Today—12 October 2019 (as I write this)—would be the 100th birthday of a World War II hero whose remembrance has been wildly variable, and for whom a recent memorial also deserves mention.
Doris Miller, often referred to as “Dorie,” was born near Waco, Texas, on 12 October 1919; the third of four sons born to sharecroppers Connery and Henrietta Miller. The midwife attending his birth was convinced he would be a girl, thus the child was named Doris. He enlisted in the Navy in 1939 and was eventually assigned to the battleship USS West Virginia. I have not been able to locate any anecdotal information on what it was like to be a man named Doris in the Navy; but . . . it was the case that Doris Miller was the heavyweight boxing champion aboard the West Virginia.
As an African
American seaman in the segregated U.S. armed forces of the day, Miller was placed
in a service role and promoted to Mess Attendant, Second Class in the ship’s
mess. On 7 December 1941, the USS West Virginia was at anchorage in Pearl
Harbor. Miller was collecting laundry when the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor
commenced and the first of at least five aerial torpedoes struck the ship.
Miller ran to his battle station which he found destroyed and then reported to the central meeting point of the battleship. There he was ordered, because of his physique, to accompany an officer in an attempted evacuation of the ship’s mortally wounded captain from the bridge. Unable to safely remove the Captain, they moved him to a safer position behind the conning tower. Then Miller, though not trained on its use, manned an unattended Browning 50-cal. anti-aircraft gun. He fired until the ammunition was exhausted and he was forced to retire by spreading flames on the sinking ship. Miller later describing his actions:
It wasn’t hard. I just pulled the trigger and she worked fine. I had watched the others with these guns. I guess I fired her for about fifteen minutes. I think I got one of those Jap planes. They were diving pretty close to us.[1]
While firing the anti-aircraft gun is the most famous part of his actions, Miller afterwards also “was instrumental in hauling people along through oil and water to the quarterdeck, thereby unquestionably saving the lives of a number of people who might otherwise have been lost.”[2]
Early lists
of those receiving commendations for actions at Pearl Harbor mentioned an unnamed
negro. This ignited attention by the press and NAACP. Finally, the Navy confirmed
Miller’s identity, and some reports appear to have printed it with a typo,
giving rise to the moniker “Dorie Miller.” In any case, Miller was awarded the
Navy Cross, presented by Admiral Nimitz on 27 May 1942. He became an icon for
the African American community, was sent on a war bonds tour, and appeared in a
recruiting poster. Having been transferred to the USS Indianapolis immediately
after Pearl Harbor, Miller was promoted to Cook, Third Class and assigned to
the new escort carrier USS Liscome Bay following the bond tour.
Those who know WW II naval history may realize from the foregoing that hero’s lives often do not end happily. The Indianapolis became one of the worst and most controversial naval losses of the war, and a story in itself. Miller, however, was transferred off the Indianapolis; but to the Liscome Bay . . . which would become the most deadly aircraft carrier loss in U.S. history. On 24 November 1943 the Liscome Bay was struck by torpedoes from a Japanese submarine which set off a huge munitions explosion. Miller was among the 644 men lost, the great majority of whom went down with the ship. In a cruel irony, Doris’ parents were informed of the loss on 7 December 1943, exactly two years after his heroic actions at Pearl Harbor.
The photos in this post are of the newish Doris Miller Memorial standing adjacent to the Brazos River in Waco. It is a moving monument, incorporating the shape of the battleship on which Miller served. The statue of Doris was unveiled on 7 December, Pearl Harbor Day, in 2017. A new biography of the hero, released on the same day, credits Doris Miller’s actions at Pearl Harbor as a catalyst for abolishing the U.S. Navy’s segregationist policies and, in a chain of events, for helping launch the civil rights movement.[3]
As it happens, “Doris” also designates a deity of the sea in ancient Greece, the name coming from Greek words for “gift” and “pure.” A man named Doris. Indeed.
The first Emperor of Rome, Caesar Augustus, died on this day, 19 August, AD 14.[1] Occasioned by the 2005th anniversary of that event, this post is a brief follow-up to “Monuments to Dead Romans: The Şekerhane Köşkü,” featuring a probable Temple to the Deified Emperor Trajan (d. AD 117). Since that entry (first in a new occasional series) was posted on the most likely day of Trajan’s death, this one too is timed for the anniversary of the Emperor’s death.
