How Ancient Heresy Explains our Culture's Decay
Valerie Schmalz, ChurchPOP Survey Finds Most American Believers are Actually Heretics G. Shane Morris, The Federalist The State of Theology in the United States Ligonier Ministries and Lifeway Research Infant Baptism: Answering Their Four Best Arguments Wes McAdams, Radically Christian Six Steps for Teaching Better Bible Classes Wes McAdams, Radically Christian How to Be a More Effective Bible Teacher Bailey McBride, The Christian Chronicle Is Wayne Grudem Right About the Trinity? Carl Trueman, Alliance of Confessing Evangelicals Whose Position on the Trinity is Really New? Wayne Grudem, The Council on Biblical Manhood and Womanhood
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Christianity Without Denominationalism
House to House, Heart to Heart Dollars and Souls: Funding Stateside Mission Work Jay Repecko, The Christian Chronicle House Church: Faith Beyond the Brick and Mortar Katie Jones, The Christian Chronicle Imagine What Could Be Jeremy Houck, Wineskins Leaving a Street Gang for Christ Jovan Paynes, Gospel Advocate Not Just a Fad: Faithful Presence, Gracious Hospitality Gailyn Van Rheenen, Missio Dei Journal The Very Best Way to Tell if a Church is of Christ Wes McAdams, Radically Christian In the recent performance history of Shakespeare’s comedy, The Tempest, adaptations from the play have generally outnumbered more traditional productions of the Bard’s work. The result of this in modern times has led to a number of adaptations assuming the centrality of colonization in Shakespeare’s intent. Here we will briefly examine a case study of this approach and then posit an alternative method and the resulting impact on Shakespearean performance. The surface meaning of Shakespeare’s play is fairly clear to the modern reader: injustice has a way of righting itself in favor of those unjustly treated, and rightfully so. The Tempest, however, is not without other influences, one of which is the European colonization of both Africa and the New World. Postcolonial readers, however (especially those outside of the English-speaking community), tend to overemphasize this ‘colonizing’ aspect of the play at the expense of other possibilities. Because of this, race (as opposed to natural justice) becomes “the central issue in Cesaire’s adaptation of The Tempest for a black theater” (McNee). Thus, as McNee notes, Cesaire assumes the primacy of colonization and rebuilds the play from the ground up: Shakespeare’s play – at least on the surface – promotes Prospero as the legitimate ruler of Milan, rather than attacking the aristocratic hierarchy that legitimates him. Cesaire, on the other hand, presents Prospero as an usurper not only on the island, but also in Milan. Stephano and Trinculo become representatives of the down-trodden people, who view Prospero and other nobles as dictators, rather than as legitimate rulers. Cesaire therefore turns Shakespeare on his head, and for political reasons at that; a cause such revisionists are proud of: If literature courses are to change even a few students’ opinions about the current world order, instructors must first show students that postcolonial literatures are relevant to their lives. Cesaire’s text is ideal in this sense, for students clearly see racial tension as a significant factor in their lives. (McNee) Cesaire’s adaptation, then, “reads into” Shakespeare’s work the reviser’s (and the professor’s) contemporary view of politics. But Cesaire and McNee are also at least half right: Shakespeare does intentionally use imagery connected with colonization contemporary to his own time. Okamura demonstrates this well by reviewing Shakespeare’s use of William Stachey’s personal account of the colony at Jamestown as well as Virgil’s Aeneid (the latter via Marlowe’s Dido Queen of Carthage). He goes on to note, though, that such an influence – both in Shakespeare specifically and among Renaissance writers in general – is far less about cultural and political imperialism and far more about the virtues needed to succeed in a new world. So while the effect of colonization on The Tempest is undeniable, it is hardly worth rewriting the play for: On the one hand, it is now almost impossible to dissociate The Tempest from the discourse of colonization: this may not be . . . a play about the New World, but without the New World, The Tempest would be a different play. On the other hand, The Tempest is also Shakespeare’s most Virgilian play. (Okamura) Rather than “reading back” into Shakespeare, then, Okamura listens to the Bard to determine the influence on Shakespeare achieved by other writers.
The direction of future Tempest performances is, of course, yet to be determined. Those involved in such productions, however, have a clear choice to make. On the one hand, there are performances of the play that conform to the expectations of the viewer, and on the other, there are those that reflect the form, and therefore the function, of the original. History has thus far preferred the former; but the more thoughtful viewer will always prefer the latter. Works Cited McNee, Lisa. “Teaching in the Multicultural Tempest.” College Literature 19/20 Issue 3/1: 195. EBSCO. 15 Nov. 2009. Wilson-Okamura, D.S. “Virgilian Models of Colonization in Shakespeare’s Tempest.” ELH 70.3(2003):709. ProQuest. 15 Nov. 2009. Alone in the Academy Eric Miller, First Things Some Advice for the Untenured Conservative Humanist Mark Bauerlein, First Things ~ Part 1: Research ~ Part 2: Teaching ~ Part 3: Service Teaching Calvin in California Jonathan Sheehan, The New York Times Think Teachers Aren't Paid Enough? It's Even Worse Valerie Strauss, The Washington Post Trigger Warnings & The Coddling of the American Mind Greg Lukianoff & Jonathan Haidt, The Atlantic U of Chicago Says No to Trigger Warnings, Safe Spaces Jon Miltimore, Intellectual Takeout Why Business Majors Desperately Need the Liberal Arts Yoni Appelbaum, The Atlantic The European Renaissance began in the 14th century after Christ, and lasted for nearly 300 years, building up to the advent of the modern age in the 1600s. After almost a millennium since the fall of Rome, classic works written in Hebrew, Greek, Latin, and even Arabic, made their way out of obscurity and the East and into the fledging academies of Europe. As its name suggests, then, the Renaissance was a rebirth of the wisdom of the ages; a reengagement with classic literature as the foundation of a complete education and a life well-lived. In the Preface to his book The Western Canon, Harold Bloom elaborates on what makes such rebirths possible, something he refers to as “the anxiety of influence” (7). No writer works in a vacuum. “There can be no strong, canonical writing without the process of literary influence” (7). A writer therefore works from within his own literary tradition in order to become canonical himself. So for the writers of the Renaissance, their influences should not be surprising, but these are perhaps overshadowed by Renaissance writers themselves: the Greek and Latin classics, apostolic and patristic writings, and the commentaries and scholarly works of their medieval predecessors. Though we’ve written more extensively about this phenomenon elsewhere, and noted its place in the work of Chaucer, here we will briefly examine its role in the writings of four other Renaissance writers: Michel de Montaigne, John Donne, Francois Rabelais, and Niccoló Machiavelli. We begin our survey with Montaigne. For the primary influence on which Montaigne’s thought and work relies, one may look to his Latin sources (especially Cicero and Virgil). Though he is also frequently refers to Dante and others, it is the Latin thinkers that form the core of both his reading and his writing. One example of this tendency is seen in his essay, “On the Education of Children.” Here, Montaigne seeks to instruct a personal friend on the form and function of the ideal education, complete with notes on methodology and the proper balance between reading, writing, and experience. One of the particular goals of such an education is to fashion a student who knows not only how and what to think, but how to express these things to others. He writes: I personally believe – and with Socrates it is axiomatic – that anyone who has a clear and vivid idea in his mind will express it, either in rough language, or by gestures if he is dumb: [‘When the matter is ready the words will follow freely’ (Horace)] And as another author said just as poetically in prose, ‘When things have seized the mind, the words come of themselves’ [Seneca]. And yet another, ‘The subject itself seizes on the words’ [Cicero].” (Montaigne I.26, bracketed portions provided in the editor’s footnote) To Montaigne, then, communication is the highest measure of understanding; if a student cannot express to you what he has learned, you have obviously not done a very good job teaching him, nor has he succeeded in learning his lesson. Note also, however, the writer’s passing reference to Socrates (whose thought survives only through the writings of his students, especially Plato) alongside his more full corroboration from Latin: Horace, Seneca and Cicero. Only Virgil, his other perennial favorite is missing from our brief sample. In using these sources, Montaigne employs all the rules of literary thought. He understands literally what his sources are saying, he understands what these words meant in their literary, historical, and social setting, and he employs their words to shed light on similar circumstances in his own writings, in this case, on a child’s education. Similarly, John Donne immersed himself in the great works of the past, often combining the classic themes of religious faith and romantic love. In his poem, “The Good Morrow,” Donne employs the use of hyperbole to relate the passionate power of love on the life of the beloved: I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I To Donne, his relationship with his beloved has not merely become a microcosm of his life, it has become his life itself, replacing any other semblance of existence with a higher and indeed more spiritual one. The depth of this spirituality is captured in part by the image cast in the fourth line: “Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?”