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The Apocalypse is Not Just About the Future Charles E. Hill, Crossway Apocalypse Now: Picturing the End of the World Natasha O'Hear, CNN Carrying Our Crosses Daily Peter J. Leithart, First Things Canadian Churches Embrace Syrian Refugees Bobby Ross Jr., The Christian Chronicle ISIS, Genocide, and Us George Weigel, First Things Reading Revelation to the End Peter J. Leithart, First Things Silence of the Churches Nina Shea, First Things Why We Have to Call it Genocide Mark Movsesian, First Things What US Religious Groups Think About Science Issues
Cary Funk & Becka A. Alper, Pew Research Center Nonreligious Americans See Evidence of Creator Lisa Cannon Green, Lifeway Research Religious Americans See Less Conflict with Science Deborah Haarsma, BioLogos Religious or Not, Many Americans See a Creator's Hand Cathy Lynn Grossman, Religion News Service Rethinking the Origins Debate Jonathan Hill, Christianity Today What the New Pew Study Actually Reveals Jonathan P. Hill, BioLogos Breaking the Cycle of Absentee Fathers Laura Klairmont, CNN The Christian Roots of Soil Conservation John Murdock, First Things Distributism is the Future Gene Callahan, The American Conservative For the Poor, Geography Can Mean Life or Death Neil Irwin & Quoctrung Bui, The New York Times Healing Families with Fear and Love Matthew Schmitz, First Things How a Minister in Flint, MI Got the President's Ear Bobby Ross Jr., The Christian Chronicle Singing for Children Without Voices Bobby Ross Jr., The Christian Chronicle Why Economics Needs Both Values and Utility Curt Biren, First Things Why a White Evangelical Gave Birth to Black Triplets Aaron Halbert, The Washington Post Sparta is one of the most widely admired and least understood communities of ancient Greece. Spartans were legendary in their own time for their martial prowess and obvious ‘otherness,’ even among their fellow Greeks. Their praise has since arisen from various corners across both time and space. The Roman republicans remembered the ‘good order’ of Sparta’s mixed government. Western writers (including recent Greek nationalists) remembered the Spartans’ noble stand at Thermopylae against the might of the Persian Empire. And the Nazis spoke admiringly of Sparta’s outright eugenics. Recently this interest in Sparta has taken on a more popular form as Thermopylae continues to amaze audiences through the artistic license of Steven Pressfield in his Gates of Fire and the resulting graphic novel and movie 300 (the latter of which is graphic in another sense). One might wonder then what there can “possibly still be to talk about that merits focusing all this media and other attention on ancient Sparta” (Cartledge 10). In his laconically titled book The Spartans, Paul Cartledge attempts to answer just such a “complex question” (10). Cartledge approaches his subject with an unmatched depth of knowledge and experience in Spartan historiography. His well-known interest in Sparta is attested to by four previously published monographs on the subject as well as by sixteen other works in Greek history, which he has either edited or written (a partial list of these works is located toward the front of this particular volume). Throughout, the author’s conclusions are well supported by the findings of his own previous writings (including eighteen articles, books and essays; 289-290), which he supplements extensively with another six pages of sources on the subject. Also helpful is a broad sampling of classical sources including Thucydides, Plutarch, Herodotus, Sappho, Aristophanes, Pindar, Terpander, Simonides, Aristotle, Alcman, Xenophon, Arrian and Pausinias. Individual citations are contained in the form of endnotes immediately following the appendix (283-285). The Spartans, however, is Cartledge’s first popular work on the subject. But by ‘popular’ history he does not mean “a process of dumbing-down . . . but rather one of wising-up; making the roots – or one of the taproots – of our western civilization more accessible, more user-friendly, reminding people in today’s three-minute attention span culture just how important it is to know where, ultimately, they are coming from, in a cultural sense” (273; see 10). Knowing this intended audience well, Cartledge attempts to emphasize in his work both the fact and the fiction behind what he calls “the Spartan myth” (24); that grand generalization of the Spartans as a people of tradition, duty, and courage that appeals to all and changes none. The introduction is essential to understanding the role the book’s structure plays in meeting the author’s stated purpose. For the novice of Spartan history, Cartledge sets the stage for the ensuing narrative by providing a summary of the script (the book’s purpose, material, and sources) as well as its setting (a general overview of Greek and Lacedaemonian geography and topography). The narrative itself, however, is not purely chronological. Instead, it is “interspersed with snapshot biographies” in order to “bring the story of the past vividly and personally to life, and explore and illustrate underlying historical themes and processes” (23). This narrative is then presented in three parts, dealing in turn with Sparta’s ascension to prominence, height of influence, and its later decline. Part I of the book takes its title from the popular epithet, “Go, tell the Spartans!” in order to explain this Spartan myth, in which “Sparta evolved into the most powerful fighting force in the ancient Greek world without ever completely transcending or obscuring the traces of its origins” (25). Cartledge traces the roots of Sparta’s cultural identity to three sources: their traditional participation (and precipitation) of the Trojan War; their unique Lycurgan view of political, military, and social life; and the community’s relationship to its Peloponnesian neighbors (particularly the helots). He then continues by discussing the implications of Sparta’s foreign policy prior to the Persian Wars, namely their growing expansionism, opposition to tyrants, and high-handed treatment of their Peloponnesian allies. This rise to prominence is then crystallized by the valor of the 300 at Thermopylae and Sparta’s dual leadership with Athens throughout the remainder of the conflict. To heighten these events, the author also relates the lives of Helen, Lycurgus, Cleomenes I, Demaratus, Gorgo, Dieneces, and Pausanias as each becomes an actor on the historical scene. The second part of the book is entitled “The Spartan Myth” and specifically addresses how Sparta behaved once this myth had become well-known by both the Greeks in general and the Spartans in particular. In no event is this more clearly demonstrated than “the epic confrontation between Sparta and Athens and their respective allies,” which Cartledge refers to (from the Spartan perspective) as “the Athenian War” (33). When Athens formed the Delian League to press the naval fight against the Persians, the alliance resulted in rivalry between it and the already existing Peloponnesian League led by Sparta. Thus, over time this rivalry became outright opposition when Sparta denied Athenian assistance during their helot revolts. Cartledge then dials back the tempo of his otherwise bellicose narrative long enough to discuss the more serene aspects of Spartan womanhood and religion, before relating how the military necessity of the Athenian War convinced Sparta to beg assistance from mercenaries, the Persians, and even their helots to win decisively—and even then at sea. Biographic sketches of leaders in this period include Tisamenus, Archidamus II, Brasidas, and Lysander. Part III concludes the main body of the text by addressing “A Crippled Kingship” and how the Spartans’ military victory over the Athenians led to a political and cultural decline that was exacerbated by a lack of principled leadership. After securing victory over the Athenians, the Spartans were at the pinnacle of imperialist sentiment, employing the vocabulary of self-determination to substitute Spartan intervention for that of outside (mainly Persian) intervention in the preceding