The Mausoleum of Augustus as reconstructed in the Model Plastico di Roma, a 1:250 scale model of Imperial Rome now in the Museum of Roman Civilization, which is . . . closed now, for several years (pic shamelessly appropriated online because Ancient Dan cannot access the actual model)
Like Trajan after him, Caesar Augustus died on his way back
to Rome. His ashes were placed in the huge tomb Octavian (his given name)
prepared for himself already in 28 BC, before he even obtained the title
Augustus by which he is remembered.[2]
It was a huge circular Mausoleum built of concrete and tufa reticulate (small
blocks of volcanic conglomerate in a diamond pattern, often as a form for the
concrete). The outer of six concentric structural walls measured 300 Roman feet
(c. 89m) in diameter, and the 40 Roman feet (c. 12m) high. The 2nd
and 3rd walls were consequtively higher and bonded with the outer,
making 25m thick ring. A single entrance on the south pierced the outer walls,
opening to a vaulted corridor around the 4th wall, through which 2
entrances led to another corridor around the 5th wall, with a single
entrance to the burial vault (for urns, as the Romans practiced cremation). The
ruined state of the building makes the superstructure details unclear and
several reconstructions have been imagined, most assuming a finished overall height
of 150 Roman feet (40-45m).
According to Strabo, the Mausoleum was the most impressive of local monuments, “which consists of a mound of earth raised upon a high foundation of white marble, situated near the river, and covered to the top with ever-green shrubs. Upon the summit is a bronze statue of Augustus Cæsar, and beneath the mound are the ashes of himself, his relatives, and friends” (Strabo 5.8.3). One would expect such an impressive monument would be remembered, respected, restored, and revered.
Sadly, that has not been the case. The Mausoleum was
converted into a fortress in the medieval period, destroyed in 1167, and robbed
for building stone. The building became an ornate garden in the 16th
century, an arena for bullfights in the 18th, a theater and circus
arena in the 19th, and a concert hall with 3,500 seats in the early
20th century.[3]
Thereafter the site fell into total neglect, became overgrown, and deteriorated
even after some attempt at clarifying it with a surrounding plaze by the
Fascist government in the late 1930s.
The original white limestone facing was robbed along with
other usable limestone within. Trees dominate the upper surface of the ring
defined by the outer walls today, perhaps simulating hinting at the appearance
described by Strabo (above). The site has been closed for some time, and
restorations were supposed (by one report) to be completed in April of this
year. At last check, the Mausoleum is still inaccessible, but Google Earth photos
give some hope of progress.
The Masoleum of Augustus from Google Earth, June 2011
The Masoleum of Augustus from Google Earth, Spring 2019
My advice: if you get to choose whether to have a month named
for you or have a fantastic monument . . . take the month.
[1] The
month August was named in his honor—a non-physical and more enduring “monument.”
[2]
Bonus for footnote readers—because I never get to share this one in class
anymore: if you ever have to watch Disney’s Cinderella (original animated),
as I have with two daughters and then two granddaughters, you might notice that
when the new fat mouse is discovered, he gives his name as “Octavius.” But
Cinderella says, “we’ll call you ‘Gus’ for short.” How does Octavius become Gus?
Octavius = AuGUStus. This almost makes up for the annoying music.
[3] Most details from Amanda Claridge, Rome: An Oxford Archaeological Guide (Oxford: University Press, 1998), 181-84. BTW, this series is the most helpful and undersold of archaeological guides; the new edition of Rome is here.
Most of my posts result from a combination of visits I have made to odd places, some latent interest sparked by a random input, and bizarre current events. This is one of those posts. The stimuli, respectively, were a recent visit to the Orkney Islands, my 26 July A.Word.A.Day (AWAD) email featuring ultima Thule, and President Trump’s bid to purchase Greenland.
Despite being a great idea (and not a new one); the latter
is NOT going to happen, notwithstanding any confident flaunting of “the art of
the deal.” Ultima Thule may require a little explanation—at least to get
to the real topic of this post . . .
We begin sometime between 320-300 BC when Pytheas, an explorer from the Greek colony of Massalia (modern Marseilles, France), became the first known Greek to sail past the Carthaginian blockade at the Straits of Gibraltar. His apparent goal was the tin mines of Cornwall, but he also circumnavigated Britain and described its triangular shape accurately. In northern Scotland, Pytheas heard from the locals of a mysterious island called Thule (Θούλη). He reported of Thule that: it was “the most northerly of the Britannic Islands”; “there the circle of the summer tropic is the same as the arctic circle” (Strabo 2.5.8); it lay six days sailing north of Britain (Pliny Natural History 2.186-87); and “there is neither sea nor air, but mixture like sea-lung, in which earth and air are suspended; the sea-lung binds everything together” (Polybius 34.5.3-5).[1] Sea-lung? This got weird. Although the words used are the same as those for jellyfish, Pytheas is using a strange metaphor at minimum.[2] For this and other reasons, many ancient geographers dismissed Pytheas entirely, or accepted his description of Britain and drew the line at Thule.
