A City of Churches by Donald Barthelme

In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.

Controversial take: I don’t fully understand the hype for Donald Barthelme’s “A City of Churches”. It’s often hailed as one of his best works by people much smarter than me, but personally? It didn’t quite land. Sure, it’s terse and undeniably Barthelme at the core, but the satire on organized religion—Christianity in particular—felt a bit too on the nose. The usual sharpness of Barthelme’s wit seemed relatively tame here, or maybe I just missed the point entirely (wouldn’t be the first time).

The story takes us to Prester, a bizarre little town where churches outnumber people and even the hardware store doubles as a house of worship. It’s a quirky setup, to say the least, but beneath the eccentric charm lies a pointed critique of conformity and the stranglehold organized religion can have on individuality.

Enter Cecelia, our independent and delightfully defiant protagonist, who’s new in town and not remotely interested in signing up for Prester’s peculiar brand of piety. Oh, she also has the uncanny ability to control her dreams. Her refusal to drink the metaphorical (and maybe literal) Kool-Aid injects some much-needed humanity into this sanctimonious utopia, exposing the town’s cheerful façade for what it really is: oppressive and unsettling. And Mr. Phillips, the town’s leader, has major creepy cult vibes.

Barthelme does his absurdist thing—blending surrealism, humor, and discomfort into a compact parable that pokes fun at blind faith and societal pressure. It’s clever, it’s weird, and it’s worth reading, especially if you’ve ever felt like the odd one out in a room full of true believers. But for me? "City of Churches" lacked the zing I usually associate with Barthelme’s best work.