was "tried" in 1656.

So I can't help wondering: Whose side was Isaac de Rocamora on— Spinoza's, or the establishment's? I have only just begun to research Isaac's life and work, so it's too early for me to hypothesize.

Finding Isaac's grave

My husband, our son David, and I recently visited the cemetery in Ouderkerk, Holland, where Isaac is buried, along with some 28,000 members of Holland's Sephardic community. We were greeted by Dennis the caretaker, a colorful character straight out of Hamlet, who served every function from gravedigger to curator to archivist to fund-raiser.

At first, Dennis couldn't find the Rocamora burial site. After a bit of digging, however, he uncovered Isaac's tombstone under the leafy bough of a giant, ancient oak. The stone is low, flat, wide and white. The name and dates are clear.

Thanks to Isaac's loyalty to his faith and his community, his gravestone has been preserved at Ouderkerk. But Baruch Spinoza enjoyed no such privilege. Having been expelled from his congregation, he was buried instead in a Christian churchyard in The Hague.

Meanwhile, none of Isaac de Rocamora's writings survived. Spinoza's writings, on the other hand, not only have survived today, but also have changed Western philosophy forever. What is the lesson in the
separate paths that these two contemporaries chose? Community, or individual conviction? Thanks to David Ives, his absorbing new play, and Lantern Theatre's fine production for raising the question.


To read another commentary on Spinoza and New Jerusalem by Dan Rottenberg, click here.
To read a response, click here.
To read a related commentary by Steve Cohen, click here.