. The line refers to an old Christian legend in which seven young men from the city of Ephesus fall asleep only to awake nearly two hundred years later to a continent almost entirely under the influence of patristic Christianity. So widely was the tale known, that Muhammad, in writing the Koran, included the account as an example of piety and faith. Donne, however, adapts the tale for his own purposes. Rather than recounting the details of the story, he expects his readers to understand the reference and the affective power inherent to the tale itself. Just as the Seven Sleepers lived for centuries in blissful ignorance of the triumphant happiness awaiting them, he and his beloved have existed in a mere dream, knowing neither life nor love. At their meeting, they awake to discover not only each other but also themselves, transcending their consciousness of the present and encompassing their memories in the clouds of the past. Donne therefore employs the event to evoke the dual image of ephemeral ignorance and enlightening joy. Rabelais, however, cites the classics most prolifically, with far greater transparency, and usually to a humorous end. In his novel Gargantua, he parodies the Scholastic education of medieval Europe and puts forth his own model in comical form. He begins by recounting the noble lineage and strange birth of the title character (who, by the end of the work, becomes his ideal student) and in doing so broaches a series of interesting subjects that demonstrate both the depth and breadth of his prior reading. In his discussion of the proper term for pregnancies (which according to his sources could extend up to eleven months, counting inclusively), he mentions in passing Hippocrates, Pliny, Plautus, Marcus Varro, Censorinus, Aristotle, Aulus Gellius, Servius and (later on) Macrobius, as well as a number of legal works on the subject (Rabelais III). The classics, however, are only the beginning for Rabelais. Though he is clearly well-read in both Greek and Latin, he often prefers the more contemporary works of the humanist Erasmus, as well as the Bible itself. The Erasmian influence is seen immediately in the author’s prologue and is alluded to throughout the work. The best example of both may be found in the sixth chapter of Gargantua. Note the subtle, and even comical understanding Rabelais demonstrates in his work, as elucidated by our translator: Rabelais, recalling the old notion that the Virgin both conceived and delivered her Babe, the Word of God, through the ear, combines a medical romp with a comic sermon, both Erasmian and Lutheran. For the Sorbonnistes faith is the argumentum non apparentium (Hebrews 11:1), Latin which French-speakers may ignorantly take to mean an ‘argument of no apparency’. For them faith is believing something unlikely! Why then believe in the Nativity of Jesus yet not the nativity of Gargantua? Erasmus had shown that faith is not credulity. Faith, in the Greek original of Hebrews 11:1, is trust, trust in ‘the evidence of things unseen’ (in God and his promises). Mary did not at first trust the angel Gabriel: ‘How can these things be?’ Told of the conception of Elizabeth with its echoes of Sarah’s conception of Isaac, she was reminded from Luke 1:37, echoing Genesis 8. That is the punch-line of this chapter, which remains joyful from start to finish. The texts amusingly cited from Proverbs 14 and 1 Corinthians 13 to defend credulity mean very different things in context. (Rabelais 224) Rabelais therefore satirizes Scripture by taking the literalistic approach to interpretation that is best suited for his satire. This allows him to play on words in a way that in any other context would be called sophistry or even blasphemy, but here is merely part of his general purpose to laugh and lead others to do the same. Compared to the previous two authors, Rabelais uses his sources quite differently indeed. Whereas both Montaigne and Donne interpret their sources in context in order to determine the intended meaning of the author, then make application for their own situations, Rabelais wrests passages from the Bible in a manner that can only be considered comical. His goal is as much to shock as it is to enlighten. Machiavelli is also unique in his use of sources for The Prince. Of all the writers discussed here, he is most wary of the influence great writers and thinkers of the past have had on him (a textbook example of Bloom’s “anxiety of influence”). He does, however, make frequent use of contemporary examples from his own time, as well as classical and even biblical sources when they are needed to more adequately support his point. During one such discussion on the necessity of maintaining armies, he builds upon the familiar geopolitical examples of Europe, and then supports his conclusions by referring to Polybius and the Hebrew book of First Samuel. Though I don’t want to stop using Italian examples which are fresh in mind, I cannot omit Hiero of Syracuse, whom I mentioned earlier. When the Syracusans made this man head of their armies, as I said before, he recognized at once that mercenary soldiers were useless, being formed on the same pattern as our Italian condottieri; and since he couldn’t safely keep them, nor yet let them go, he had them cut to bits, and after that he made war with his own armies, not with those of other people. I’d like also to call to mind a parable from the Old Testament which bears on the point. When David volunteered before Saul to fight with Goliath the Philistine challenger, Saul, to give the young man courage, offered him his own royal armor. But David, after trying it on, refused, saying he could never do himself justice in that armor. He preferred to meet the enemy armed simply with his own sling and a knife. In a word, other men’s armor will either slip off your back, or weigh down, or constrict your actions. (Machiavelli XIII; see Polybius 1.7-9 & 1Sa 17:38-39) The stated reason for his choice of sources seems evident from the beginning of our selection. After all, why use examples with which your audience is not familiar? Certainly, most popular writers use as their material the common knowledge of those to whom they write. Machiavelli, however, takes this general theory and carries it one step further, placing the classics in the background and building his case using, as he says in his dedication, “everything I have learned over many years and come to understand through many trials and troubles.” This reasoning, however, does not fully explain Machiavelli’s relative silence on the classics. Certainly his readers (particularly the Medici) would have been familiar enough with these sources, and Machiavelli is no populist. The better explanation, then, is that Machiavelli is trying to fashion a break with the classics, at least on the point of practical political treatises. Note his comments at the beginning of his fifteenth chapter: It remains now to be seen what style and principles a prince ought to adopt in dealing with his subjects and friends. I know the subject has been treated frequently before, and I fear people will think me rash for trying to do so again, especially since I intend to differ in this discussion from what others have said. But since I intend to write something useful to an understanding reader, it seemed better to go after the real truth of the matter than to repeat what people have imagined. A great many men have imagined states and princedoms such as nobody ever saw or knew in the real world, and there’s such a difference between the way we really live and the way we ought to live that the man who neglects the real to study the ideal will learn how to accomplish his ruin, not his salvation. (Machiavelli XV) With this statement, we gain a clear grasp of Machiavelli’s chief criticism of the Greek and Latin classics: what they say is simply not realistic. Classical politics, built as it is on imaginary commonwealths, is simply too out-dated to be of use to the modern statesman. Instead, real value is to be taken not from philosophy but from history, to determine how to endure in power here and now, and not in some Platonic fantasy. Machiavelli therefore relies primarily on recent historical accounts and his own personal experience as a diplomat to educate the prospective or reigning prince, as opposed to the great ideas of the past.