century. Combined with increased monetization at home and the consolidation of large amounts of property in the hands of a few, the Spartans then experienced a decline in the number of full citizens. With the arrival of Rome on the Greek scene, Sparta then experienced a brief revival of neo-Lycurgan reforms before reinventing itself as a nostalgic tourist hotspot, beginning the romanticizing of Spartan history that continues through our own period. And to exemplify these trends, Cartledge briefly describes the lives of Cynisca, Antalcidas, Archidamus III, Isadas, Areus I and Nabis. Also included is an appendix entitled “Hunting—Spartan-Style” which, while seemingly peripheral, elaborates on certain historiographical problems inherent to drawing modern-day applications from the example of Sparta or any other Greek community. This section was produced mainly as a James Loeb lecture at Harvard in response to Roger Scruton’s book On Hunting, which Scruton hoped would both justify and advocate modern British foxhunting (285, 275). What Cartledge seeks to demonstrate is how such historical moralizing often takes events and themes out of their historical context and interprets them in a wholly unhistorical way. Of particular concern here to Cartledge is Scruton’s generalization of Greek hunting, which is not only oversimplified due to differences between each Greek community but because it also fails to reflect the apparent religious, sensual, and political concepts that motivated various communities to hunt in the first place. (It was Athens where hunting became known for its religious and sensual aspects, hunting in Sparta was far more about citizens producing food for the common messes. In either case we deal with a distinct political concepts that no longer hold true for modern Great Britain.) Also telling is Scruton’s silence concerning the human hunting that Spartans engaged in as part of their perpetual state of war against their neighboring helots. In other words, by his silence on human hunting and praise of Spartan hunting in general, Scruton advocates what even Aristotle criticized. The Spartan sort of education, [Aristotle] observed, was systematically defective, in that it aimed to inculcate only one kind of virtue, martial courage, and tended therefore to turn out . . . ‘beast-like’ . . . Spartans [who held to a] practice that presumably not even Roger Scruton would wish to invoke as ancestral legitimation of his own pastime of choice. (Cartledge 281) Throughout the work, Cartledge maintains a style that aids both the beginning and advanced student of Spartan history. Unlike many works on Greek language and culture, the author strikes a fine balance between explaining various Greek words and phrases in order to reveal their meaning in context and drilling so deep into the Greek as to bring the reader to the point of utter exasperation. By also offering alternatives to certain traditional translations of words (e.g. the polis as ‘citizen-state’ as opposed to ‘city-state;’ 56) he aids all by making the meaning of the original both clear and concise.
Perhaps the least attractive aspect of the work’s format is the pagination of the various biographies throughout the book. While helpful, these biographies are not as distinguishable from the main body of the text as they could be. Simple changes such as a light gray background would be welcome for the sake of flow. This would also allow the reader to skip the biographies and backtrack after finishing the chapter if so desired. The effect of all of these factors on the overall relevance of The Spartans is overwhelmingly positive. Cartledge has taken full advantage of the rising popularity in Spartan history as an impetus for a genuine, scholarly review of Sparta’s glory days for the general reader. The Soul Needs a Center John Ortberg Curiositas: A Monastic Vice for the Internet Age Luis Pinto de Sa, First Things Florovsky's Model of Orthodox Ecclesiology Dr. Lewis Shaw, Orthodoxy and Heresy The Man from Kempis Matt Michaloski, First Things My Breakthrough in Scripture Memory David Mathis, Crossway Read the Bible Like It's Meant to be Read (OT & NT) Wes McAdams, Radically Christian Theology: Thinking God's Thoughts After Him Erik Thoenes, Crossway You Were Made to Meditate David Mathis, Crossway What is the Primary Goal of Evangelism? Wes McAdams, Radically Christian Don't be Missional: Make Disciples Mike Breen, Verge Network God is Not Safe, But He is Good Steve Higginbotham, Southeast Institute of Biblical Studies Living an Others-Oriented Life Mark Dever, Crossway Make Disciples, Not Converts Frank Powell Speaking the Truth in a Skeptical Age Samuel G. Freedman, The New York Times 20 Epic Facts About The Lord of the Rings Film Trilogy Rebecca Pahle, Mental Floss C.S. Lewis: Secret Government Agent Harry Lee Poe, Christianity Today J.R.R. Tolkien & the Exorcism of the Tape Recorder E.H. Kern, Book Riot Listen to Tolkien Read & Sing from The Lord of the Rings Anna Green, Mental Floss Mere Christianity Still Gets a Global Amen George M. Marsden, Wall Street Journal Studying the Silmarillion Nathan Jennings, Living Church Surprised by Jack: Mere Christianity & Modern Science David Williams, BioLogos Children Mine the Cobalt in Your Smartphone Annie Kelly, The Guardian How the Breakdown of Marriage Destroys the Poor Greg Forster, First Things The Green St. Church: Tiny Homes for the Homeless Alex Hendrickson, Style Blueprint Linking Inequality with Global Turmoil Jay Ufelder, FiveThirtyEight Rich Kids Stay Rich, Poor Kids Stay Poor Ben Casselman & Andrew Flowers, FiveThirtyEight Two Theories of Immigration Mark R. Amstutz, First Things We Are in This Together Pete Spiliakos, First Things 10 Ways Poverty Impacts Education Kristina Birdsong, The Science of Learning Both/And Philanthropy Leah Libresco, Fare Forward Cultivating the Virtues: An Interview with Wendall Berry Corby Kummer, Modern Farmer Enlightenment Thought & Paying for Lightbulbs Richard J. Mouw, First Things Garden in the Desert Peter J. Leithart, First Things River From the Sky Kathleen Toner, CNN 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 what this means for the relationship between Christ and culture, particularly Rod Dreher's idea of The Benedict Option. This week's Gleanings brings us up-to-date on further developments in that conversation. A Benedict Option FAQ Rod Dreher, The American Conservative A Q&A for People who Hate the Benedict Option Matthew Loftus, First Things Benedict & Nothing: A Response to Loftus Rod Dreher, The American Conservative The BenOp & New Monasticism (Part 1 & Part 2) Rod Dreher & Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove, Red Letter Christians The Ecclesiastical Failure of Christian America James R. Rogers, First Things What Does Evangelical Even Mean? Jonathan Merritt, The Atlantic The Need for Epiphanic Evangelicalism James R. Rogers, First Things Defeating ISIS Within a Cell of Prayer Arthur Herlin, Aleteia Report: Syria's al-Nusra 'More Dangerous' than ISIS Ryan Browne, CNN Why our Christianity Should Trump our Politics Russell Moore, The Washington Post Why We Need to Recognize the Christian Genocide Kirsten Powers, USA Today VIDEO: Starvation in Madaya Nick Paton Walsh, CNN Deadly Progressivism
