As someone always interested in origins, I reflect on how I’ve ended up the way I have.I mean, who plans to end up a Bibles editor?In the grand scheme of a universe with a sense of humor, it’s an odd job.I grew up reading the Bible, but lots of people do.Most of them end up with ordinary people jobs.Obviously, working on a doctorate in the field is admittedly strange, but then, my interests have always been to get to the truth.The other day I spotted a book on my shelf—the book that arguably started it all.The Lost Books of the Bible and The Forgotten Books of Eden.These days I would recognize this for what it is, a cheap reprint of a book published quite some time ago (1926 and 1927).No “value added content.”Just a reprint.But why did this book have such influence?
It was the first time I’d realized—and growing up in poverty with parents lacking college educations you have to teach yourself a lot—that there were other books about as old as the Bible.The idea fascinated me.Somehow my fundamentalist upbringing had convinced me the Bible was the first book ever written—after all, its author was God and how much more primordial can you get?Now this particular book (Lost Books of the Bible etc.) contains some apocryphal Gospels.Not having a strong grasp on the concept of canon, I wondered why these books had been excluded, or, to use the title conceit, “lost” and “forgotten.”In college I would learn about the canonical process.I’d hear more about it in seminary.There I would learn that even older sources existed.In the pre-internet days, in a rural town without so much as a public library, how would you find out about such things?
Helmer Ringgren’s Israelite Religion captured my imagination in seminary.Even there, however, nobody on the faculty seemed to know much about what had come before the Bible.Harrell Beck told us of ancient Egypt in our classes, but clearly there were further depths to plumb.I learned about James Pritchard’s Ancient Near Eastern Texts, which I bought at the Harvard Divinity School bookstore.Other texts went back beyond Holy Writ.Just how far would have to wait until the University of Edinburgh.I sometimes wonder if I might’ve taken a different turn here or there had anyone been able to answer my young, unformulated questions about the origins of the Bible and other ancient books.Now we just have to ask the internet.
Now, I’m fairly certain Athanasius of Alexandria didn’t have access to CreateSpace, or even an Amazon Prime account.He did write the classic Life of Antony (or Anthony), which I took the opportunity to read recently.I’m not going to go into this life with great detail—Athanasius does that, in as far as he can—but the reading of this book raised the perils not only of demons but of easy self-publication.As usual, there’s a story behind it.Antony was famous for being an early monk who fought demons so effectively that they feared him.His story wasn’t written in English, seeing that the language had not yet evolved.When I tried to find an affordable copy that I could access quickly, I found the edition pictured here.It was fairly obviously a conversion, likely from a PDF (based on my own so doing, in the line of duty).A minimal cover was applied and it was offered cheaply on said Amazon (with free shipping).
Those who work in publishing know how to spot a print-on-demand title.That means the book is printed when it’s ordered, or, printed a few copies at a time so that the overhead of offset printing (how books were traditionally made) can be avoided.Self-publishers can name themselves a press—this one Beloved Publishing—and anything in the public domain can be reproduced and sold to rubes like me.When a scholar, erstwhile or while, approaches a book s/he wants to know certain facts about it.Who was the translator?What was the original language?When was it written?Who was (in this case) Athanasius?Some of this I knew simply by dint of studying ancient texts for most of my adult life and having attended and taught in seminaries.Still, an introduction of some sort would have been appreciated.
This edition appealed to me because the Life on Antony is a short book.Most mainstream publishers bulk books like these up with hefty introductions and notes and charge four times as much for it.They usually put in other works too, since this one weighs in at less than a hundred pages, even with loose typesetting.Sometimes you just want the contents, with minimal introduction.So let it be with Antony.Or so I thought.This edition, which has a few quirks, contained Athanasius in English, which is what I needed.The translator remains unknown.It is print-on-demand.It is also affordable.In case any readers of this blog wonder why I sometimes tend not to engage with the contents of the books I review, I would point out that this is what my own books are for. A guy has to try to make a buck somehow, now and again.(Antony forgive me!)
After reading many popular books, coming to a scholarly tome can be a shock to the system.This is especially the case when said academic volume contains lots of information (not all do, believe me!).David Brakke’s Demons and the Making of the Monk: Spiritual Combat in Early Christianity has been on my reading list for quite some time.One of the perils of being a renegade academic is that you have no university library at hand and I’m not sure I want to reveal this side of myself to the local public librarian yet.In any case, it would be difficult to summarize all that Brakke covers in this insightful treatment.One of the elements that struck this reader, however, is the protean nature of the demons with which the eponymous monks wrestled.