Since their own generations, each of these writers has made his way indelibly into the libraries and minds of Western readers. They have successfully navigated the bounds of the Canon, reading it deeply, holding on to some sources, and at times rejecting others wholesale. Montaigne relied on his Latinists, Rabelais preferred the comic relief of early humanism, Donne sought to reconcile the spiritual and the carnal, and Machiavelli tried his very best to pretend he had never read anyone. All, however, worked from within the great tradition of Western thought, struggling with that “anxiety of influence” to earn a place in it for themselves. Works Cited
Among the great literary works of the Renaissance, the King James Bible stands as the most beautiful, memorable, and widely read, even today. The original impetus for the translation, however, developed rather gradually. James had recently assumed the English throne and sought to bring peace to a deeply divided country. Though there was certainly a political dimension to these schisms, it was religion that formed their root. The actions of James’ distant predecessor, Henry VIII, created an inherent tension between (1) loyalty to the crown and (2) fidelity to the spiritual traditions of the church fathers, and this tension was further exacerbated by (3) a more thoroughgoing group, whom we know as the Puritans. To facilitate reconciliation, James hosted what is now known as the Hampton Court Conference (1604). Here, “Puritan leader John Reynolds proposed a new English translation of the Bible, and James, hostile as he was to the Puritans, seized upon the suggestion,” wishing to establish peace on his own terms (Ryken 50).
But if tranquility was the motivating factor behind the translation, humility was the guiding force of the work itself. Though the Translators certainly had their share of doctrinal disagreements, they were united in a common conviction that the words with which they worked were not their own, but were of divine origin; they were merely God’s secretaries, scribes of the living oracles. “Secretaryship is one of the great shaping forces behind the King James Bible. There is no authorship involved here. Authorship is egotistical, an assumption that you might have something new worth saying. You don’t” (Nicolson 184). This did not, however, simplify their task. The theological discussions of the day also led to varying views on the proper method of translating the Bible into English. The Translators “were heir to [a] double and in some ways contradictory tradition” (Nicolson 185). On one hand, there was this “Calvinistic secretarial strictness,” and on the other, the secular, Ciceronian approach that Luther adopted, which required the translator to “absorb” the meaning of the text and then “reproduce something like it in his own language” (Nicolson 184). Yet peace and reconciliation was still the ultimate goal of the work. “If it was to play its role as the national irenicon, it had to bridge the categories of rich and clear” (Nicolson 195). The Translators resolved this tension by choosing both over either. In the words of Ryken, they sought “an essentially literal translation,” choosing an English equivalent for each word in the original, italicizing words added to the text for clarity, and even preferring the word order of Greek, Hebrew, and Aramaic over that of their own English (Ryken 50). Yet they also sought to maintain the mystery of Holy Writ, choosing variety over consistency in their vocabulary and thereby multiplying “the number of English words used for a given Hebrew or Greek word” (Ryken 50). The effect of the finished product (1611) is striking. In the hands of these men, the words of God became “more accurate,” “simple, accessible, conceptually rich,” and “full of potent and resonant meanings” (Nicolson 153, 193). They combined “simplicity and majesty” with a sense of rhythm and affective power that has made the King James Bible the English translation of Milton, Coleridge, and Wordsworth; Lincoln, Kennedy, and King (Ryken 51; Nicolson 237-238). Over the last 150 years, the grip of the King James Bible on the Anglo-American imagination has been somewhat weakened due to criticisms of its antiquated diction, textual basis, and knowledge of the languages (see Ryken 51). And yet the work of the Translators endures as “the touchstone, the national book, the formative mental structure for all English-speaking people” (Nicolson 236). It is because of this that the most successful attempts to render the Scriptures into accurate, beautiful, and clear English have been produced in the King James tradition: the English Revised Version (1885), the American Standard Version (1901), the Revised Standard Version (1952, 1971), the New American Standard Bible (1971, 1995), the New King James Version (1982), and the English Standard Version (initially in 2001, with the permanent text just finalized in 2016; for more information on these translations, see Marlowe). Now nearly four hundred years old, the King James tradition stands as strong as it did in the seventeenth century—stirring our imagination, sinking into our ears, and saving our souls (see Luke 9:44; Jam 1:21). Works Cited
God Made Men to Make Music
Peter J. Leithart, First Things Justin Martyr: How We Christians Worship Trans. & Commentary by Everett Ferguson, Christian History Early Christian Chants Ernest Edwin Ryden, Story of our Hyms (CCEL) Early Christian & Byzantine Music: History & Performance Dr. Dmitri Conomos, Archdiocesan School of Byzantine Music Hearing the Lost Sounds of Ancient Spaces Adrienne LaFrance, The Atlantic Rhyme & Reason Rebekah Curtis, First Things No Apology for Bach's Theology Nathaniel Peters, First Things Though the doctrine of Purgatory has far more to do with the traditions of men than anything stated in the word of God, classic depictions of such a place often provide striking reminders of the spiritual and eternal consequences of sin. So, for example, in Canto XVII of Dante’s Purgatorio, Virgil explains to Dante that the root of all sin is a perverted love that has become twisted in three ways: loving what is bad, too little love for what is good, or too much love for the temporal goods of this life (see Mark 12:28-31; 1Jo 2:15-17). And for this reason, the first three sins found in Dante’s Purgatory (pride, envy, and wrath) might be best interpreted as aspects of the first sort of love-led-astray—of man loving what is bad (Purgatorio XVII.112-114).
Pride is the first of these sins, both in Dante’s mind as well as in the mind of the sinner, an assertion supported by the place of humility in Christ’s first Beatitude: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” (Mat 5:3 ESV; see Purgatorio XII.109-111). One who is proud has an undue regard for himself as superior to others. In his mind he is one of the “few;” set apart from the common, vulgar, and profane. In the words of Virgil, “some think they see their own hope to advance / tied to their neighbor’s fall, and thus they long / to see him cast down from his eminence” (XVII.115-117). For this sin in life, Dante witnesses the proud dead crawling around the Mount of Purgatory under slabs of rock whose size is commensurate with the pride its bearer had in life (Cantos X-XII). Similar to pride is the sin of envy. Just as the proud view others as less worthy than themselves, the envious see as their own what rightfully belongs to others. As Virgil reminds our poet, “some fear their power, preferment, honor, fame / will suffer by another’s rise, and thus, / irked by his good, desire his ruin and shame” (XVII.118-120). In other words, the envious forget the grace of God they have themselves received, judging the worth of another’s servant rather than reflecting divine mercy in their own lives. But as Jesus said, this is exactly backward; it it is the merciful who in turn receive mercy from above: “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy” (Mat 5:7; see Purgatorio XV.37-39). Because of this willful blindness to the interests of others, the envious sit on the second cornice of Purgatory along the face of the cliff, huddled together, with their eyelids sewn tight by wire (Cantos XIII-XV). Wrath is the culmination and sometimes-violent assertion of this lack of love. If I am better than everyone else and more deserving than they of the things they possess, why shouldn’t I be angry? Virgil reminds Dante of this self-delusion: “and some at the least injury catch fire / and are consumed by thoughts of vengeance; thus, / their neighbor’s harm becomes their chief desire” (Purgatorio XVII.121-123). Wrath, therefore, is the primary mover of quarrels, fighting and violence (Jam 4:1-3), a fact depicted in the punishment of the wrathful. As Dante begins Canto XVI, he has stepped into a cloud of smoke like none he has ever seen – at night, under a cloud, or even in Hell itself – “nor one whose texture rasped my senses so, / as did the smoke that wrapped us in that place” (lines 1-6; see also Canto XVII). At least here, however, they are finally speaking with one voice, reciting the words of the Lord: “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God” (Mat 5:9; quoted in Canto XVII.67-69). The apostle Paul once wrote of love’s many virtues: “Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things” (1Co 13:4-7). Those undergoing the crucible of Dante’s Purgatory, however, reflect the exact opposite of this love: loving what is bad, having too little love for what is good, or having too much love for the temporal goods of earthly existence. And as Virgil reminds Dante on the fourth cornice: “Such threefold love those just below us here / purge from their souls” (Purgatorio XVII.124-125). But we have been shown “a still more excellent way”: “So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love” (1Co 12:31; 13:13).
