A teary-eyed farewell

Our sacred trek has come to an end. The flurry of thoughts and emotions associated with good endings, however, has left me with much more than memories to reflect upon...too much, in fact, to begin to jot down here. The trip has meant a lot to me personally. One of the greatest priviliges a deliberate and lengthy "pilgrimage" affords one is the chance to share in some soul-searching conversations with your travel companions, and I must say it was a privilige to do quite a bit of that with Tamara and Krista and the people we got to befriend along the way. We learned a lot from each other sharing at length about our personal struggles with faith, singlehood, work and relationships, among other things.

The other great priviliges are the moments in your travels when you get to witness the hand of God. Occasionally, these are deeply emotive experiences, which take you by surprise and can reduce you to tears. I actually gauge the value of this trip by this "tear" factor.

When it comes to visitting pilgrimage shrines or the ruins of ancient cities, I usually don't experience much emotion at all, aside from that passive curiosity one might find about those objects that one is drawn to in a museum. I lived three years in Jerusalem and was never really moved by any religious site in it. To me, the physical religious environment of Jerusalem is mostly a kind of museum relic. I suppose this makes me quite a typical Protestant, which, not incidentally, also makes me quite a terrible "pilgrim". In spite of what it commemorates, to this day I still have a hard time relating to those teary-eyed pilgrims I encounter in the Holy Sepulchre.

Nevertheless, occasionally, a place does strike me deeply. My first occasion of this happened three years ago, not while I was in Israel, interestingly, but during a study tour of Asia Minor. The occasion was a visit to the ruins of Alexandria Troas on the Turkish shore of the Aegean, the ancient city where St. Paul received a heavenly vision to take the Gospel into Europe. At that point in my life I was a year and a half into my studies of Second Temple Period Judaism, and I found it somewhat befuddling there that God would take this man, a Pharisee of Pharisees, a man so zealous for God that he modelled his life on Phinehas, Elijah and the Rechabites, shake him down and send him to Europe to save his peoples' oppressors. To add to the effrontery that this "Macedonian Call" represents, just realize that the figure Heaven used to beckon Paul into Europe was indeed a Macedonian. Recall that it was a Macedonian who turned the eastern world upside down, Alexander the Great. So I wept because, standing on that Asian shore and looking towards Europe (as Paul must have done), I saw for the first time fully the God of Israel's love for the heathen, including my Latin ancestors. And I wept because this Jew of Jews, who had every reason to hate my people, turned the western world upside down with his message of unbounded Grace.

On this trip, I did not necessarily have a "weeping experience", but there were two instances when I did fight that undeniable dampness from forming in my eyes. The first occurred in Antioch (modern day Antakya, Turkey) the place where the followers of the Way where first called "Christians". We had been waylaid in Cappadocia because of stomach illnesses, and so we happened to be there on a Sunday morning. I was anxious to get into Syria to make up for lost time, but Tamara insisted that we attend the morning services at the local churches. What unfolded was amazing. We first talked to Father Dominco, the Catholic priest in Antioch, in his house church in the ancient Jewish Quarter. He was the first to relate to us about the very special movement of unity in the city between the Christian sects...and about their special developing bonds with the local Muslims and Jews. He was particularly proud of the fact that his church was in the Jewish Quarter, because of the heritage that that ancient bond represented, telling us that he and his Jewish counterpart delighted in calling each other "brothers".

Afterwards, we walked to the Orthodox Church in town. Along the way, I noticed that Father Dominco had also left his house. In the court of the church we encountered a friendly Syrian Christian named Joseph. He invited us into the service and told us before we entered that we were most welcome to attend. "I myself do not call myself 'Orthodox' or 'Catholic' or 'Protestant'", he explained to us as we informed him that we were Protestants, "I am only a 'Christian'". The significance of this statement at the threshhold of the Church of Antioch was not lost on us.