R.R. Reno, First Things Americans are Becoming More Pro-Life & More Pro-Gay Carl R. Trueman, First Things Planned Parenthood Should be Our Wake-Up Call Betsy Childs Howard, First Things Redefining Dignity: Gnostic, Elitist, Self-Destructive Will-to-Power Roberta Green Ahmanson, Public Discourse We Cannot Compromise on Matters of Life and Death Wesley J. Smith, First Things You Are Not an Ape Wesley J. Smith, First Things I Have a Dream Martin Luther King, Jr., The National Archives Abortion & the War on Blacks Black Genocide Ceasefire: Deterring Inner-City Violence Lois Beckett, ProPublica The Church Isn't Supposed to be Segregated Wes McAdams, Radically Christian Rebuilding Black Families Juan Williams, NY Daily News Putting the Soul in Tune Luke Taylor, First Things Eight Things We Can Learn from Augustine Gerald Bray, Crossway Enlightenment Bible, Church Bible Peter J. Leithart, First Things Finding Jesus in Communion with the Church Russell E. Saltzman, First Things VIDEO: How to Be a Gospel-Centered Bible Reader Jared C. Wilson, Crossway What Each Book of the Bible Teaches Us (OT & NT) Leland Ryken, Crossway Time: A Curse or a Gift? Peter J. Leithart, First Things 10 Inspiring Stories from Churches of Christ in 2015 Bobby Ross, Jr., The Chrisitian Chronicle 2015: Celebrating 100 Years of Middle-earth Bradley J. Birzer, The Imaginative Conservative 2015: The Year in Pictures CNN Photos BioLogos' Top Post in 2015: An Interview with Bill Nye Brad Kramer, BioLogos Among Ancient Greece’s many important contributions to human knowledge, perhaps none is more apparent than their long and varied experience in the development of political thought. Though these experiences have come down to us as a single tradition, there are in fact at least two sides to this coin. We speak, of course, of Athens and Sparta; the former an older, more cultured and dynamic community, and the latter, of more recent stock, but with an even more traditional form. Though the development of each community is worthy of separate consideration as well, here we will focus on the continuities of Greek political thought and the challenges created by each community’s unique political context. As we’ve seen before, the Greek concept of the polis was one that emphasized the personal relationships between members of the community in a way that is often foreign to the modern student. “The polis . . . was not simply a set of buildings. It was a community of citizens who shared a range of experiences, in the army, in kinship groups, in age-classes, and marriage alliances” (Freeman 167). The goal of the community was simple: to achieve eunomia or “good order,” which was made possible through the thoughtful legislation and faithful execution of “good laws” (Freeman 170). Though this purpose was inherent to both the Spartan and Athenian forms of government, the cities pursued this order in strikingly different ways. Athens’ roots are deeper than most other prominent Greek communities. The various Ionian villages of Attica began a process of synoecism (Greek for ‘union of households’) some time in the ninth or eighth centuries before Christ, due to advances in agricultural technology and the resulting increase in population (Martin 71, 82). As Ionians, the Athenians benefitted greatly from their ancestors’ centuries of cultural exchange between the Greeks of modern-day Turkey and the many peoples of the ancient Near East. Because of the shared hardship of the recent Dark Ages and this common cultural identity, Athens developed an early sense of egalitarianism that served as a major force for unity and equality in the community. Though the evidence from this period is admittedly “scarce and obscure,” it “can be interpreted to mean that by the late seventh century B.C., Athens’ male citizens—rich, hoplite-level, and poor alike—had established the first limited form of democratic government” (Martin 83). The first threat against the good order of the community at Athens came in the form of an attempted coup against their democracy. The perpetrator was Cylon, an Athenian nobleman, former Olympian, and the son-in-law of the reigning tyrant of Megara. The word ‘tyrant’ is thought to be of Lydian origin and may have originally “meant no more than a ruler, but as Greek democracy developed and all forms of one-man rule became abhorrent the Greeks themselves gave the word the connotations that still surround it today” (Freeman 165). The Athenians therefore “rallied ‘from the fields in a body’ (Thucydides 1.126.7) to foil” Cylon’s schemes (Martin 83). After all, in their mind, “It is no polis that is ruled by one man only” (Kitto 71). Later, the threat row tyranny revived when another prominent Athenian named Peisistratus reigned briefly over the city, and was succeeded by his son and grandson before the latter was assassinated (Martin 87). There were also economic threats to Athens’ eunomia, particularly the consolidation of wealth and property in the hands of increasingly fewer and fewer citizens. As the rich became richer (and fewer) and the poor became poorer (and more numerous), many cried out for greater justice (Greek dike, pronounced dee-kay) in the operations of the community. Justice then, to the Athenian, always maintained an economic connotation. It was this sense of justice that Solon sought to restore with his reforms in the early sixth century B.C. He abolished debt ownership, sought out Athenians who had been sold abroad into slavery and ceased collecting produce taxes. He then opened up government offices fully to those whose land produced “500 or more measures of grain, oil, or wine” and granted partial participation to those who produced at least 200 measures (Freeman 175-176). Though these property qualifications still excluded many Athenians from holding public office, all citizens were granted membership in the Assembly (Greek ekklesia), while aristocratic influence was codified in the Council (Greek boule), which met atop the Areopagus (Greek ‘Hill of Ares;’ Martin 83, 85-86; see Acts 17:16-34). And later, after the fall of the Peisistratid regime, Cleisthenes used these same reforms as the template for his own program, devising “a system of government based on direct participation by as many adult male citizens as possible” (Martin 88). Sparta’s origins are similar in sequence to those of Athens but the cities also differed in significant ways. Sparta, too, underwent a process of synoecism but with a strange twist; two communities as opposed to one, gained the ascendency, producing a unique dual monarchy for which Sparta became famous (Martin 71, 73). The Spartans also did not owe their cultural heritage to the Ionians, but the more recently-arrived Dorian Greeks, as is evidenced by both their dialect and their chronic xenophobia (Greek for ‘fear of strangers’; Martin 73). Because of their later arrival to the Greek world, the Spartans knew they were different. And for this reason, they saw their cultural distinctiveness as both the ends and means of good order. The result was an increasingly militaristic approach in its relations to its immediate Peloponnesian neighbors as well as the Greek world at-large (Freeman 168-169). Later reforms sought to inculcate these martial values into their youth through the state-sponsored education of young boys and girls, pedophilia among the young men, military-style messes for the men, and even officially sanctioned violence against the enslaved Messenians (Freeman 170-172). Like Athens, however, the Spartans also directed their efforts against the main political threat to eunomia: tyranny. One-man rule seems to have never occurred to the Spartan community. Since its beginnings, two kings had ruled the community and with time the Spartans further limited even these meager powers with the introduction of the Council of Elders (Greek gerousia) and the Assembly of the People (Greek demos), as well as the office of the Overseers (Greek ephoroi; Martin 74). And it was this fear of tyranny that motivated much of Sparta’s policy toward others: assisting Cleisthenes’ overthrow of the Peisistratids in Athens, leading their neighbors in the Greco-Persian wars, and seeking to end Athens’ hegemony by means of the so-called Peloponnesian War (Martin 87, 105, 147-152). Athens and Sparta therefore shared eunomia as their common goal for their communities and recognized the threat posed by tyranny to this ‘good order.’ Other threats, however, were identified based on the unique experiences of each community in their political thought and practice. Most Athenian reforms sought greater economic justice due to its deeply rooted egalitarianism, while Sparta’s development sought greater military strength in order to preserve their identity in a new cultural context. If we moderns are to learn from the successes (and failures) of these Greek political traditions, we will have to learn what the Greeks themselves struggled with: uniting the twin goals of economic justice and cultural vitality. Works Cited
When Jesus Sought Refuge