The waters of this life are unsteady, shifting, tumultuous; they provide no sure footing, no solid ground on which to stand (compare John’s use of “sea” and “waters” throughout the book of Revelation). The description is therefore less about the Wanderer’s mode of transportation, and more about his physical isolation and his unsettled emotions (James 5:1-8). Later, the poet reiterates this same sense of solitude, once more drawing on the image of the sea: Sorrow is renewed Like the waves of the sea, which fall here and rise there, and leave us helpless and alone, the memories of friends swim away and sink into the depths of our mind. Darkness is also mentioned frequently by the poet, not only in its literal sense but also to reveal the quality and depth of the sailor’s despair. In the third stanza, the Wanderer states that, “Often I had alone / to speak of my trouble / each morning before dawn” (8-9a). Before the sun brightens the eastern skies, he is awake and reflecting on his troubles (compare Psalm 63:1, 6). Darkness is also used to describe the root of his sorrow: the loss of his earthly lord, “Since long ago / I hid my lord / in the darkness of the earth” (22-23a). His longing therefore points back to better days, and forward to the common fate of all mankind: Indeed I cannot think When he looks around him, he sees why the wise have so long “pondered deeply / on this dark life” and how the “wise in spirit, / remembered often from afar / many conflicts” (89-91a). The world, and his life in it, is a dark one, devoid of the happiness he once enjoyed with his master. Indeed, “All the joy has died” (36b; see Ecclesiastes 2:12-17)! Time, and especially the poet’s conception of fate, is the final aspect of setting of which we will take note. Note the sense of helplessness and despair in his words, reflected once more in the natural world: Now there stands in the trace Brotherhood, refuge, boldness, and strength may spur us on for a moment, but we can never control “the turn of events” that inhere this life. Like Solomon before him the sailor cries out, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity” (Ecclesiastes 1:2). And therefore fate “changes / the world under the heavens” and reminds us of life’s fleeting vapor. Truly, “The weary spirit cannot / withstand fate, / nor does a rough or sorrowful mind / perform anything helpful” (15-16; see James 1:9-11; 4:13-16).
In his sojourning, the Wanderer discovers that no matter where he now finds himself, companionship, strength, and stability are but fleeting pleasures of his temporal existence; earthly emotions the poet paints through the setting of the work itself. Neither despair nor heroics, however, is the solution. Instead he seeks a spiritual solace, knowing the Only One to which this world answers. For, “It is better for the one that seeks mercy, / consolation from the Father in the heavens, / where, for us, all permanence rests” (114b-115; see James 1:16-17; Psalm 51). Amen. Greek Tragedy & War Veterans
Sarah Ruden, Books and Culture Sparta & Persia: When Civilizations Clash E. Christian Kopff, First Things Teaching Math with Euclid & Archimedes Katherine Long, The Seattle Times Hillary Clinton & the Rhetoric of Trust; or, What Would Aristotle Think? Curtis Dozier, Eidolon Hillary Clinton's Rhetorical Persona, or Lack Thereof Joanna Gently, Eidolon What Can We Learn from the Mediaeval Attitude to Pagans? John Marenbon, Aeon Ideas 3 Reasons Christians Need to be Fasting Wes McAdams, Radically Christian 10 Things to Remember When Reading the Bible Vern Poythress, Crossway The Bible Cause at 200 Timothy George, First Things Held by the Bible John Piper, Crossway Life Up Your Soul (in Prayer) Kevin W. Rhodes, Convictions of Honor Reading the Psalms with the Reformers Timothy George, First Things Teaching the Beatitudes James F. Keenan, Commonweal Magazine Among the various undercurrents in The House of Fame, time is probably not the first that comes to mind. Fame is, of course, the poem’s major theme, but without time perennial praise becomes a mere passing trend. But there is a much more subtle function that time performs in Chaucer’s work by informing the narrator’s ideal of the poet’s role. Of the three phases of time (past, present, and future) “Geffrey” (729) only explicitly mentions the last. When asked by a bystander whether he, too, has come to Fame’s house as a suppliant of her favor, he replies: ‘Nay, forsooth, frend,’ quod I. Taken alone, the narrator here appears somewhere between apathy and arrogance; on the one hand, listless concerning his future reputation and on the other, with a sense of self-possession that borders on the blasphemous (since he is after all denying divine aid). But when we consider this passage in the context of time, could Chaucer be trying to tell us something about the future? Could Geffrey’s words reflect less his confidence in his own poesy and more his ambivalence toward an unseen fate?
Consider also the form of the poem, a dream vision. Writing in fourteenth-century England, in the midst of the plague, Chaucer’s daily life is anything but hopeful. The only other living person he even alludes to in “The House” is his wife, and even then, not positively (see 562, 652-660). When he writes, there is no clear sense of the present. Instead, his dream is more real and valuable to him than his concrete earthly experience. The vision (either literal or literary) affords the poet an escape from the nightmarish existence of everyday life. Escape, however, does not necessarily provide meaning. While taken as a guest to Fame’s abode, Geffrey witnesses a goddess as capricious as she is influential. Just as he cannot see meaning in the suffering around him, he cannot trust his fate to the arbitrary power of Fame. Neither the future nor the present therefore provide any sense of purpose for the poet. It would be easy to point out the degree of skepticism inherent to Chaucer’s views thus far. Geffrey, however, neither stops writing nor ceases to find enjoyment in doing so. Though he finds no comfort in the present and no hope in the future, he develops a greater sense of understanding and meaning by drawing on the writers and thinkers of the past. Consider Chaucer’s sources. He draws extensively on Dante, Ovid, Virgil and the various Trojan myths while also alluding to the writings of Macrobius, Ptolemy, Horace, Statius, medieval French romances, the Bible. For both the poet and the reader, these influences are clear and as intimately familiar to him as old friends. The past is closer and more accessible to us than we think. The House of Fame, then, does not present the poet as a prophet of the future, a reformer of the present, or a skeptical humanist, but as a conservator of our collective memory. Life is difficult, the future is uncertain, but the past is immutable. By learning from it, we gain a glimpse of human existence that is, in a way, more true than what we see here and now. Time therefore teaches us that the role of the poet is to convey a view of the human condition that is both timeless and timely, by bringing the wisdom of the ages to bear upon the strains of our earthly endeavors. The Bad Faith of the White Working Class J.D. Vance, The New York Times Our Divisions Aren't Caused by Global Elites Peter Spiliakos, First Things Our Economy is Cartelized, Corrupt & Closed David P. Goldman, First Things The Myth of Cosmopolitanism Ross Douthat, The New York Times The Paradox of Plenty: Oil & the Third World The Economist What Would a Reform Agenda Look Like? Robert P. George, First Things Room to Grow: A Conservative Reform Agenda The Conservative Reform Network Will Raising the Minimum Wage Kill Jobs? Kate Gibson, CBS News The loss of a child is the most difficult experience any parent can suffer. Whatever the cause, no parent should have to mourn their own child. The question we often struggle with, then, is Why? Why him? Why me? Why, God? Six hundred years ago, one English father recounted his own struggle in perhaps the only way he knew: in meter. The Pearl is therefore a poem about the very real questions one father asked when confronted with the loss of his little girl. In his grief, he quite naturally wondered what kind of sick justice is served by her death. Why should “that pearl, mine own, without a spot” be thus paid “the wages of sin” in death (line 12; Rom 6:23)? In sorrow, he turns his anger toward the very dirt packed within her grave: “O mould! Thou marrest a lovely thing” (23). In life, his daughter was a precious pearl unstained by sin, yet the Grave had robbed her of her beauty, sullying her glaze with the filth of a loamy burial. Yet as he slips into a sorrowful sleep at her grave, the Pearl herself comes in a dream to calm her father’s doubts, well aware of what has become of her since her departure. She exhorts him to forsake the fleeting comfort of lament, and instead to behold the bliss in which she now finds herself (340). But rather than comfort, his grief gives way to scoffing. Just as he had strained at the injustice of his loss, he struggles even more with his daughter’s exaltation as the bride of Christ. So many before her had lived so much