Inside the Church, I was surprised to find that Father Dominco was seated among the worshippers. I was already moved by Joseph's statement, but when I saw the Catholic priest in the Orthodox church, I began to feel that kind of special feeling you get when you are in the presence of the Holy Spirit. I was even more surprised when Joseph pulled us out of our seats to receive Communion. I was quite sure that we were breaking there every rule of both of our sects, but I was not in the state of mind to politely refuse. So we partook of the elements before the entire congregation. Immediately after the service, Joseph led us to a Protestant house church in town, to a congregation whose worship service was led by children and whose members apparently all have come recently to Christianity from Muslim backgrounds. I sat in quiet amazement after the service as one of the members recounted how his yearning to know God had led him to fundamentalist Islam and then to a remarkable encounter with the Holy Spirit.

A second occasion of fighting tears happened to me in Damascus. Weakened from amoeba, I went on a fruitless search in a market place for fruit yoghurt, the only thing I could imagine eating at the time. Thankfully, I passed the National Archeological Museum of Syria along the way, so I decided to pay a quick visit. Inside, I discovered that the museum housed the Dura Europa Synagogue. This entire ancient Synagogue had been carted from the middle of the Syrian desert to Damascus! My encounter was particularly poignant, even though it was now a relic in a museum, for throughout the trip, I could not help noticing the sheer lack of signs of Jewish settlement in all the cities we had visited since Sarajevo. The sadness I felt over this grew particularly acute in Syria, a place that had long been an important center of Jewish civilization. While the visit only punctuated this sense of loss, the frescoes of the Dura Europa Synagogue (for which it is famous) gave me some solace with the vibrant spirit of their bright colors and their celebration of Jewish resilience in the midst of destruction, war and dispersal. I stood before the ark niche in a kind of suspended gasp, only half-believing what I was seeing. Although I am not Jewish, nothing could keep me from singing the Shma at that moment in the heart of Syria's capital.

John’s Apocalypse of Benefactions

Although I have visited the ruins of Ephesus twice in my previous travels to Turkey, I never noted the preponderance of inscriptions on the remains of the ancient civic buildings. Almost all of the inscriptions (with little exception I noted) are examples of dedicatory inscriptions honoring the patrons of a monument, statue or building, typically, these being Emperors, magistrates and/or wealthy individuals. Some of the donors were even buried in their buildings. One Celsus evidently bequeathed a sizable endowment for Ephesus’ library and was honored by burial on the premises (he, of course, paid for that as well). Some of these inscriptions even went to great length to describe exactly how and under what circumstances the funds were procured. Why the level of detail and obsession with donorship?

It turns out that the political, social and religious realities of the Roman Empire demanded it. A leader in Greco-Roman society was considered a “benefactor” before any other designation. In order to earn the privilege to rule, one had to dedicate a sizable portion of one’s estate for the common good. This is how cities in the Roman Empire funded civic projects, temples, institutions, festivities and games…directly from the personal coffers of such wealthy individuals. In return, the population honored its benefactors with “honors”, such as giving their ruler-patrons prominent front-row seats in the theatres and coliseums, placing their busts in public places, or singing their praises on dedicatory inscriptions, murals, and so on. Eulogies were even composed in their honor at special occasions and festivities, where they were sometimes conferred strings of honorary titles, and given wreaths or objects symbolizing their lordship over their cities and so on.

This reliance of governance on honoraria was actually the civic bedrock of Greco-Roman society, a phenomenon scholars have lately begun referring to as “evergetism” (from the Greek word for “benefaction”). Evergetism reached its zenith at the time of the Emperor Domitian, the very figure whose persecution of Christians inspired the writing of the book of Revelation. Domitian took evergetism to new heights when he declared himself a god and erected a temple to himself at the top of Ephesus’ Via Sacra, in contrast to previous Emperors, who, though knowing they would be conferred the status of deities upon their death, still considered it tactless to refer to themselves as such while they were still living. Apparently, Domitian knew himself to be the Empire’s top benefactor, and made it compulsory to be honored as such among the pantheon of the gods.