William J. Barber, II & Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove, Patheos PHOTOS: Where the Children Sleep Magnus Wennman, Aftonbladet How Refugees Saved Me Russell E. Saltzman, First Things Syrian Refugees & Religious Freedom Ian Tuttle, National Review Online Syria is Just the Beginning: Kenya's Growing Refugee Crisis David McKenzie and Brent Swails, CNN Compassion, Yes, But Prudence, Too
Marc LiVecche, First Things Don't Forget our Afghan and Iraqi Interpreters Dane Bowker, The Washington Post Failures in the International Refugee System Nina Shea, National Review Online How Refugees Make it in America Clare Malone, FiveThirtyEight Posing as a Refugee Isn't All That Easy... Especially for Terrorists Jeremy Diamond, CNN The Greeks left a strong foundation of cultural, social, and political values that has been drawn on by almost every Western people since. That being said, the increasingly nationalizing tendencies of our own republican government, and the increasingly international form government is taking in modern Europe, have caused many to wonder why Greece never achieved this same kind of political union. Why remain several small poleis instead of becoming a single great, civilized nation, especially since military threats later absorbed these communities, first into the Macedonian kingdom and later into the Roman Empire? To answer this question, one must first understand that the Greeks held some drastically different views on the concept of politics than most of us do today. The Greek word polis has no direct English equivalent. Because of this, we have attempted to render it in a number of ways, most commonly as ‘city-state.’ But this not only falls short of the full potential of its meaning, it also introduces some false connotations that were not meant by the Greeks themselves. Kitto identifies this rendering of the word, “a bad translation, because the normal polis was not much like a city, and was very much more than a state” (64). He goes on to catalogue the various uses of the word in order to demonstrate its many shades of meaning: citadel, town, the market town, people, state, and cultural life (Kitto 68-75). For this reason, Kitto states that polis, “may mean as much as ‘the whole communal life of the people, political, cultural, moral’ – even ‘economic’,” while also retaining certain religious connotations (75). In short then, the polis is the Greek ‘community’ and often serves as a metonymy for the various aspects of the community’s wellbeing. This more holistic view of ‘the city’ had natural implications for their view of citizenship, which meant much more than mere residence. Many a Greek lived within a city while never enjoying the rights and responsibilities of the citizen. In most Greek communities, citizenship was a birthright bestowed on male children born to a father who was a citizen and a mother who was a free woman. Other members of the community (at least at Athens) included metics (or ‘resident aliens’), women and slaves (owned by individuals in Athens and by the community in Sparta) who each enjoyed limited freedoms but were denied any political participation (Freeman 226-228). As Freeman continues, “Citizenship was thus a privilege and a closely guarded one,” but it also had its duties (228). In Athens a citizen was expected to participate in religious festivals, attend the Assembly, and fight the community’s battles as a hoplite (Freeman 226; Martin 82-83). In Sparta, a citizen was expected to not only fulfill these responsibilities, but also to provide enough food to support his military-style common mess (Greek sussition), and failure to do so meant a loss of membership in both the mess and the citizen body (Martin 77-78). Taken together, a uniquely Greek concept of political unity begins to take shape. Greeks did not form ‘states;’ they formed ‘communities.’ Citizens were not residents; they were participants in the life and affairs of their community. Note the intimacy implied by the word itself: community. Such a sense is difficult to imagine in today’s modern world (though the same connection can still be seen in our words ‘city’ and ‘citizen’). The United States has over 300 million citizens. Cities have populations numbering in the several hundreds of thousands and even millions. To the Greeks, however, political unity meant the opportunity to participate in a shared cultural, religious and economic environment. Such is the reason why Plato, when he set forth his vision for the ideal community, set the optimal size of the body politic at 5,000 and why Aristotle believed that “each citizen should be able to know all the others by sight” (though the total population, including women, children, metics, and slaves could approach as many as 50,000; Kitto 65-66). True community, then, is directly proportional to familiarity; the greater the familiarity, the greater the sense of community; and when this familiarity is lost, so is one’s sense of community. This concept of political unity is further demonstrated by other social relationships enjoyed between citizens. In Athens, the community was not divided into wards, quarters, or boroughs but into demes, a word that simply means ‘peoples’ and implies a sense of common identification among its members (Martin 87-88). Unanimity was further maintained through voluntary associations, “some purely religious,” others related to “particular trades” or aristocratic families, and even through a sundry of rancorous drinking clubs (Freeman 226). As Freeman continues, “The Athenian citizen was thus given identity through a range of shared activities which went well beyond his involvement in the Assembly” (Freeman 226). And though the Spartans chose activities that appear quite different on the surface (a rigorous martial upbringing, and the above-mentioned common messes) the intent was much the same. However, Spartan unanimity also came at a high moral cost, being reinforced from within through the perversion called pederasty, and from without by the systematic enslavement of their outlying neighbors. It was because of this misplaced emphasis on male unity that the Greeks “created outsiders such as barbarians, both free and slave, and, within the city, women and non-citizens in order to strengthen the identity of the citizen group” (Freeman 226). Though later in our series we’ll have another opportunity to address Sparta’s neighbors, pederasty deserves special comment before we move on. Pederasty was a form of ritualized pedophilia that typically included a young man as the active partner and a younger boy as the passive one. Though each community had its own twists on this practice, in general the boys “were chosen to be the special favorites of males older than themselves to build bonds of affection, including physical love, for others” (Martin 78, 79). Thankfully, the Apostle Paul condemns the practice, along with other forms of homosexuality, in two ‘vice lists’ in the New Testament (1Co 6:9-11; Rom 1:24-27). So while Greek views on civics are generally ‘higher’ than our own, this was not so in every place on every issue. To the Greeks, politics meant much more than participating in the political processes of the state; it emphasized the individual civic responsibilities owed to others as a trust and privilege held in common with one’s family and neighbors. It is in this vein of thought that Aristotle states so memorably that, “Man is a political animal,” by which he means that, “‘Man is a creature who lives in a polis’; and what he goes on to demonstrate, in his Politics, is that the polis is the only framework within which man can fully realize his spiritual, moral and intellectual capacities” (Kitto 78). The polis, then, is, in the words of Cartledge, a ‘citizen-state’ (56). We can hopefully see now why the problem of Greek unity may not be in the Greeks themselves but in the way we have formed our questions concerning the goals of their culture and its effects on their political organization. The Greeks did not ‘succeed’ in the modern conception of ‘political unity’ precisely because it is a modern conception that the Greeks neither imagined nor desired. And though certain Greek views on identity and sexuality fail to measure up to the standard of the biblical witness, we have also failed to live up to their cultural legacy concerning their views on cities and citizenship. Works Cited