The 1539 Carta Marina by Olaus Magnus, showing Thule (labelled “Tile”) NW of the Orkneys and S of Iceland; Greenland (ultima Thule) appears in the upper left inset (Composite from 1949 facsimile; public domain)
Thule’s actual existence was debated for centuries, its possible real identification even still today, and the name Thule eventually came to mean the most northerly occupied place. The name was attached to Greenland when explorer Knud Rasmussen founded a trading post in the far NW corner of the island and named it “Thule.” The United States Air Force cemented the name by building Thule Air Base nearby in the mid-1950s.[3] Meanwhile, the term ultima Thule developed as a literary extension of the geographic idea, meaning “the farthest place” or “a remotely distant goal.” Thus, the title of this post . . . which, admittedly, does not obviously reveal the pictorial topic.
If Thule was a real place, where was it? Some in the past have
identified Thule with the Orkney Islands. That is good enough for me to use
this weird thread of logic to feature some pics from the center of Mainland,
the central island of the Orkneys.
I rather liked Orkney. Crowds at important places could be
minimized, even at the height of the tourist season. This is partly due to the
relatively limited accommodations there. One could find huge clots of tourists,
but they came for organized day-trips via ferry from the north tip of Scotland.
Stuck on bus-tours, they were predictable and easily avoided. The other great
secret is something mentioned by Pytheas: “For it was the case that in these
parts the nights were very short, in some places two, in others three hours
long, so that the sun rose again a short time after it had set” (Geminus, Introduction
to the Phenomena 6.9). Indeed, in Orkney in early July, the sun set around 22:30
(10:30 pm) and rose around 04:00. Tourists seem to arrive about 10:30 and
depart around 16:00, leaving lots of time to see stuff in the early morning or
late afternoon-evening unencumbered.
Another reason to like Orkney; the locally-brewed dark ale that sports the Ring of Brodgar on the label.
In the heart of Mainland, Orkney lies a fantastic collection of megalithic monuments. The crown jewel is the Ring of Brodgar (built 2500-2000 BC), the largest stone circle (103.6 m/340 ft) in Scotland and the 3rd largest in the British Isles. It is unusual in that the perfect stone circle is combined with a henge, much like Avebury in England. The site is part of a UNESCO World Heritage Site and very much the signature location in Orkney (see the great example at left, which also nicely incorporates the low sun). During the main hours of the day, the Ring of Brodgar is crawling with bus loads of day-trippers, but I did not see another living human between 05:30-07:00!
The Ring of Brodgar dominates a narrow peninsula separating
the lochs of Stenness and Harray. A mile to the south are the Stones of
Stenness, four huge megaliths that remain of an earlier stone circle. The site
has an eerie magnificence with its giant standing stones (up to 19 ft high) with
sheep dozing or eating at their bases. An outlier monolith called the Watch
Stone (also 19 ft) dominates the near end of a bridge on the road that leads to
the Ring of Brodgar.
Near the Stones of Stenness are the excavated remains of the
contemporary Barnhouse Settlement, a Neolithic village of 15 or so houses,
including one (Structure Two) that is larger than the others. Past the Watch
Stone and across the bridge are continuing significant excavations of more
Neolithic structures, called the Ness of Brodgar, that continued after
Barnhouse was abandoned. In that later period, Structure Eight, probably for
cultic use, was built by the ruins at Barnhouse. It seems to be oriented—as is
another standing stone—with the largest chamber tomb in the region, Maeshowe
(and another target of many of those bus tours). These interesting sites are
all within a linear mile and a half. There are other significant Neolithic sites
and other wonders in the Orkneys, but they will have to wait. Like Greenland.