longer, and suffered so much more; what was her faithfulness compared to theirs (409-420)? The maiden, however, replies that she has merely inherited the promise given to every faithful child of God: “That each who may thereto obtain / Of all the realm is queen or king” (446-447; see Rom 8:16-17, 2Ti 2:12). To illustrate the veracity of her claim, she then recounts the parable spoken by Jesus himself, in which he compares the kingdom of Heaven to a master and his laborers (lines 493-575; see Mat 20:1-16). One morning, the master goes and hires workers from those standing idle in the agora and returns at times throughout the day to hire additional hands. But at dusk, when the workers are each paid a denarius for their labor, those who had worked longer are outraged. Their master’s response, however, quickly quiets their grumblings: “am I not allowed in gift / To dispose of mine as I please to do? / Or your eye to evil, maybe, you lift, / For I none betray and I am true?” (565-568). Christ is therefore just, and the Pearl has received her due. But as she also knows there is yet a deeper justice that illuminates her father’s sorrow. He is not the first to have lost an innocent child, nor will he be the last. Thus, the story he must understand is not his own, but that of another Father: Of Jerusalem my tale doth tell, The Pearl thus reminds her father of God’s own great loss, one neither deserved nor desired, where God’s own “Sorrow and love flow mingled down.” God would not return the Pearl to her father’s embrace, but he would stand with her father in the pain, and greet him with open arms in the hereafter. Because like her, he would be saved by the grace of the Lord Jesus (Acts 15:11; see 2Sa 12:15-23). Many things have changed in the world since the Pearl, but our world is still imperfect, striving still in the throes of redemption through him who died to save it (John 3:16; Rom 8:19-25; Col 1:15-17). A world where parents mourn their children, and where we’re still asking, Why?. And yet as the poet reminds us, God provides for us even in our suffering—looking back to the blood of the cross and looking forward to the world to come. For what Paul knew by faith, the poet’s Pearl knew by sight (2Co 5:7). He therefore closes, giving his pain to God and his peace to us. Because Justice had indeed come, and his name was Jesus: To please that Prince, or pardon shown, Works Cited
10 Things You Should Know About Apologetics
Mitch Stokes, Crossway Divine Action: Naturalism & Incarnation Christopher C. Knight, BioLogos More on Divine Action: Uncontrolling Love Thomas Jay Oord, BioLogos Failure is Moving Science Forward Christie Aschwanden, FiveThirtyEight How Not to Critique Evolution: An Intelligent Design Perspective Vincent Torley, Uncommon Descent I Am More than My Genes: Faith, Identity & DNA Praveen Sethupathy, The Veritas Forum The Joy of Science Adam D. Hincks, America Magazine Laboratory Limits That Are Not Limits Chuck Donovan, First Things Changes compiled August 3, 2016 Originally posted August 8, 2016 Updated August 13, 2016 based on Crossway’s official list of changes (see the two paragraphs added/changed below and the attached PDF) The English Standard Version (ESV) has been one of my primary translations since about 2003. But like every translation, after being on the market for a few years Crossway (its publisher) incorporated some additional revisions, first in 2007, then again in 2011. But a few weeks ago, while looking around our local Family Christian Store, I came across a new Classic Reference Edition of the ESV with a note on the copyright page: “ESV Permanent Text Edition 2016.” I was excited by this for several reasons. First, I hadn’t heard a thing about it, and as a translation nerd there’s always a sense of discovery surrounding a new find. Secondly, though some past revisions had seemed unnecessary, others tended to move the text further from the textual blunders of the 1972 Revised Standard Version (its original textual basis), and a few steps closer to the NKJV. And finally, the revisions were claimed to be done. When the ESV first came out, I remember reading about how people were so excited about the NASB fifty years ago. Until, among other things, the text simply kept changing, making people wonder when enough was enough. Besides, who really wants to cite this business (thanks Lockman…): New American Standard Bible, 1995 edition. Copyright ©1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. All rights reserved. But for awhile, at least (contrary to the said ESV endorsement), the ESV seemed to be heading down this same path. Perhaps a bit more concerning, however, were claims that the Translation Oversight Committee was considering additional changes to make the translation more gender neutral. Since the ESV was intended in part to counter these tendencies, I found the claim surprising, but not entirely outside the realm of possibility. So if the changes hadn’t been made in this 2016 update, they would almost certainly not be made, except in a possible reboot 25 to 50 years down the road. Unfortunately, when I contacted Crossway two weeks ago about what exactly had changed in the 2016 update, they said they wouldn’t be putting out a list of the changes. Thankfully, Accordance Bible Software has a neat (but completely unintentional) work-around. Here’s how it works: when Accordance released the 2016 updates for the ESV text a week later (one with Strong’s numbers, one without), I updated my Strong’s text to the 2016 edition, but didn’t update my basic ESV 2011. This allowed me to open the two versions side by side, select “Compare Text,” and then “List Text Differences.” Doing so identified 41 passages affected by the changes. This paragraph added August 13, 2016: Fortunately, you don’t just have to take my word for it. Since writing this initial post, Crossway has released a public statement on the Permanent Text Edition, with a complete list of changes (and have also updated their About page on the ESV). The only difference between my list and theirs, is that when I initially ran Compare Texts in Accordance, my Ignore Upper Case feature was checked, which means I didn’t pick up the shift in Numbers 14:42 from “Lord” (which usually translates the Hebrew Adonai) to LORD (Hebrew YHWH, or Yahweh/Jehovah). So both my Accordance settings and the attached PDF below have been updated! As with previous editions, most of the changes were simply matters of punctuation and a few in versification (especially in the Old Testament), prepositions (especially in the New Testament), as well as a handful of substantial changes. What follows, then, is a quick look at the passages with more substantial changes (which have been underlined), along with a complete list of the changes with sparser comments. 1) Genesis 3:16; 4:7 Genesis 3:16: “Your desire shall be contrary to your husband, but he shall rule over you.” Genesis 4:7: “Its desire is contrary to you, but you must rule over it.” The traditional rendering of Genesis 3:16 has always thrown me for a loop: “Your desire shall be for your husband” (NKJV). I’ve often wondered, “How is this a punishment? Isn’t part of marriage wanting to be with the other person?” And again, “Why would the wife’s desire merit the draconian response: ‘And he shall rule over you’ (NKJV)? Why would a husband respond to his wife’s affection with an overbearing dominance?” And further, “Does this mean male leadership in the home and the church is a consequence of the Fall, rather than the created ideal which other biblical writers make of it (1Co 11:3, 7-9; 1Ti 2:13-14)?” The ESV aids our understanding by highlighting the similar construction in Genesis 4:7 and how the usage in chapter 4 affects our reading in chapter 3. Starting with verse 6 the passage reads, “The LORD said to Cain, ‘Why are you angry, and why has your face fallen? If you do well, will you not be accepted? And if you do not do well, sin is crouching at the door. Its desire is contrary to you, but you must rule over it.’” Here Sin’s personified desire is clearly not a good thing. She (the Hebrew for sin, chatta’t, is a feminine noun) wants Cain as a conquest, not out of any desire for him personally. Cain’s charge, then, is simple: “but you must rule over it.” The passages thus form a grammatical parallel: Just as sin doesn’t love Cain, but instead seeks to exploit his desires to gain the mastery, Eve would struggle with submitting to Adam and instead (if left unchecked) seek to subvert her husband’s leadership. And even worse, Adam would overcompensate, demanding respect while doing little to earn it. The ESV’s update therefore corrects the false connotation of the traditional rendering, while also showing us that problems of the home were never part of God’s original and “very good” creation (Gen 1:31). 2) 2 Kings 20:18 “And some of your own sons, who will come from you, whom you will father, shall be taken away, and they shall be eunuchs in the palace of the king of Babylon.” The RSV was the first in this translation stream (KJV > ASV > RSV) to omit “who will come from you,” and the NRSV and the ESV followed this precedent. This update, however, restores the phrase while also correctly shifting from “born” to “father” (or beget) in the second phrase. 