To us, it may seem extremely shallow and completely unethical to buy one's own honor (not to mention one's power). But we underestimate the impact of "Jewish sensibility" on Western culture, which gave us the impulse to credit God first in all things (since He is the ultimate source of our wealth). Archeological evidence has revealed the fact that Jewish donorship lists underplayed the role of the individual and placed the focus on the community. Jewish donors even creditied their gifts to "Providence". Christ's teachings also deeply reflect this sensibility. “I tell you the truth,” said Jesus about those who received praise from others for their acts of righteousness, “they have received their full reward.”

So it comes as some surprise that Jesus promises the obedient hearer of his admonitions with several rewards that sound suspiciously like evergetistic honors in the letters to the Seven Churches in John’s Apocalypse. The Smyrnans are promised a crown. The Pergameme faithful are promised “new names”. The lowly Thyatirans are to be given a rod of iron to rule the nations by. The Sardians are even promised to have their names proclaimed in the heavenly throne room, much like the conferral of an honorary title.

On second thought, however, Revelation's model of benefaction actually throws the patron-citizen evergetistic relationship on its head. For it is not just the ruler (Jesus) who is shown receiving the honors of benefaction, but the faithful citizens of his kingdom. As such, the letters actually represent a drastic leveling of the honorary distance kept between the ruler and the ruled in Greco-Roman society…In fact, the promises indicate that the servant-citizens of Christ's kingdom are to fully share in the act of government! The "poor" and the "powerless" are the very ones who are to sit on Christ's own throne.

Another reflection also reveals the fact that God is always the benefactor--only, He will inscribe His name on the faithful overcomers, who are to become the "pillars" of His temple. God's civic project is our lives. The honor that is due to Himself, He inscribes on us.

St. Paul's Message for Today's Athenians

Recently, we've been noting recurring themes in the responses we hear to our question, "How would you describe God?". Many reflect that the search to know God is universal, and that all religious paths can lead the authentic adherent toward God. This universalistic view is sometimes complemented by a conception of God not dissimilar to the Platonistic understanding of God as the distant "unmoved mover" who sets all things in motion and orders the cosmos with His thoughts. The ancient Stoics referred to these primordial divine thoughts or precepts as the "spermatikoi logoi", which need not be discerned through religious instruction but could be intuited in our very nature. Since we all have embers of divine reason within us, we can discover the Mover in ourselves and in the world around us. Quite fittingly, one of the places where we've encountered this universalistic view was on the Areopagus (Mars Hill) in Athens, the site where Paul once engaged Stoic and Epicurean philosophers.

Surprisingly, Paul did not refute the Stoic conception of the spermatikoi logoi in his dialogue with the philosophers. Paul, in fact, stakes his argument on the unquestionable existance of this pan-religious, universal quest (like many Jews of his day--including Jesus--he gave surprising deference to the gentiles on some matters). While Paul dwells at length on the folly of pagan idolatry, his comments there are not as provocative as the text of Acts 17 might make one think. In fact, with his tirade against serving lifeless icons (such as the premier icon in the world at that time on the hill above him) Paul is more likely casting his sinker into their midst. Paul would have known that these philosophers shared his contempt for showy pagan religiosity (his statement "Men of Athens, I see that you are religious in all things" bears a twinge of light-hearted sarcasm). But Paul was well-aware that they did not share his notion of a relational God-head who is very much involved in our lives. To the Stoics and Epicureans, the gods (if they existed at all) were inimically absent and remained distantly unconcerned with the affairs of men. They taught, in fact, that it was useless to entreat the divinities for favors...much less their images.

The quest of the Stoics and Epicurians, as for many of us today, was simply to achieve serenity in one's lifetime through careful reason and self-discipline. As Paul Veyne has described in A History of Private Life, their ideologies were "the tranquilizers of life". Theirs was the science of living the well-lived life (the Epicureans, in particular, coined the aphorism carpe diem). It is thus easy to see why the Athenians dismissed Paul out of the Areopagus. Paul's science of living for the life to come--as opposed to the present one--completely undermined their quest. With Paul, knowledge of the divine spermatikoi logoi carried a certain accountability. It could mean a private, costly devotion to the Creator of the Universe. Still, the striking difference of his conception of the spermatikoi logoi from theirs is that he regarded them as signs of a beckoning, relational God.