4 Things Christians Should Do When Tragedies Occur Wes McAdams, Radically Christian Fighting Terrorism with Transcendence Gracy Olmstead, The American Conservative French, Syrian Christians Pray After Paris Attacks Erik Tryggestad, The Christian Chronicle The Rise of Religious Terrorism in France Carl Bialik, FiveThirtyEight What ISIS Wants Jon Foreman, The Huffington Post Warfare is a terrible and tragic part of human existence, and the Greeks knew this all too well. Their men fought its battles, their women and children witnessed its horrors in and around their communities, and their leaders struggled with choices between their ultimate aspirations and the pressing challenges of warfare. The Greek way of war therefore demonstrates how Greek culture and society both (1) informed the decisions made during wartime, and (2) were challenged by a proto-utilitarian form of ‘military necessity.’ The first major military threat to the communities of Ancient Greece came in the Greco-Persian Wars. When the Greeks of Ionia (modern-day Turkey) rebelled against the Persian king, they received considerable support from their Greek neighbors to the west. This rebellion failed, however, and the Persians began planning a full-scale invasion of Greece as retribution for their support and participation in the revolts (Martin 99). From the outset, the culture of these two peoples could not have been more different. The Persians viewed individuals as subjects of the state, without value outside the role they fulfilled to the empire and therefore without rights outside those explicitly granted by the government. In contrast to this, the Greek’s maintained a much higher view of the individual, which demanded both the equal protection of laws and shared responsibilities to the community, even though civic participation was limited to free, male citizens. These differences were further demonstrated by the composition of each army. The Persians marched on Greece as conscripts of a king they had probably never seen (much less met), while the Greeks fought alongside their family and neighbors. And even when a Greek king was present (such as the legendary Leonidas of Sparta) he fought not as their superior but as their peer, as even the Spartan word for a full citizen (homoioi) implies (Martin 77; Cartledge 111-129). Because of this sense of identity, freedom, and community, the behavior of the Greeks during the Persian Wars reflected the very best of human courage in battle. They never forgot that they fought for their wives, children, and homelands, and because of this were motivated to heroic feats of bravery and sacrifice. Even today we draw inspiration from their examples, as is the case with the 300 Spartans and their allies at the pass of Thermopylae (see Pressfield’s historical novel, Gates of Fire, the precursor to the graphic novel and film franchise, 300) and the Greek victory over the Persians at Marathon. Greek ingenuity was also at its best. While Sparta led the Greeks on land, Athens ultimately led them at sea, producing naval victories that are just as impressive as their victories on land. Most spectacular was the victory at Salamis, where the Athenian commander Themistocles forced the vast Persian fleet into a narrow pass (practically eliminating the Persians’ advantage in numbers), where the Greeks were able to ram the Persian vessels and fight them off ship by ship (Martin 104). The effect of these two Greek victories was both practical and psychological; Xerxes was forced to return with his fleet back to Persia, leaving behind a much weaker ground force under the command of Xerxes’ general, Mardonius, whom the Greeks soon defeated. War, however, does not always (or even usually) reveal the best parts of a people’s culture. Even in the Persian Wars, leaders were forced to employ no small amount of political creativity to gain the support needed to achieve these victories. These cracks in the unity and character of the Greeks fractured completely a generation later when open war broke out between the two leading communities of Greece: Athens and Sparta. The causes of the Peloponnesian War are still debated, but when ‘entangling alliances’ exacerbate age-old rivalries in trade, political philosophies, and territorial expansion, it does not take an historian to figure out the likely result. This does not mean, however, that war was inevitable or that there were not leaders on both sides of the conflict who spoke against it. And when war was decided, the wisest on both sides sought limited goals and a quick resolution, particularly the Spartan king Archidamus and his Athenian ‘guest-friend’ Pericles (Kagan 1-54). Thucydides’ record of the Peloponnesian War provides a number of examples of the potential for humans to choose violence, brutality, and cruelty over the more noble behavior we should rightfully expect of one another. Corinth was more concerned about her honor and rights regarding Corcyra and Potidaea than the impact her actions would have on her allies. Sparta also chose the baser side of war in her later treatment of Potidaea. When she captured the community the Spartans put most of the men to death for not being able to affirm that they had “rendered Sparta any service in this war”—a tacit acceptance of Persian utilitarianism foreign to Greek thought up to that point (Kitto 151). Athens was no more immune to these problems than her enemies. When the island of Lesbos revolted, the Athenians sent a ship to Mitylene, the primary settlement of the Lesbians, with the inhumane task of slaughtering the men and enslaving the women and children. Though they changed their minds and rescinded the order the next day, the second ship only barely prevented the massacre by making port on Lesbos as the first decree was being read to the citizens of the community (Kitto 143-147). Unfortunately, within a decade such moderation was lost completely when Athens killed or enslaved all the residents of the neutral community at Melos (Kitto 151-152). There was also internal political turmoil caused by war, especially at Athens. In the preceding paragraph, we have already seen that the Athenian assembly was prone to overreaction and hasty decisions, but they had an equally troubling time trusting the decisions of their leadership. One telling sign of this is the frequent removal of Athenian generals (as happened with Thucydides[Kitto 147-148] and Alcibiades [Pressfield’s Tides of War]). Even Pericles himself experienced these vaccinations in public approval, though he had spoken against the war and led a successful defensive strategy of attrition designed to wear down the Spartans to exhaustion (Kitto 141-142). As a result of this turmoil, Athens for a time even established an oligarchic government, though after its brief reign the city gradually restored its well-known democratic form (Kitto 137). War both manifests and challenges the character and culture of a people. At the outset of war, culture initially informs the purposes and methods of the conflict. But when these purposes and methods are tested by changing circumstances on the ground, such crises often lead not only to a refining of tactics, but also to a challenge to culture itself. The Greeks experienced just such a cultural shock in their wars against enemies from both without and within. The result was a Greek culture that was first defended, then surrendered, and thankfully reasserted for the benefit of all of us who have come along since. Works Cited
Though a sundry of modern practices have their roots in the ancient Near East, it is the Greeks who absorbed these traditions and made them their own, thereby laying the foundation for Western Civilization. This is particular true in three realms of Greek thought: their uniquely Greek approach to philosophy, the concept of freedom it produced, and the literature that has preserved these thoughts for generations since.