3) Psalm 18 Heading: “To the choirmaster. A Psalm of David, the servant of the Lord, who addressed the words of this song to the Lord on the day when the Lord delivered him from the hand of all his enemies, and from the hand of Saul. …” Psalm 18:46-48: “The LORD lives … who rescued me from my enemies; yes, you exalted me above those who rose against me; you delivered me from the man of violence.” As with any other good translation, the ESV at times struggles with consistently translating synonyms, and Psalm 18 serves as a good case study. In this psalm, the ESV consistently renders the various forms of the Hebrew words natzal (“to deliver”; heading, vv. 17, 48c) and yesha (“to save”; vv. 2b, 3, 27, 35, 41 [“there was no one to save them,” NRSV], 46, 50), but also shows some difficulty in translating palat (“to rescue”; v. 2a, 43, 48a) and chalatz (“to free by force”?; v. 19). The changes in the heading and verse 48 were therefore made to improve accuracy and consistency. 4) Hosea 13:14 “I shall ransom them from the power of Sheol; I shall redeem them from Death. O Death, where are your plagues? O Sheol, where is your sting? Compassion is hidden from my eyes.” The NKJV closely corresponds to the Hebrew here: “I will ransom them from the power of the grave; I will redeem them from death. O Death, I will be your plagues! O Grave, I will be your destruction! Pity is hidden from My eyes.” (emphasis added) The RSV and NASB, however—probably influenced by Paul’s usage in 1 Corinthians 15:55 and the Greek Septuagint (LXX)—adopted an emendation in lines 3 and 4 and rendered the first four statements as questions: “Shall I ransom them from the power of Sheol? Shall I redeem them from Death? O Death, where are your plagues? O Sheol, where is your destruction? Compassion is hid from my eyes.” (emphasis added) The ESV has thus restored the Hebrew of the first two lines (with the NKJV), but rightly follows the LXX in the next two. You can see this same trend in the attached comments on Ezekiel 40:14. 5) Luke 24:47 (this section revised on August 13, 2016) Luke 24:46-47: “Thus it is written, that the Christ should suffer and on the third day rise from the dead, and that repentance for the forgiveness of sins should be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem.” This is a relatively simple change to improve the ESV’s correspondence to the 27th edition of the Nestle-Aland Greek text. For those who prefer the Byzantine or Majority Text (like myself) the text actually reads “and” here, as rendered in both the old ESV and the NKJV. But notice what the translators did not do: they rendered the Greek word here (eis, usually pronounced “ace” or “ice”) as “for” (that is, “unto, toward, leading to”) not “because of” or “as the result of.” In context, then, repentance of one’s sins precedes and leads to the forgiveness of one’s sins in Christ. Most would not find this at all confusing, but some have claimed that eis also at times means “because of” or “as the result of,” and should therefore be translated that way, usually in passages about baptism, such as Acts 2:38. So for more information on why “for” makes more sense here and elsewhere, as well as a response to at least one objection to this view, you may also want to check out Wayne Jackson’s article, “The Use of the Preposition ‘Eis’ in Matthew 12:41.” ~~~~~~~ So, these are my top five. What are your thoughts on these? Which would you rather they had not changed? Which other passages do you wish they had? For further information on the how we got the Bible and how to study it, check out some of my previous Bible class material on Knowing Your Bible. God bless! Please click below for the complete comparison of the ESV 2011 to the ESV 2016.
Christ: The One Really Interesting Story Timothy George, First Things Britain's Atlantis Found at Bottom of North Sea The Vintage News Remembering Europe's Christian Roots Tom Holland, First Things The Reformation: A Tragic Necessity Timothy George, First Things The Restoration: A Work in Progress Wes McAdams, Radically Christian The Armenian Genocide: Then and Now Timothy George, First Things The Librarian Who Saved Timbuktu's Treasures Joshua Hammer, The Wall Street Journal Ascent, Descent, and Human Destiny Peter J. Leithart, First Things Scholars have long recognized the civic nature of much of Virgil’s work, and such is seen throughout the pages of The Aeneid. The most commonly cited passages, of course, are those scenes in which later Roman figures predominate the account, such as Aeneas’ conversation with his father in Hades (Book 6) and the description of his shield (Book 8). Yet dozens of lesser references are also scattered throughout the text, demonstrating the political motivations of his work. So, for example, Carthage is described as “drafting laws, electing judges, a senate held in awe” (Aeneid 1), while even in Hades, the dead are put on trial, “But not without jury picked by lot, not without judge” (6). Even more central to Virgil’s work, however, is the dynamic relationship between identity, memory and self-image. The purpose of this study will be to examine the significance of these themes in The Aeneid, and particularly how Virgil participates in the broader Augustan program of recasting Roman history and religion in light of the principate.
Virgil was no mere political pundit, and stuck to no party line. Instead, there was a certain tension to his work. On one hand, he sought to express his own hopes and fears for the new order ushered in by Augustus. As Freeman points out, “He was preoccupied, like so many Italians, with the need for peace” (460). On the other hand, he had an acute understanding of the “brutal realities involved in the struggle for power” (Freeman 461). Virgil the Patriot, then, wanted nothing more than to praise the accomplishments of Augustus and celebrate the Pax Romana the Emperor ushered in. Virgil the Poet, however, simply could not overlook the moral and political lessons learned over the previous fifty years of civil war, and therefore could not help but speak out concerning what he saw as a victory too hard-won. Because of this tension between truth and context, Virgil was presented with a further conundrum: How does one praise the princeps, while subtly exhorting the senatorial class? Both Roman memory and Roman identity stood against him. “The Romans had never shown any hesitation in declaring that their wars of conquest were justified and they showed a similar confidence in their right to rule others” (Freeman 497). But Virgil understood his audience well, and therefore praises Rome’s role in the world: not to forge bronze, carve marble, plead cases or chart the skies (such menial tasks were for the Greeks), but to “rule with all your power the peoples of the earth—these will be your arts: to put your stamp on the works and ways of peace, to spare the defeated, break the proud in war” (Aeneid 6). The poet therefore juxtaposes art and might, thus inviting the reader to participate in his very personal struggle. He reinforces this ambiguity by narrating scenes in which art depicts violence rather than demonstrate it (such as Aeneas’ shield), while also pointing out that these scenes spurred violence of their own (see Bartsch 323, 325). Thus, as Aeneas observes “the workmanship of the shield . . . . He fills with wonder—he knows nothing of these events but takes delight in their likeness, lifting onto his shoulders now,” and doing so again later in battle (Aeneid 8; see too 12). For Virgil, then, he could not merely recount the historical founding of Rome, but needed instead to redefine what it meant to be Roman, while also developing the implications of this self-image for an imperial context. As Bartsch posits, “We could even say that the control of self and control over others are the twin goals of the poem’s ideological trajectory towards the foundation of Rome” (322). This, in part, explains Virgil’s choice of Aeneas as his prototypical Roman. A work written in his day on the rise of Caesar or Augustus would have been viewed as an overt political statement rather than art, thereby incurring either public animosity or regal wrath. By setting his epic many centuries prior, however, Virgil was afforded the opportunity to freely discuss Rome’s recent course of events, while placing any criticisms in the mouths of others. Thus in The Aeneid’s sole passage addressing Julius directly, Aeneas’ father, Anchises admonishes, “never inure yourselves to civil war, never turn your sturdy power against your country’s heart. You, Caesar, you be first in mercy—you trace your line from Olympus—born of my blood, throw down your weapons now” (Aeneid 6; see Taylor 179)! Though the Aeneas-Julian connection may seem tenuous, the poet’s choice was not merely a matter of artistic license or self-preservation; it also allowed him to operate within the well-known Roman norms of collective memory, particularly among the senatorial nobles. “The dominant figures in Roman party politics and party organization were usually members of the hereditary noble or consular houses. By