One more thing: is there any chance Orkney is the Thule of Pytheas? Almost certainly not. Tacitus’ biography of his father-in-law and Roman governor of Britain from 78-84, Julius Agricola, claimed the Roman fleet circumnavigated Britain and, “thus established the fact that Britain was an island. At the same time it discovered and subjugated the Orkney Islands, hitherto unknown. Thule, too, was sighted, but no more; their orders took them no farther” (Tacitus, Agricola 10). This eliminates Orkney as Thule, but brings the Shetland Islands and possibly the Faroe Islands into play. Modern scholarship ignores them and prefers either Iceland or Norway. I should like to travel to all possibilities, but for now this desire is my own ultima Thule.
[1] Astute readers (obviously you, because you are reading the footnotes) may have noticed that I am not quoting Pytheas himself, but rather other classical authors. This is because Pytheas’ writings are lost, save their quotations by others.
[3] My
first knowledge of Thule came as a young child when my Dad, a USAF pilot, used “sent
to Thule” as a jovial reference to the worst potential disciplinary
reassignment during the Cold War.
I have always been fascinated by monuments or memorials to the deceased and the psychology behind them, as well as the physical structures themselves. This post is triggered in part by the most recent of the all-too-familiar temporary memorials that appear at scenes of horrific mass shootings in my own country. But not to dwell on that depressing and unfortunately ubiquitous topic, I hereby initiate an occasional series on monuments to long-dead Romans and other figures of antiquity.
Trajan excelled in his 19-year reign and was highly regarded
in life, death, and by Renaissance and early modern historians. Already having
made significant military conquests in Dacia, in AD 114 he set out for
campaigns on the eastern frontier. The problem there was agitation by the
Parthian Empire (originating in Persia—modern Iran—another connection of this
story with contemporary events!). Trajan was incredibly successful in his initial
campaign, taking the Parthian capital Ctesiphon and gaining a foothold on the
Persian Gulf. But reduced success and troubles elsewhere in the Empire caused
him to return towards Rome in 117.
Our main source for Trajan’s last days is Cassius Dio.
Already suffering in health, which he attributed to poison, the Emperor
suffered a stroke that left him partially paralyzed. In early August he sailed
for Rome from Antioch. When Trajan’s health deteriorated the ship put in at the
nearest port, Selinus in Cilicia, where he “suddenly expired” (Cassius
Dio 68.33). Selinus was subsequently renamed Traianopolis in the Emperor’s
honor and memory. Details on the exact disposition of his body are not given,
but his “remains” were transported back to Seleucia, the port of Antioch, for
viewing by his successor, Hadrian, and then to Rome.
On the outskirts of the Turkish city Gazipaşa are the ruins of Selinus/Traianopolis, and on the landward outskirts of them stands a lonely structure known locally as the Şekerhane Köşkü, which refers to the building’s use as a hunting platform for elites during the Seljuk Period. Early western explorers of the area identified it as having a sepulchral function and likely built as a cenotaph (a tomb structure without the honored person’s actual remains) for Trajan. Trajan was the only personality of his magnitude known to have died there and a memorial to him is a logical outcome although the written sources do not mention such. The roof of the edifice was covered in soil and produced wheat and other crops that were grown around it. This layer was cleared in the early 2000s revealing the foundation outlines of a temple-like structure with a place for a cult statue. These and other details now make it likely that the building was not a cenotaph but rather a platform for a temple to the deified Emperor Trajan.[2]
Coins issued in Selinus from the late 2nd-mid 3rd centuries featured a temple to Trajan on the reverse. There is no other suitable candidate for this temple in the extant remains apart from the Şekerhane Köşkü. Further, there are striking parallels to coins featuring the Temple of the Deified Julius Caesar (mentioned above) in Rome, which was situated at the spot of Caesar’s cremation. One of the walls of the Şekerhane Köşkü incorporates an earlier square structure, arguably the cremation pit where Trajan’s corpse was burned—an essential step in Apotheosis (elevation to divine status) for both Caesar and Trajan.[3]
The Emperor’s ashes were eventually transported to Rome
where they were placed in a special chamber at the base of Trajan’s Column, a
magnificent and still-standing 30 meter (98 ft) high column depicting the
Emperor and his troops during the Dacian wars and showing painstaking detail of
the Roman army in action. Trajan’s Column anchors one end of the extensive
Forum of Trajan, the last of the Imperial Fora in Rome.
In addition to physical monuments, Trajan’s legacy includes other
honors. He was universally lauded by contemporary writers and posthumously declared
by the Senate optimus princeps, “the best ruler.” He was considered by
some Christian theologians to be a “virtuous pagan,” and Dante depicts him in
Jupiter’s Heaven in The Divine Comedy. Modern historians have sometimes
questioned Trajan’s accomplishments, and his successor Hadrian (who did
relinquish Trajan’s gains against Persia) now gets better press.