Greek philosophy, like many other things Greek, had its roots in the thought of the ancient Near East, especially in the Ionian areas of modern-day Turkey (this also become the driving thesis of Freeman’s sweeping survey, Egypt, Greece and Rome). There, during Greece’s Archaic Age, Greek thinkers began to recognize the presence of certain laws of nature that seemed uniform and predictable, especially as they concerned the movements of the celestial bodies. Such a view, however, represented a clear departure from the popular beliefs of the day, which held that natural phenomena were the results of the arbitrary will of the divines rather than anything approaching an understandable order and pattern. The result was the recognition of logic (from the Greek word logos or ‘thought,’ ‘study’) as the uniquely human way of solving problems of everyday human life both in nature (as in the example above) as well as in humanity itself (psychologically and socially; see Martin 90-91). Greek philosophy, however, was not limited to these subjects alone. Later in its development, Socrates introduced a moral aspect to philosophy that gave us another word used often today: ethics. Socrates’ focus was simple; justice was the goal of human existence and because of this, an individual could only be happy by achieving this justice in his own behavior toward others, a state Socrates defined as virtue. For Socrates, then, it was in the individual’s best interest to reflect on his own character, to challenge his assumptions and in doing so, to refine his own sense of right and wrong as he related to those around him. “Moral knowledge was all one needed for the good life, as Socrates defined it” (Martin 170). It was this foundation that was built upon by Socrates’ student Plato, crystallized by Plato’s student Aristotle, and eventually challenged by the later Cynics, Stoics and Epicureans of the Hellenistic Age (Martin 177-185, 212-217). In essence, then, prior to the second century before Christ, the Greeks had undertaken nearly every major issue and approach to human knowledge and happiness. One major ideal served as both an underlying assumption and an overarching conclusion to such self- and natural examination: the Greek concept of freedom. Today, the word freedom is almost always understood in a political sense, and while such an understanding would concur with ancient Greek thoughts on the subject, the word itself implied much more than simple civil liberty. In a political sense, a Greek used the word simply to mean that “however his polity was governed it respected his rights,” whether he had any say in the matter or not (Kitto 9). “But ‘eleutheria’…was much more than this . . . . Slavery and despotism are things that maim the soul . . . . The Oriental custom of obeisance struck the Greek as not ‘eleutheron’; in his eyes it was an affront to human dignity” (Kitto 10). There was also then a spiritual connotation to the word that tied the welfare of the community inextricably to the welfare of individuals with both physical and spiritual natures. Freedom was not just a political ideal, but an overriding principle that led to a distinctively human way of solving problems rooted in our shared ability to observe and reason based on common human experience. But for the Greeks, writing was not merely didactic. Instead, their thoughts on natural law, logic, ethics, and freedom, were most often transmitted artistically through literature and drama. As Kitto points out, “That which distils [sic], preserves and then enlarges the experience of a people is Literature” and human society at-large owes a great debt of gratitude to the Greeks in this respect (Kitto 8). Though various forms of poetry existed prior to the rise of Greek literature (religious, romantic, prophetic), the Greeks soon added both epic and lyric poetry to this list. Epic poetry was especially important in preserving what would otherwise have been lost of Greece’s Mycenaean past on the Eurasian mainland. Homeric poetry mainly discussed the uniquely human value of excellence (Greek arete). The goal of the excellent life, however, was not moral in nature but involved the legacy one would leave behind, what the Greeks called their kleos, or “glorious reputation,” whether on the battlefield, through friendship with strangers (the literal meaning of hospitality), or through victory in the quadrennial Olympic games (Martin 41-46). Mythology also played a prominent role in the shaping of early Greek thought on their existence. The poet Hesiod sought to recast the myths of his forbearers “to reveal the divine origin of justice” as an absolute sense of right and wrong rooted in humanity’s common origins and their shared fate in death (Martin 48). Lyric poetry came onto the scene much later with a greater emphasis on the musical aspects of poetry, varying the rhythm, including instrumental accompaniment, and being written for performances by choruses which often performed them while dancing rather simply seated or standing (Martin 89). Along with this change in form came a similar change in content, as the Greeks began putting their thoughts on politics and philosophy into writing for the first time, first in lyric poetry and then in prose, an innovation that had not previously been attempted on such a scale by any human society (Martin 90). It can be said with some truth then that most of the genres of literature recognize and work within today were “created and perfected by the Greeks” (Kitto 9). The Greeks have impacted our collective consciousness in ways both simple and profound. They believed there was something that set us apart from the other creatures with which we share our planet. Because of this, they believed it was perfectly in keeping with their nature to look both internally and externally to explain their material, spiritual, ethical and political existence—all in the name of justice and the achievement of their own earthly happiness. And in doing so, they produced many of the greatest works in human thought. We remain the heirs of the Greeks, then, not because they are more than human but because they are precisely much like ourselves, and because of this, their experiences are ours, their aspirations are ours, and their lessons are for us all. Works Cited
It may seem strange to discuss the identity of a Persian ruler in a series on the Greeks, but until the late nineteenth century, two Greek historians were our primary witnesses for the fall of Babylon to the Achaemenid (Medo-Persian) Empire in 539 B.C. History can be both enlightening and entertaining in its own right, but it is also instrumental in understanding the world the Bible was written in. Reading ancient historians therefore affords us additional insights to what the Bible says and what the Bible means, and is especially helpful concerning difficult passages of Scripture. One particular problem they assist with is in determining the identity of the ruler known in the Bible as “Darius the Mede,” and Darius’ role in the Persian conquest of Babylon. In the fifth chapter of the book of Daniel, Daniel has just rebuked Belshazzar (the fifth king after Nebuchadnezzar) for using articles from the Jewish temple to worship “the gods of silver and gold, of bronze, iron, wood, and stone, which do not see or hear or know” (Dan 5:23 ESV), and so Daniel interprets to him the (literal!) handwriting on the wall: “Then from his [God’s] presence the hand was sent, and this writing was inscribed. And this is the writing that was inscribed: MENE, MENE, TEKEL, and PARSIN. This is the interpretation of the matter: MENE, God has numbered the days of your kingdom and brought it to an end; TEKEL, you have been weighed in the balances and found wanting; PERES, your kingdom is divided and given to the Medes and Persians.” The ESV Study Bible summarizes for us the historical problem posed by the passage: The identity of Darius the Mede and the exact nature of his relationship to Cyrus is not certain. It is clear that Cyrus was already king of Persia at the time when Babylon fell to the Persians (539 B.C.), and thus far no reference to “Darius the Mede” has been found in the contemporary documents that have survived. (ESVSB on Dan 5:30-31) Skeptics, of course, have been quick to jump on this unconfirmed claim to question the inspiration, authority, and inerrancy of Scripture. But judging by other historical sources from the period, the Bible appears to record these events in a very similar manner to other ancient sources. Another contemporary account that provides some additional insight is The Nabonidus Chronicle, which recounts many details from the reign of