their traditions these houses kept alive the hallowed customs of old Rome, the mos maiorun” (Taylor 25). Virgil therefore found a balance between the requirements of art and power, truth and prudence, by creating a “glorious tradition for the Julian House” and critiquing the new order from within this new milieu (Taylor 27). While Virgil, however, struggled with this tension personally and artistically, he also participated in the greatest re-imagining of Roman identity that ever took place. Virgil was not alone in observing the ambiguous grounds of the regime, however beneficial that regime might be. Augustus himself understood this better than most: his only predecessor in the principate was Caesar, who had been murdered by his closest confidantes. So after decades of internal strife, “One of the critical problems facing Augustus . . . was to reestablish a sense of unity amongst the Romans” (Orlin 74). Though in one sense, Octavian was the penultimate tyrant—hijacking the Roman Republic in its time of need, and through the sheer force of arms—once in power, Augustus was essentially the first enlightened despot. He achieved this coup d'état by, “maintaining a proper balance between change and continuity, and . . . regularly presented his innovations as a return to older traditions rather than as revolutionary re-conceptions” (Orlin 88). Caesar had, of course, charted much of this course for him, but Augustus’ longevity and success establish him as the greater politician. “Caesar as he had been in life was forgotten. Augustus, the restorer of the republic, was the architect of the new order. Caesarism was not the frank monarchy of Julius. It was still monarchy, but it was veiled now in republicanism—in Catonism, if you like” (Taylor 180). Aside from this emphasis on moderation, Augustus also recognized the powerful influence of Roman culture (and especially religion) as opposed to relying on mere political power—or worse, the loyalty of the army. Religion in Rome had been connected with the power of the state long before the Edict of Milan. As Taylor states, “The Roman state religion, inseparably bound up with politics, was in the hands of the governing nobles and could be manipulated by them in the interests of the entire body or for the benefit of one group in rivalry with another” (76). Even before Augustus, Romans understood this integral connection between faith and power: “Both founder-figures of Rome, Aeneas and Romulus, were born of a divinity, both received special attention from the divine during their lifetimes, and both were divinized upon their deaths” (Orlin 75). Augustus, however, took this association to new levels by displacing the Senate as the primary embodiment of religious piety. “Although Augustus would not assume the office of pontifex maximus until 12 B.C.E., the close inter-relationship between religion and politics at Rome ensured that he became the dominant figure in the religious sphere at the same time as he became the dominant political figure” (Orlin 78, emphasis added). Virgil appears to share this view of the principate by recasting Roman religion on pre-Roman grounds: “Never forget the Latins are Saturn’s people, fair and just, and not because we are bound by curbs or laws, but kept in check of our own accord: the way of our ancient god” (Aeneid 7). For the poet, then, religion becomes at once more ancient and therefore more universal than most Romans of his day conceived it. For this reason, Aeneas is not merely a man of war, but a man of the gods. Sacrificing at his father’s funeral games, he is “bound by custom” and “true to custom,” although the customs here referred to are clearly Greek, rather than Roman (Aeneid 5). Later, in Book 12, we begin to see why. As Juno withdraws from the battle, she implores her brother-husband, Jupiter, for the sake of Latium, “never command the Latins, on their native soil, to exchange their age-old name, to . . . alter their language, change their style of dress. Let Latium endure. Let Alban kings hold sway for all time. Let Roman stock grow strong with Italian strength” (Aeneid 12). Virgil, as effortless as he is subtle, sheds his ambivalence concerning Caesar and unites the new Rome on the uniquely Augustan pillars of a shared language (Latin), a shared place (Italy), a shared state (monarchy), and a shared descent. Jupiter’s response is even more telling; he will not only fulfill his sister’s request, he “will add the rites and the forms of worship . . . you will see them outstrip all men, outstrip all gods in reverence. No nation on earth will match the honors” (Aeneid 12). The significance of this statement is almost entirely lost on modern readers. To a Greek, such a statement would seem a mere truism, their religion being centered on the prophecies of oracles and semi-inspired poets such as Homer and Hesiod. To a Roman, however, religion was primarily an act of collective memory, not one of a shared future. And yet, Virgil’s work is nothing if not a contemporaneous history of the Roman civil wars posited as an ancient prophecy. “Virgil thus offers a profoundly different conception of Roman religion in this passage, one that is at sharp odds with the actual history of Roman practice,” which was known for its syncretism (Orlin 74). The extension of the rites to other Italians is particularly important: Virgil not only ties these rites to the Julian House (and therefore to Augustus), he also widens its appeal and, therefore, Augustus’ religious and political base. “The reader need not assume that the process of amalgamation will be easy, but the poet’s suggestion offers an avenue towards creating unity between Roman and Italian” (Orlin 81). This explains the unqualified acceptance of Aeneas’ Greek rites earlier in the work: “because such practices are not specifically Roman; Greek culture is as much a part of the Italian heritage as the Roman, and more so for some areas of Italy” (Orlin 80). The success of such an approach could be seen around the city within a generation, as Augustus rebuilt and rededicated all eighty-four of Rome’s existing temples, while also building one for Caesar, thus, both literally and figuratively re-shaping “Roman memory and, in the process,” thereby redefining “what it meant to be Roman” (Orlin 84; see too 85). In the first century BC, Italians of all stripes had seen their fair share of violence and intrigue as Rome worked out its less than perfect republic. In Augustus, they saw a glimmer of hope, one that would finally end the unceasing strivings of lesser men and unite the peninsula under his leadership. Though Virgil’s comments toward Caesar reveal the poet’s ambivalence toward the statesman, Virgil appears to have no such shortcomings concerning the blessings of Rome’s new Golden Age. For such to be possible, though, Rome had to forget, or at least redefine for herself, who she was. Augustus achieved this feat by reworking Rome’s identity, memory, and self-image—politically, religiously, and historically. And he succeeded in no small part through the aid of Virgil’s pen, and for that reason we and he might both be grateful that after Virgil’s death, Rome’s first prince saved her greatest myth from the ash heaps of history. Works Cited
The Church, the Gates of Hell, & the City Gates Trent Hunter, Canon and Culture How Gay Marriage Won... and Lost Peter J. Leithart, First Things NY Times Claims Romans Calls for 'Execution of Gays' Mollie Hemingway, The Federalist Obergefell & the New Gnosticism Sherif Girgis, First Things Local Church of Christ Fights for Biblical Sexuality Leah Jessen, The Daily Signal Iowa's Law-Gospel Dialectic Carl R. Trueman, First Things Trouble in Bakersfield Carl R. Trueman, First Things What is Marriage to Evangelical Millennials? Abigail Rine, First Things For many readers, talk of a “Hellenistic Age” conjures up the ideal of a universal Greek culture overlaid on conquered peoples throughout the three centuries before Christ. While most historians know this to be false, they usually present the period either as a mere afterthought to the glory of classical Greece (at best) or as Greece’s second Dark Age (at worst). Neither view, however, tells the whole story, a problem Graham Shipley seeks to resolve in his book, The Greek World After Alexander 323-30 B.C. While recognizing “the problems associated with the name ‘hellenistic’,” he employs the term as “a convenient and clear [chronological] label for the period beginning with [the death of] Alexander . . . in 323 BC” and ending with the Roman conquest of Egypt in 30 BC (Shipley 1). While both of the preceding views treat the period as one of considerable change (a point that the author himself readily concedes) Shipley believes that such changes should be viewed as “innovations in discourses conducted at an elite level of society” rather than fundamental changes in “popular culture,” the latter of which reflects a “far greater . . . degree of continuity” (1, xiii). For literary sources, Shipley relies primarily on fragments, writings about Alexander, historians contemporary to the period, and other writings with varying levels of direct historical material. He supplements these with