Next in the series: The Mausoleum of Augustus.
[1] Some sources place Trajan’s death a day earlier or later, on 7 or 9 August; e.g., Chris Scarre, Chronicle of the Roman Emperors (New York: Thames and Hudson, 1995), lists 7 August as the date of death in the box at the beginning of the entry for Trajan (p. 90), but 9 August in the text (p. 97); therefore, I am taking the middle road in posting this on the evening of 8 August.
[2] This argument is effectively made by Michael Hoff, “The Şekerhane Köşkü at Selinus (Cilicia): The Temple of the Deified Trajan,” Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 10 (Sept 2016): 56-68 [this is a special issue also titled Ex Terra Scientia: Papers in Honor of David Soren, eds. R.H Wilkinson and P.P. Creasman]. For the nerds that read footnotes: I actually obtained this issue recently for a current research project and was pleased to find this article there. Ironically, Michael Hoff (the author) had graciously received my research colleague and I at his impressive excavation site within an hour of our most recent visit to the Trajan Temple site.
[3]
Hoff, “The Şekerhane Köşkü at Selinus (Cilicia): The Temple of the Deified
Trajan,” 62-64.
It has been almost 40 days and 40 nights since my last post
and it is Father’s Day . . . so, obviously, that calls for a post about Noah’s
Ark! But, alas, I have not visited Noah’s Ark—and Ancient Dan, out of
principle, does not post about things without direct contact. However, I have
recently visited the “Ark Encounter” and (surprise!) have some thoughts about
it.
For the uninformed: The Ark Encounter is a Christian creationist theme park[1] in northern Kentucky. It is owned and operated by Answers in Genesis (AiG),[2] a young-earth creationist non-profit founded and directed by Ken Ham, a master purveyor of pseudoscience. AiG also operates the Creation Museum nearby. The Ark Encounter was developed by AiG’s for-profit partner, Ark Encounter LLC (whose corporate office is in the Creation Museum),[3] with the benefits of huge and controversial local tax incentives. AiG, like many other “non-profit” Christian institutions, has plugged into the “business model” and is not shy about commercialization. From the moment one enters either attraction ($48 for the Ark, $35 for the Creation Museum), there are endless opportunities to spend more money on overpriced food, trinkets, and propaganda. Among other things, the Ark [Encounter] certainly provides a refuge from taxes.
How did I end up there? I would never have done so on my own, but three other long-time friend couples planned a trip to the Creation Museum and Ark Encounter. So Mrs. Ancient Dan and I joined them—fellowship with good friends, curiosity, and the principle of direct experience before commentary overcoming my reticence to give money to AiG.
Time, space, and decorum preclude any full systematic reaction
to the exhibits at the Creation “Museum” and Ark Encounter. Rather, I will
offer here a couple of observations on the presentation that struck me as
important.
I expected a barrage of pseudoscience-based arguments, but there
was not as much of that as I anticipated. Other aspects of the presentation,
however, troubled me more. After my visit, I discovered that Bill Nye (“The Science
Guy”) had a similar reaction.[4]
The Science Guy noted, “every single science exhibit is absolutely wrong; not
just misleading, but wrong.”[5]
But that is not the disturbing part. The presentation made no serious attempt
to document its claims apart from woefully out-of-context biblical references. Some
might suggest that the curators of the Creation Museum and Ark Encounter are
incapable of proper argumentation and citation; but I don’t think so (although
one exhibit had undecipherable English syntax). Ken Ham is no scientist, but he
is a crafty presenter and an able politician. The exhibits do not seek to
educate; rather they aim to confirm the views of those already on board with
the ark, so to speak. Preaching to the choir works! But it also erodes the
choirs’ ability to think critically or for themselves.
The crowds at both facilities were themselves an exhibition
of credulity. Their faces and T-shirts proclaimed a desire for confirmation of heartfelt
views and a yearning for refuge from that threatening outside world—the world
of science. The latter was characterized throughout the displays as the “Evolutionary
World View” and tacitly blamed for the ills of human society. The Ark [Encounter]
is thus a refuge from the deluge of the modern world; a place where one can be
comforted that God is in control despite the chaos outside. Is there anything
wrong with that? As a late secular songwriter declared: “It don’t really matter
to me . . . you believe what you want to believe.” The insightful words are “what
you want to believe.” The main point of the song, however, is in
the next line: “you don’t have to live like a refugee.”[6]
Still, is there anything wrong with seeking psychological refuge from a scary
world?