Belshazzar’s father, Nabonidus (more on this below): In the month of Tashritu . . . . The 16th day, Gobryas (Ugbaru), the governor of Gutium and the army of Cyrus entered Babylon without battle. Afterwards Nabonidus was arrested in Babylon when he returned (there). Till the end of the month, the shield(-carrying) Gutians were staying within Esagila (but) nobody carried arms in Esagila and its (pertinent) buildings, the correct time (for a ceremony) was not missed. In the month of Arahshamnu, the 3rd day, Cyrus entered Babylon, green twigs were spread in front of him—the state of “Peace” (šulmu) was imposed upon the city. Cyrus sent greetings to all Babylon. Gobryas, his governor, installed (sub-)governors in Babylon. (ANET 306-7, Pritchard 281-282) Less than one hundred years later, Herodotus records an expanded account of the conquest in book one of The Histories (190-191 in my Penguin edition): The Babylonians had taken the field and were awaiting his [Cyrus’] approach. When he arrived near the city they attacked him, but were defeated and forced to retire inside their defences . . . and as they had taken the precaution of accumulating in Babylon a stock of provisions sufficient to last many years, they were able to regard the prospect of a siege with indifference. The siege dragged on, no progress was made, and Cyrus was beginning to despair of success. Then somebody suggested or he himself thought up the following plan: he stationed part of his force at the point where the Euphrates flows into the city and another contingent at the opposite end where it flows out, with orders to both to force an entrance along the riverbed as soon as they saw that the water was shallow enough. Then, taking with him all his non-combatant troops, he withdrew to the spot where Nitocris had excavated the lake, and proceeded to repeat the operation which the queen had previously performed: by means of a cutting he diverted the river into the lake (which was then a marsh) and in this way so greatly reduced the depth of water in the actual bed of the river that it became fordable, and the Persian army, which had been left at Babylon for the purpose, entered the river, now only deep enough to reach about the middle of a man’s thigh, and, making their way along it, got into the town. If the Babylonians had learnt what Cyrus was doing or had seen it for themselves in time, they could have let the Persians enter and then, by shutting all the gates which led to the waterside and manning the walls on either side of the river, they could have caught them in a trap and wiped them out. But as it was they were taken by surprise. The Babylonians themselves say that owing to the great size of the city the outskirts were captured without the people in the centre knowing anything about it; there was a festival going on, and they continued to dance and enjoy themselves, until they learned the news the hard way. That, then, is the story of the first capture of Babylon. One final account is also worth mentioning, from Xenophon’s Cyropaedia. Xenophon was born around the time Herodotus died, and is thus even further removed from the events he described, but his account also supports some of the claims made by our earlier sources. We will pick up his account (which I have greatly abbreviated), with the decision to divert the river: Thereupon Cyrus took his measurements all round the city, and, leaving a space on either bank of the river large enough for a lofty tower, he had a gigantic trench dug from end to end of the wall, his men heaping up the earth on their own side. . . . [When] the trenches were dug . . . Cyrus heard that it was a time of high festival in Babylon when the citizens drink and make merry the whole night long. As soon as the darkness fell, he set his men to work. The mouths of the trenches were opened, and during the night the water poured in, so that the river-bed formed a highway into the heart of the town. You really should read the whole thing, which makes for great reading, if not good history (in fact, Ridley Scott could have learned a thing or two). But the parallels between these four accounts are unmistakable. The king of Babylon at this time is actually Nabonidus himself. He had usurped the throne seventeen years earlier, but had since retired into Arabia, leaving Belshazzar as regent of Babylon in his stead (perhaps explaining why the prince, as Number Two, could only make Daniel, “the third ruler in the kingdom”). Cyrus and his allies then approached from the north and northwest, respectively. As is indicated in Herodotus and Nabonidus, the combat troops at Babylon appear to be under the command of Gobryas/Ugbaru, an old ally of Cyrus’, leading the breach of the city during the ceremonial festival hosted by Belshazzar. Cyrus himself arrived at the city several days later, incorporating Babylonia into the empire, and rewarding Ugbaru with the governorship of the region. Ugbaru then conducted further reforms, including the appointment of lieutenants throughout the city. The biggest differences are that Nabonidus makes no mention of the river works, Herodotus makes no mention of Ubgaru, and Xenophon makes Cyrus the primary actor throughout. Which brings us back to our original question: who is “Darius the Mede,” and how does he fit into this picture? In the same paragraph cited above, The ESV Study Bible summarizes the three most common solutions proposed by biblical scholars: . . . thus far no reference to “Darius the Mede” has been found in the contemporary documents that have survived. [1] That absence, however, does not prove that the references to Darius in the book of Daniel are a historical anachronism. The book of Daniel recognizes that Cyrus reigned shortly after the fall of Babylon (1:1; 6:28), and knowledge of the history of this period, while substantial, may be incomplete. Until fairly recently there was no cuneiform evidence to prove the existence of Belshazzar either. [2] Some commentators argue that Darius was a Babylonian throne name adopted by Cyrus himself. On this view, 6:28 should be understood as, “during the reign of Darius the Mede, that is, the reign of Cyrus the Persian.” [3] Others suggest that Darius was actually Cyrus’s general, elsewhere named Gubaru or Ugbaru, and credited in the Nabonidus Chronicle with the capture of Babylon. (ESVSB on Dan 5:30-31) The first response is a general truth that applies to any aspect of biblical history: history cannot prove a biblical statement to be false due to a lack of evidence, and Christians should not withhold their assent to a biblical statement simply because of a lack of historical confirmation. But this should also not be seen as an excuse for not engaging with known historical sources, or to simply win arguments or silence debate (all of which applies equally well to contemporary discussions on faith and science). The second theory is certainly possible in a strictly grammatical way, but this construction seems forced, and receives little attention from Bible translators. The most likely explanation of our known sources, then, is that Darius is the name chosen by the biblical writer to refer to the Gobryas/Ugbaru/Gubaru mentioned in our sources. This fits especially well with the wording seen in Daniel: Darius “received the kingdom” and “was made king over the realm of the Chaldeans,” implying that his authority was derived from a superior (such as Cyrus; Dan 5:30-31; 9:1, emphases added; see 6:28). There are also parallels between the reforms attributed to Darius/Ugbaru, such as the appointment of satraps/sub-governors throughout the realm. So while historians now doubt aspects of the historical accounts (most notably, the diversion of the river; see below, Note 1), these accounts also provide important contextual information supporting the biblical account in the book of Daniel. On the other hand, we must also point out that the Bible does not necessarily require us to believe that Darius the Mede and Ugbaru are the same person; this is simply the best inference we can make given our current understanding of the biblical text and the history surrounding it. So while we may not be able to state absolutely who Darius is, we can certainly assent with his testimony, as recorded in Scripture: Peace be multiplied to you. I make a decree, that in all my royal dominion people are to tremble and fear before the God of Daniel, for he is the living God, enduring forever; his kingdom shall never be destroyed, and his dominion shall be to the end. He delivers and rescues; he works signs and wonders in heaven and on earth, he who has saved Daniel from the power of the lions. (Dan 6:25-27) Amen.