Keep in mind that although demons appear throughout the Bible in various forms there is no single definition of what they are.They appear to be spiritual monsters, in short.Some passages seem to suggest they are fallen angels.Others that they are foreign (primarily pre-Christian) gods.Later ideas add the possibility that they are children of the Watchers, or even, as Brakke explains, evil thoughts.The desert monks didn’t dwell on trying to discern their origin myth—they were out there to purify their souls, not to do academic research.The Hebrew Bible does suggest that demons were creatures of the desert.As monasticism began, appropriately in Egypt, one natural resource found in abundance was wilderness real estate.The mortgage, however, was a constant struggle with demons.
Many of these demons developed into the seven deadly sins.Not surprisingly, men living alone in the desert found themselves the victims of sexual temptation.This led to, in some cases, the demonizing of women.We’d call this classic blaming the victim, but this is theology, not common sense.Anything that stood between a monk and his (sometimes her) direct experience of God could, in some sense, be considered demonic.Brakke presents a description of several of these early desert-dwellers and their warfare with their demons.Much of their characterization of evil would be considered racist and sexist today.Brakke does make the point that during the Roman Empire—the period of the earliest monks—race wasn’t perceived the same way that it is in modern times.Nevertheless, some of this book can make the reader uncomfortable, and not just because of demons.Or, perhaps, that’s what they really are after all.
Perhaps you’ve encountered it too. You’re in a major city. You’re in a hurry. The person in front of you is plodding along, staring at the device in his or her hand and you can’t get around him or her. You’re being held up by technology. I just want to get to the Port Authority before my bus leaves. The late Jonathan Z. Smith called cell phones “an absolute abomination.” I wouldn’t go quite that far—my bus pass, after all, is on my phone, and I’ve been saved from embarrassing conversations on the desk phone in my cubicle by being able to walk away and find a quiet corner in a corridor where I can talk freely—but I do see his point. While technology has had many benefits, in real life it can slow you down.
A news source I recently read said that heavy smart phone users are more prone to psychological problems than, say, those people who live raw in the bush of southern Africa. Phones isolate as well as connect. Instead of asking somebody for directions, you can turn to your monotoned electronic friend and find out. What you lose is the nuance of human communication. On my first interview in New York City—I was still living in Wisconsin at the time—I was disoriented. Which way was Fifth Avenue? I asked a stranger on the street and learned something in the process. New Yorkers weren’t the rude people I’d been told to expect. In fact, I quite frequently see strangers asking others for directions. I’ve never seen someone refuse to help in those circumstances. Although I’m in a hurry if someone asks me “which direction is Penn Station?” I’ll stop and try to help. It’s a people thing.
One of the distorting lenses of a large city is the acceleration of time. Many of us depend on public transit in its many forms, and none of it is terribly reliable. Being late through no fault of your own is part of the territory in a city like New York. It’s become harder to stay on time because of smartphones, however. A few years back I saw it with the Pokémon Go release. Groups of phoners wandering around, slowing the flow of foot traffic on sidewalks that are somehow never wide enough. If only I could communicate with people! How does one do that when they’re riveted to the device in their hand? I wouldn’t say they’re an absolute abomination, but I agree with the dear departed Smith that there are hidden costs to being so connected that we can’t talk to one another. I would say more, but I think my phone’s ringing.
Martin Luther King Jr. was, and is, a symbol of hope. This day, as we’re encouraged to think of progress, we’re mired under leadership that less than a week ago used derogatory language to describe people that aren’t white enough for his liking. Those who, like King, have a dream, are under attack by a government that has pledged its allegiance to the dollar. The dollar in the hand of the white man. From the days of the prophets on the dream of a just and fair society has been the ideal. Instead we find ourselves under the ultimate party of privilege that likes to quote the Bible but which admires Pharaoh far more than Moses. They claim to see the promised land, and that land belongs only to them.
I was too young, as a seminary student, to appreciate I was walking the same halls as Dr. Martin Luther King. Sitting in the same classrooms. It had all been before my time. Because of the Bible I first took an interest in history—eager to learn how we’d come to this place. Ronald Reagan—who now amazingly seems rather benign—was making it difficult for the poor by promoting “trickle down economics.” We all saw how that worked. The modern-day Pharaohs may not wear the impressive headdress of antiquity, but they’re no less fond of owning slaves. King understood that non-violence comes with a cost. It takes time. Unlike the present administration, he understood the difference between right and wrong.
The Pharaoh in the White House makes it difficult to appreciate any progress at all. We have come to see what it means to be a nation that solely, utterly worships Mammon. The voice of the Bible is weak and shouted down by those who see no gain in it for themselves. There were surely those in Egypt who were poor but who appreciated the Pharaoh. At least he was enslaving those from somewhere else, according to Exodus. According to the Good Book it was God himself who opposed this system, but now, according to the evangelicals, God has blessed it. It is the will of God to rob the poor of their health care so that the rich can add even more to their too much. On this Martin Luther King day we struggle to find hope in such a world. The hope is there, but we have to be willing to dare to dream.