Unfortunately, the Ark also provides a refuge from facts. One example will suffice here. Fundamentalist Christians are (in my opinion, unreasonably) disturbed by the notion of evolution. The Flood story provides a potential avenue to explain away all those pesky and undeniable fossils (which support the “Evolutionary World View”). But if the fossils were all the result of the single Flood event, all the weird lifeforms represented in them must have coexisted with humans at the time of Noah and the Ark. The “biggest” obvious (but certainly not the only) problem, then, would be the dinosaurs. A challenge for the young-earth creationist view is the cynical question, “were there dinosaurs on the Ark?” Ken Ham’s answer to that is: “absolutely.” So the Creation Museum and Ark Encounter go to great lengths to create a narrative in which dinosaurs lounged around with Adam in the Garden of Eden (display in the Creation Museum) and had quarters on the great boat. Indeed, an inordinate percentage of the animal replicas in the Ark Encounter are dinosaur or other paleo- “kinds.”
At this point I should note that the craftmanship of the Ark
replica is top-notch, the grounds are beautiful, and presentations are slick
and high-tech. It is, in a word, impressive. The result is a massive container for
a story that provides limited details. To flesh out visitors’ Encounter
experience, numerous entertaining displays answer those idle questions that
come with a literal understanding of the account. For example, names of Noah’s
daughters-in-law are provided along with their specialized contributions (and
ethnic features to match their assumed descendants). Living quarters of
unexpected luxury are recreated and set the stage for other “poetic license”
additions, like the library of written records (in a bizarre imaginary script).
Viewers are thus invited into a storyland world not so unlike Harry Potter,
Game of Thrones, the Christian fiction genre, or other fantasy theme parks.
What I find troubling is this: with the help of the theme
park atmosphere, the visitor is encouraged to accept the presence of dinosaurs
on the Ark as naturally as they might expect a huge clothed hi-pitched bipedal rodent
interacting with visitors at Disneyworld.
I return to the question: is there anything wrong with all
that fantasy? Not in principle; but the ability of the public to evaluate information
has always been suspect. In this “Dis-information Age,” flashy presentation,
repetition, and volume make discernment more of a chore (see “Russia and the
2016 election”). The real peril of Ken Ham’s efforts are a weakening of
critical thinking and an indoctrinated distrust of “science.” This is already a
huge problem in America, as the Anti-Vaxxer movement and the current resurgence
of Measles highlight.
Ironically, Ken Ham does what the original writer of the Noah’s Ark account in Genesis did: creates a retelling of a well-known and beloved account infused with new details that support a particular theological view. Flood stories were written adapted in Mesopotamian cultures long before the composition of the Torah (even if one assumes the most conservative view of Mosaic authorship). Those accounts feature conflicting actions of multiple gods with humans as simple annoyances. The Genesis author was concerned with eliminating the other deities from the narrative, leaving the one God of Israel in control with a focus on human morality. Ken Ham’s retelling is concerned with eliminating the established fossil record, scientific method, and critical thinking.
What does any of this have to do with Father’s Day? The Genesis Flood story presents Noah as the father of all mankind through his three sons, Shem, Ham (not Ken!), and Japheth.[7] Unsurprisingly, the Ark Encounter takes up this approach. This is a danger zone because literal views of the Shem, Ham, and Japheth division was used to justify slavery in this country (primarily through interpretations of Gen 9:20-27). Happily, Ken Ham denounces racism in numerous displays—which I wholeheartedly applaud. So the Ark should be a refuge—from bigotry and hatred, because we are all in this boat together.
[4] I am
gratified that Bill Nye also felt the need to see it first hand—and would like
to think that our common engineering backgrounds are the reason for our similar
approaches.
[6] Tom
Petty (and Michael W. Campbell), “Refugee,” 1979.
[7]
BONUS FOR PEOPLE THAT READ FOOTNOTES: The earlier Mesopotamian flood epics
mentioned above have undeniable parallels to the Genesis account in terms of building
details, the releasing of birds, and a post-flood sacrifice. But the
Mesopotamian stories do not emphasize the notion of the variously-named boat
builders populating the world. This aspect of the tale is found,
however, in the less well-known Greek flood myth of Deucalion, where the
hero repopulates the world through three sons. A new study of these parallels
is found in Guy Darshan, After the Flood: Stories of Origins in the Hebrew
Bible and Eastern Mediterranean Literature [Hebrew], Biblical Encyclopedia
Library 35 (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2018).