Note 1: Such as Marincola in note 80 to The Histories. In the same place he also states, “it is clear that there was treachery, perhaps because of the discontent aroused by Nabonidus, particularly towards the priestly caste who may thus have welcomed Cyrus. It is likely too that the large Jewish community at Babylon assisted Cyrus’ entry into the city; after its fall Cyrus returned the Jewish exiles to Jerusalem, with orders for the temple there to be rebuilt (Ezra 6.3-22).” This, however, appears to be mere supposition. Works Cited
As I wrapped up my undergrad studies and first looked into graduate school, the first major that caught my eye was an MA in Ancient and Classical History. After two classes, however (one in historiography and the other in the Ancient Greeks), I quickly discovered that while the historical fascinated me, my interests were entirely too broad to be limited to the study of what once was. History, however, remains an essential part of the humanities, and any approach to liberal learning must maintain an essentially historical approach. History helps us answer questions like, Where did we come from? What does it mean to be human? What was the “state of nature”? What brought about the rise of civilization? How does this affect our understanding of social and political community today? And on what basis can we determine right and wrong? History is therefore the foundation of anthropology, sociology, civics, economics, and ethics. As Solomon once mused, “What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun. Is there a thing of which it is said, ‘See, this is new’? It has been already in the ages before us” (Ecc 1:9-10 ESV). Understanding where we have come from is thus fundamental to understanding who we are, and where we are heading as a society. By studying history, then, we develop skills of historical, literary, and philosophical reasoning that provide us an opportunity to better understand and orient our own lives today. In other words, perhaps the best way to understand history is not as what once was, but as what could be again. But thinking historically is sometimes easier said than done. As David Hackett Fischer points out, historians must recognize and work within the inherent “logic of historical thought.” This does not imply that humans always make sense (far from it!), nor does it mean that historians are always consistent in their approach to understanding the past. What it does mean is that history, like any academic discipline, requires a clear and consistent understanding of its own internal workings. The very meaning of “history” implies that such must be the case. Our word history is transliterated from the Greek word historiai, which means “investigations” (NIV 1283). This explains Fischer’s assertion that, “History is, in short, a problem-solving discipline,” which requires (1) “open-ended question[s] about past events,” (2) “a true descriptive statement about past events,” and (3) “an interactive structure of workable questions and factual statements” making sense of these past events (Fischer xv). Just as a scientist or detective gathers as much evidence as possible and allows that evidence to lead to her conclusions, the historian is primarily an investigator, meaning that conclusions must follow the evidence instead of preceding it. Perhaps the greatest roadblock to understanding history, however, is the preconceptions, assumptions, and biases we bring to our study. Many frame the discussion by stating that we shouldn’t bring our worldview to bear on history, but it would be impossible for us not to. Instead, we must also work tirelessly to recognize and understand the strengths and weaknesses of the historian himself, both as a student of history examining the evidence and as a teacher who is presenting his case. This does not make history subjective; it merely recognizes what it takes to maintain objectivity in light of evidence. Another way to state this goal is that the historian seeks fairness or (stated negatively) avoids bias. As McCullagh states, bias can be mitigated if properly defined and understood by recognizing our own limitations and desires. “To be fair, a description must describe all the predominant features of the chosen aspect of the subject, so that the description is not at all misleading” (McCullagh 42). Bias, on the other hand, occurs when “failures in historical inference, in historical description and interpretation, and in historical explanation” occur “because the historian wants the outcome she has produced” (McCullagh 40, emphasis added). Such biases are manifest in virtually every stage of historical study. As Hackett discusses in his own work, historians make three basic types of fallacies: in inquiry (question-framing, factual verification, factual significance), explanation (generalization, narration, causation, motivation, composition, false analogy), and argument (semantical distortion and substantive distraction). McCullagh focuses on four of these: “First, historians sometimes misinterpret evidence, so that they are not justified in asserting that the inferences about what happened in the past are true” (40). Similarly, in their explanations of historical events, historians occasionally “omit important features of their subject” and therefore lead the reader to believe he is reading a more complete account than what is actually presented (McCullagh 45). Others mislead readers by making implications that do not stand up in light of known evidence, thereby denying the reader a justifiable interpretation that reconciles the preponderance of known facts (McCullagh 48). Causal explanations can also fall short of “fair” by removing from consideration possible causes that are no less significant than those favored by the historian’s own interests. The key to avoiding each of these biases is to ensure the breadth of an account is commensurate with the depth of detail provided on the subject, all of which must closely follow the evidence. “If the evidence is extensive and varied, and one explanation of what happened is far superior to any other, then historians quite rationally judge it likely to be true” (McCullagh 60). It is because of this that, “Historians prefer those [interpretations] which give meaning to a large number of facts about [a particular] subject, and which make their occurrence intelligible” (McCullagh 48). This does not mean, however, that sources should be trusted implicitly. Instead, “historians interpret documents by constructing the best available explanation for whole groups of reports and evidence about the events they study,” thereby maintaining a stronger sense of perspective in their conclusions (McCullagh 61, emphasis added). Any approach to history, then, must be clear, consistent, and evidentiary in focus. Though at times our own biases remain undetected due to our own personal and cultural perspectives, this does not mean they are inevitable or insurmountable hurdles to a reasonable historiography. Instead, our biases may be raised to a level of awareness that allows the historian to recognize and critically assess the flaws in his own methodology in order to more consistently operate within the “logic of historical thought.” For history to be fair then, an historian must maintain “a commitment to standards of rational inquiry which is stronger than one’s commitment to a certain outcome” (McCullagh 55). Quite simply, to think historically begins by simply following the evidence. Works Cited
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