In our journey we have discovered that regardless of their religious stripe, certain individuals express an infectious closeness with God. We are now in Cappadocia, where the early Church thinkers first fully integrated the Classical intellectual heritage of philosophy and rhetoric with Christian theology, and so bequethed to the Church their rich legacy of "Natural Theology", the science of knowing God through a carefully reasoned reflection of the cosmos. We had the privilige to bump into two Natural Theologians here while touring the ruins of the ancient Christian cave cities of the region. One was Bassa, a young doctor from South Africa of Muslim background who expressed an authentic yearning to deepen his relationship with God. Another was Jerome, an officer in the Singaporean army and a fledgling convert to Christianity from a Buddhist background. I immensely enjoyed how these two loved to listen to one another without condescension and with authentic interest. They never responded with well-worn doctrinal catch phrases (as you might expect between a typical Muslim and Christian), but immediately built on one anothers insights and expressed humility in their thoughts. Reflecting back on them and previous respondents, those individuals who do seem to be on a path towards knowing God sincerely seem to have one thing in common: they respect views other than their own and are deeply aware that the quest for a life of authentic devotion to God can only first exist because of God's outstretched hand toward us.

Learning from Sarajevo

Traveling through the Balkans has been a truly revelatory experience. After meeting the people of these lands, it has been humbling to realize just how many misperceptions of this area I had held before our arrival here. Part of those misconceptions had arisen, I suppose, from sensationalist war reportage and commentary in the media...although, mostly I'm realizing that myself and Americans in general have simply a tremendous lack of knowledge about this part of the world. For these reasons Sarajevo was one of those places that left a deep impression on me. Our conversations with Sarajevans revealed the somewhat surprising fact that Sarajevans did not experience the recent war as a conflict arising from deep-seated religious/ethnic interests, so much as an attack on their tolerant and pluralistic way of life. As proof of this, our host cited the fact that many of the Serbs of Sarajevo served alongside their Muslim and Catholic compatriots in the war against the Serbian nationalists. It is perhaps wrong to generalize about the "Spirit of Sarajevo" from the handful of conversations we had in two days, but it became quite clear to us that--at least with the Sarajevans we spoke with--an attitude of civic and social pluralism is something Sarajevans hold deep in their bones. They did not always express it consciously, but it was more than clear that cultural identity--and most especially religious cultural identity--is not the root cause of the problem that we Americans have long come to associate with the term "balkanization".

Sarajevo, in fact, has long existed as beacon of religious tolerance, not just in its part of the world, but even in Europe in general. It is clear, anyway, that Sarajevans need no lectures from the West on the value of "coexistance." The reasons for Sarajevo's pluralistic "spirit" are manifold, but the two most pertinent that we've been able to perceive in our conversations are the value Sarajevans place on intellectual openness and independent thought, and secondly, the primacy they place on the family unit as opposed to tribal and religious loyalties. Perhaps related to or as a result of this attitude, our host pointed out that Sarajevo's neighborhoods have not existed as fragmented ethnic enclaves (ghettos) since Hapsburg times. Sarajevo is proof to me the city can truly exist as a beacon of multicultural tolerance against nationalism, and has even produced a pluralistic civic ethos that can serve as a tantalizing model for multi-national cities in this part of the world, such as Jerusalem and Baghdad.

This is a great reason why America, ten years after Dayton, must not forget this region of world. This pilgrimage has taught me that I as an American must do all I can to support the renewal of our efforts to rebuild the region, to continue humanitarian aid, and to double our efforts to build up civil society in the region. Most importantly, we must renew our commitment to stabilizing the economies of the region, the key struggle the people of the Balkans perceive as the key to sustaining peace. In Belgrade, for example, we witnessed many bombed-out shells of buildings still standing precariously close to collapse as a result of our bombing over five years ago. It may be a small gesture and perhaps too late, but if we Americans offered to rebuild these monuments to Serbian grievance and American ignorance, I don't believe such a gesture of diplomatic goodwill would be overlooked among Serbs...

That could be one desperately needed step towards the reconciliation and redemption between our Balkan brothers and us.