A follow-up to my previous Pic of The (special) Day post is in order. Last week, I held forth on the “Genesis of the Accepting Church” using the Apostle Paul’s first visit to the city Antioch of Pisidia, as narrated by Acts 13. This was occasioned by my use of the passage for a special combined Sunday School session on the 60th anniversary of University Baptist Church’s own Genesis. As it happens, the Narrative Lectionary used by UBC covers Paul’s continued work on the same journey in the cities of Lystra and Derbe, also in the Roman province of Galatia. If you haven’t read the one about Antioch of Pisidia, it might be helpful and can be found here.
Immediately after Antioch of Pisidia, the same sequence of events is reported at Iconium but with far less detail: Paul going to the synagogue, having an opportunity to preach there because of his status, resistance by unbelieving synagogue Jews, and eventual persecution and departure (Acts 14:1-7). From Iconium, they moved on to nearby Lystra. Today Lystra remains a largely un-investigated and non-descript ruin in the Lycaonian plain. The site is dominated by a large hüyük; a mound of ruins built up over centuries or millennia of human occupation (more familiar by the Arabic word tell). The active agricultural fields surrounding the mound are devoid of architectural features, but abound in those indicators of an ancient site: sherds of broken pottery and small stone objects turned up by the plow. It is a prototypical example of an unpreserved and unexcavated ancient site.
At Lystra the biblical narrative focuses on Paul’s healing of a cripple—very possibly at the synagogue where Paul was speaking (Acts 14:8-10)—and the aftermath of that miraculous event. Some of the locals, amazed by what Paul had done, declared him and Barnabas to be “the gods” in human form. Paul, “since he was the chief speaker,” was called Hermes (the messenger of the Olympian Greek gods) and Barnabas—apparently more quietly dignified and stately(?)—was deemed to be Zeus! The priest of Zeus brought out “oxen and garlands” to offer a sacrifice, but Paul and Barnabas declaimed that they were mere men and scarcely managed to avert the sacrifice (Acts 14:11-18). Then, with no indication of time passed after the previous scene, the reader of Acts is told that Jews from Antioch (of Pisidia) and Iconium came and “persuaded the people,” so that “they stoned Paul dragged him out of the city, supposing that he was dead” (v. 19). How could the same people declare Paul and Barnabas to be gods worthy of sacrifice and in the next verse stone Paul and leave him for dead? The answer, I sadly conclude, is human nature.
We, as most mammals do, have something of a pack mentality which causes us to readily accept a potential leader who demonstrates (or sometimes only claims) an ability to “save” us from whatever we may fear. This desire leads to irrational beliefs and actions. We see as much in this story; but also throughout history, in politics, in sports, and even entertainment. In the Roman world, the practice of worshiping the emperor as divine may strike us as “ignorant,” but it operated on the same psychology. And it worked! —as seen in the impressive temple to Augustus at Antioch of Pisidia (pictured in my previous post) complete with an entablature featuring bulls decorated with garlands, the very items brought out for sacrifice in our story.
Apparently refusing the role of physical/political savior, failing to provide what the crowds demand, or not being what people first hoped, is a dangerous business. This is the human side of what physically happened to Jesus; and Paul’s experience is an echo. The Lycaonians of Lystra demonstrate, in the extremes of their actions, the foibles of human temperament.
Happily, we don’t have to leave Lystra (or this blog) completely depressed about humanity. Paul returned to the city on the so-called “Second Missionary Journey” (Acts 16:1-3) and found the good side of people and their instincts. In Lystra Paul met a disciple named “Timothy, the son of a Jewish woman who was a believer; but his father was a Greek.” This Timothy was the product of a mixed marriage, which may have been a social burden and certainly created the potential for theological discrimination (Acts 16:3). It might be argued that Timothy’s mother is only mentioned because of her contribution to his mixed heritage, but note that only she is cited as a believer. And, assuming we can take it as authentic (many do not), 2 Timothy 1:5 has Paul remarking to Timothy about his faith: “a faith that dwelt first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, dwells in you.” Timothy clearly received much more than Jewishness from his mother and his grandmother.
The love and nurture of a mother reveals and passes on the best part of human nature. We see it at Lystra in this story, and I feel it in my own life and in the lives of my children. As Tim[othy] might have said, “God bless[ed] us, every one!”