a number of other sources including papyri, inscriptions, coins, and other archaeological findings. Though he spends over thirty pages discussing such evidence, Shipley’s point is clear: “This rapid review of the range of evidence will, I hope, have convinced the reader that, far from being the inferior historical period for which it has often been taken, the period after Alexander the Great is not only rich in evidence but poses crucial questions of historical interpretation which any society that calls itself civilized would do well to consider” (32). The bulk of his work is essentially topical in structure, interspersing studies of broader cultural concepts with those of a more geographical and political nature. Such an approach reconciles two aspects of the age that he believes are “often left disconnected.” The “cultural and intellectual output of the period” simply cannot be explained without first understanding the “political, economic, and administrative changes that took place after Alexander” (xiii). Each chapter can therefore be traced back to either cultural concepts or the geopolitical context in which they were developed (each of which he then elaborates on chronologically). Shipley first considers the impact of Alexander’s death and the conflicts of succession that it spurred through 276 BC, and then moves into a discussion of the continuing development of the concepts of the kingship and the polis. In particular, he finds that “Despite earlier anxieties on the part of scholars, a consensus is growing that the Greek polis (city-state) continued to exist and in some respects to flourish and prosper [after Alexander’s death]; it seems clear that more cities were in some sense democratic than before, but that their freedom of action was limited” by the transfer of influence from hegemonies to outright monarchies (Shipley 3). Next, the narrative moves into a discussion of the religion and philosophy of the Greeks during this time, covering changes that led toward both a broader agreement in principle as well as increased local variation in practice. Shipley then examines the cultural and social tensions of the period through the witness of extant literary works, including the development of Greek thought on the cosmos. The first realm of geopolitics Shipley addresses is that of the Greek homeland itself, including the evolving relationship between Greece and Macedonia. He then moves south to Egypt under the Ptolemies before returning north to the Seleukid Empire, discussing the scarcity of their resources, their dynastic situation, and other matters relating to their governance. Both aspects (political and cultural) come to a crossroads with the rise of Roman influence in the west. Shipley concludes his work with a discussion of how this influence gradually brings an end to a politically independent Greece while also bringing a cultural victory as the Romans themselves absorb a Rome-filtered form of Hellenism into their own identity as a people. The breadth of this work is by far its greatest strength. The first-time reader is provided a thorough survey of Hellenistic history that gives attention to a number of points often left uncovered in modern works on the ancient Greeks. It also gives full credit to a period that is relegated to a final chapter in most survey works on the subject. For example, as Kitto notes in his own previous work: “I have stopped short with Alexander the Great . . . not because I think the Greece of the next few centuries unimportant, but on the contrary because I think it far too important to be tucked away in a perfunctory final chapter – which is often what happens to it” (11). Thankfully Shipley has filled much of this void. The work’s other great strength is the shear number of classical works Shipley employs to provide the reader further sources for inquiry. His list of abbreviations for classical sources alone is seven pages long, which he supplements with nearly two hundred pages of notes, diagrams, indexes, and bibliography. This is especially useful for historiography, broadening the scope of future literary endeavors as both a reader and a writer. Often, however, his use of parenthetical citations and notes can be confusing to one unfamiliar with either Greek history or citations of classical works. For example, consider this excerpt from page 51: In the Greek west, the tyrant Agathokles of Syracuse took the royal title in 304, some twelve years after seizing power over his city from an oligarchic regime, ‘since he thought that neither in power nor in territory nor in deeds was he inferior to them’ (the Diadochoi; Diod. 20. 54. 1.). (Diodoros, 19.5-31. 17 passim, is our main source, mostly using Timaios.) Already exiled twice, Agothokles was apparently recalled by the people and, with Carthaginian help, returned in 319/8, becoming ‘strategos (general) with full powers over the strongholds in Sicily’ (Parian Marble (FGH 239), B 12, Austin 21, Harding 1 a). Three years later he overthrew the six hundred oligarchs and became strategos in charge of the city, in effect a tyrant (Diod. 19. 9. 4.). Though these citations may indeed scare off any first-time reader, they should not. As one reads the book, it becomes ever easier to train one’s eye to skip the citations during the first reading and then rereading the passage with an eye on the sources. Nonetheless, should the author have used either endnotes or footnotes, the reader’s effort could be employed to more productive ends.
Perhaps Shipley’s greatest strength, however, is in clearly demonstrating the value of Hellenism not merely as an historical period, but as a way of life, seamlessly uniting the cultural and political threads of ancient life. Though at times tedious, he provides a survey of the Hellenistic age that is as deep as it is broad. Though the work’s rhythm occasionally falls out of clear diction into that of a bibliographic essay, in general it will continue to serve the author’s, and the reader’s, purposes well. Works Cited
12 Principles for Disagreeing with Other Believers Andrew David Naselli & J.D. Crowley, Crossway No, Your Brain is Not a Computer Robert Epstein, Aeon Why Some Elders Have Trouble Making Decisions Bobby Ross, Jr., The Christian Chronicle How Politics Makes us Stupid Ezra Klein, Vox Why You Vote the Way You Do Jonathan Haidt, The Week William James on Focus & Other Habits of the Mind Maria Popova, Brain Pickings An Attack on our Basic Humanity Dale Hansen, Hansen Unplugged A Nationwide Study of Police Shootings in 2015 (Take-Aways, Full Report & 2016 Data Year-to-Date) Kimberly Kindy, Marc Fisher, Julie Tate, Jennifer Jenkins & Kennedy Elliott, The Washington Post 10 (Okay, 9) Commonsense Reforms from Campaign Zero Tom Proctor, PuckerMob How Conservatives Can Find Common Ground with Black Lives Matter Celina Durgin, National Review Ceasefire: Deterring Inner-City Violence Lois Beckett, ProPublica Jesus Didn’t Say “Blessed are the Poor… and the Rich” Justin DaMetz, Progressive Christianity, Theology, Social Justice Justice for Black Lives Begins with Us Propaganda, Relevant Magazine A Black Police Chief on the Dallas Attacks Juleyka Lantigua-Williams with Chief Donald Grady II, The Atlantic Brexit and the Persistence of Nationalism
Mark Movsesian, First Things Brexit and The Dis-United Kingdom Peter Hitchens, First Things Leave: A Vote Against a Technocratic Elite Daniel Larison, The American Conservative Leave: A Vote Against the New Globalism R.R. Reno, First Things The Burkean Case for Remaining in the EU Mark Mills, Matter of Facts Remain: Unity and Independence David T. Koyzis, First Things Brexit and the Rise of The Trump Brian Kaller, The American Conservative In a series of Gleanings posts last summer, we took a look at American religion by the numbers, how we as Christians should be preparing for exile in the post-Christian age, and Rod Dreher's idea of The Benedict Option, and later addressed what this means for the church. This week's Gleanings looks again to the BenOp and its call to rethink Christian civics, as well as learning from some who have gone before us. The Benedict Option: Regrouping & Rethinking John Burger, Aleteia Eating Locusts Will be (Benedict) Optional Carl R. Trueman, First Things The BenOp as Culture War: A Response to Trueman Greg Forster, First Things Politics of Resentment?: A Response to Forster Carl R. Truman, First Things The Virtues of Alasdair MacIntyre Stanley Hauerwas, First Things Why Philosophy Still Matters in a Scientific Age Olivia Goldhill, Quartz Mercersburg Theology, Eucharistic Union & Civil Society James R. Rogers, First Things Culture, Anti-Culture & Nostalgia Carl R. Trueman, First Things Academic Freedom & Intellectual Life Pena Hitz, First Things Erasmus' Christian Humanism Timothy George, First Things Evangelism in Patrick Henry's "Liberty or Death" Speech Thomas Kidd, We're History Lessons Learned from Medieval Attitudes on Pagans John Marenbon, Aean Renewing Metaphysics & the Rebirth of Christian Society Elliot Milco, The Paraphasic The Salzburg Declaration: Building an "Ecology of Man" The International Christian Network |
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