Words. They can be slippery sometimes. Take for example the word “revelation.” It can be secular or sacred, and if the latter, general or specific. Many recognize it as the title of the final book of the Bible, and some can’t even get enough of it and make it plural—Revelations. “Revelation” is actually a translation of the Greek word apokalypsis, the “original” title of the book. It has been a source of contention as well as fascination just about since John—whoever he was—put quill to parchment. Elaine Pagels, whose work is always rewarding to read, plays on the singular/plural convention that raises the ire of many a biblical scholar. Revelations: Visions, Prophecy, and Politics in the Book of Revelation is a refreshing change from what I read in college and seminary. No book exists without a history and that of the Apocalypse is colorful indeed. And it revolves around what has been traditionally taught about “revelation.”
The current final book of the New Testament presents itself as a revelation. It isn’t, however, the only book from this time period to do so. Many revelations existed, as did many gospels, in the first couple centuries of the Common Era. Some early leaders of the Christian movement who became inordinately influential decided that John’s revelation would be okay to keep but the rest should be destroyed. And they very nearly were. Some were recovered by the fortuitous discovery of the Nag Hammadi library in Egypt. These texts have preserved some of the other gospels and revelations that rivaled those of the current canon. It is in her close observations about their continuities and the motivations behind the politics of early Christians that Pagels sheds fascinating light on how Revelation became a tool of manipulation in a power struggle, primarily for centralized religious control of Egypt. Looking at headlines even now we know that it never really worked.
Revelation very nearly didn’t make the canonical cut. Many church leaders of the fourth century believed it spurious and not entirely helpful. It has, however, arguably become the most influential book of the Bible. Evangelicalism is hard to imagine without some kind of end times dispensational viewpoint that owes its existence to John of Patmos. Reformers, while not caring for the book, saw Revelation’s usefulness as a cudgel to strike at Rome. The papacy likewise saw it as a vivid threat against reformers. Those who took sola scriptura a little too literally used Revelation as the focal point of their hope and practice. Today we’re left with Left Behind and the Rapture and the Antichrist, whether they occur in Revelation or not. (They don’t, but who’s counting?) Pagels will give anyone plenty to think about here, and she’ll do it in surprisingly few words.
Göbekli Tepe, apart from being impossible to pronounce correctly, is a site of embarrassment to historians. First of all, this archaeological site in Turkey is too old. Abandoned around 9000 BCE—some 5000 years before the Sumerians show up with their writing—Göbekli Tepe had already gone through several phases of elaborate building and willful destruction. A large “temple” has been unearthed there with elaborately carved plinths that suggest a mythology at which we can only guess. Conventional wisdom states that the state came first, then organized religion. Göbekli Tepe suggest that it was the other way around—religion came first. We have no writing to go by here, however, just towering monoliths that make us scratch our heads in wonder. We are the apes.
Hyakutake, 1996. My first comet.
A friend pointed me to an article in New Scientist that suggests one of the Göbekli Tepe “carvings show comet hit Earth and triggered mini ice age.” That’s a lot of ice. And eisegesis. Part of the problem here is that old scientists tend to sweep anomalous evidence off the table. It’s an admitted part of the empirical method. If a single anomaly stands against a host of conventionally expected results, the anomaly goes into the bin as an outlier. Göbekli Tepe, as real as it is, is an anomaly. Reputable books on it written in English by archaeologists and historians do not exist. Embarrassed turning away and staring at shoes ensues. The site is just too old, too sophisticated, and too far outside convention to be dealt with rationally. You can read a lot into an isolated carving, especially when accurate information is lacking.
To give you some perspective: the great pyramids of Egypt date from the Old Kingdom of Egypt, after 3000 BCE (remember, we’re counting backwards here). Stonehenge’s main phase (the famous blue stones) was a couple of centuries later than the Great Pyramid of Khufu (Cheops). Göbekli Tepe had closed up shop some 6000 years prior. By comparison, more time had passed between Göbekli Tepe and the Great Pyramid than between the Great Pyramid and us. We, with the internet in our pockets and humans walking on the moon, preparing to go to Mars, are only less than 5000 years from jolly old Khufu. Göbekli Tepe, with its inscrutable carvings, shouldn’t be there. And yet it is. Standard procedure suggests it be ignored. So far, conventional historians have done just that. And in my opinion that’s worse than an ice age brought on by comets written on a stone that nobody can read.