This post is the result of my being asked to teach a special combined Sunday School session for University Baptist Church’s 60th anniversary, 5 May 2019. I decided to cover the Acts 13 passage in which the Apostle Paul established the first Christian church in Antiochia Pisidia, “Antioch of Pisidia.” And, I’ll take any opportunity to put pictures of a place to a story. Hence this “Pic of the (special) Day” entry.
Antiochia Pisidia is one of several cities named “Antioch” in the Greco-Roman world, and distinct from the Antioch for which so many rural protestant churches are named in the American Bible Belt region. That earlier Antioch is often called “Antioch on the Orontes” or “Antioch of Syria,” and it is where the early Christian church made its breakout in the Hellenistic world (Acts 11:19-26). It is also the “home church” for the so-called “Missionary Journeys of Paul—the first of which brings the Apostle to the Antioch of Pisidia.
Paul had assumed leadership of the First Journey, originally led by Barnabas, it seems (Acts 13:1-4), as the group left Cyprus and arrived in at Perga Asia Minor (Acts 13:13). No work is described at Perga and, for reasons unexplained by the biblical text, Paul continued inland an appreciable distance to Antioch of Pisidia. Antioch was made a Roman colony by the Emperor Augustus, to whom an impressive temple was built. Augustus also established the Via Sebaste, a major road that connected Antioch with Perga to the southwest and Iconium and Lystra to the east, all cities visited by Paul on that First Journey.
Antioch of Pisidia was a typical Roman-Hellenistic city, with the usual institutions and structures: the Temple of Augustus, public fountains and baths powered by an aqueduct, and a minority community of Jews with a synagogue. As in many Roman cities, some number of non-Jews (Gentiles) attended the synagogue because of their interest and belief in the one God of Judaism. Such Gentiles were called “God Fearers” and were part of the synagogue community, but not considered Proselytes (converts)—no doubt because of the difficult requirement of circumcision for full conversion.
Paul and his company went to the synagogue of Antioch of Pisidia on the sabbath day (Acts 13:14). This is the first city to which the missionary group arrived with Paul in the full leadership position, and the author (traditionally Luke) gives a rather complete outline of what occurred. The account provides an outline of Paul’s procedure/experience in each succeeding city with only minor variations. Because of his rabbinical training under Gamaliel, the most respected Rabbi of the period, Paul would automatically be asked to deliver a homily after the Torah and other biblical readings in the synagogue service. This is what is described (Acts 13:15-16), and Paul delivered a sermon (vss 16-41) that was well-received by some Jews and God Fearers alike (42-43). The next sabbath many more people appeared at the synagogue (44). These were no doubt other Gentiles who came because of reports from the God Fearers who had heard Paul the previous week. The unbelieving Jews were “filled with jealousy” when they saw the crowds—people different from them, from which the synagogue was something of a refuge. They contradicted Paul, which is to be expected as theological debate and argumentation over the Law is a well-established Jewish tradition. But more alarmingly they “reviled him” (45), leading me to the conclusion that this was not just about theology: they used theology as an excuse and a tool for exclusion of those who were different—in this case the Gentiles; especially those not in conformance with the Jewish Law.
Paul’s reaction at Antioch of Pisidia, as in every other city save one, was to leave the synagogue and form a new faith community—a church—with the believing Jews and God Fearers (46). It was successful and grew (48-49). Its eventual persecution by the synagogue Jews underlines the latter’s attitude and my conclusion that, here and in many similar situations (ancient and modern), theology divides while inclusion builds community.
Paul
went on to repeat the same basic sequence at other cities of the First Journey,
all of them (with Antioch of Pisidia) in the Roman province called Galatia. There
is considerable debate but, for purely logical reasons, I maintain that Paul’s letter
to the Galatians was written to those churches founded on the First Journey
about the time of the “Judaizing Controversy” (Acts 15), in which the “Judaizers”
attempted to force Gentile Christians to keep the Jewish Law as a condition of
salvation. The letter to the Galatians is clearly in the context of this
controversy and lays out the case that Gentiles are not required to keep the
Jewish Law (of which circumcision is the most painful prescription). In that
letter occurs the “focal verse” of University Baptist Church, Galatians 2:28: “There
is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither
male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” It is worth noting that “Greeks”
(Gentiles/God Fearers) were separated from full Jewish males in the synagogue,
as were women of any persuasion. The verse focuses on the elimination of
distinctions—distinctions which continue to arise through Christian history. It
is refreshing to belong to a congregation that understands this foundational
tenet of building truly Christian communion.
