I've been reading The Christianization Of The Roman Empire by Ramsey McMullen, which is a pretty well researched work. Although I've been going at a pretty slow pace, I think I've got a better handle on the subject, enough to summarize - poor though my skills may be - how the early Christian movement spread so quickly.
I'm not sure exactly where to begin, but I want to make something clear from the start. I'm going to try to cover the period from Christ's death, up until the point where Constantine takes the throne (306). It's an important distinction, because during and after the reign of Constantine, the Christians had a powerful patron in the Imperial house - except for the brief reign of Julian the Apostate, who attempted to revive the Greco-Roman pagan traditions - and as such, the incentives for an individual to convert were very persuasive.
When Constantine became Emperor, Christians amounted to about 1/10th of the population of the Roman world. By the end of the 4th century, they amounted to at least 1/2 of the population. By that point, the Church basically controlled the state and set about converting or killing the remaining pagans, and destroying every pagan temple still in existance. But that's not really what we're concerned with, is it? We want to know about the start, and how it took root in urban centers around the Mediterranean.
Miracles
Matt and I were debating about the role of moral examples in the spread of Christianity, but I've come to find that the moral question is largely irrelevant. What is relevant to the apostolic era and beyond were the demonstrations of miracles to crowds of onlookers. Christian evangelists would frequently exorcise demons from people, force pagan alters to break or disappear through the power of prayer, and even (at least in one case) cause an earthquake to shake a hostile pagan city.
Of course, I don't believe in miracles. But whether one believes or not isn't important from a historical perspective, anyway. People of the time, before and after Christ, believed in miracles, and indeed saw them fairly often. It would be outside the norm for someone of the time not to believe in miracles. Before John gloats, I should point out however that other cults, like Mithraism and the cult of Sol Invictus also demonstrated similar miracles, and it was a well known way of gaining converts.
Exclusivity
The most important thing to understand about the pagan world is how inclusive it was. Polytheism in the western world was very inclusive, and indeed tolerant of other forms of faith. Romans and Greeks interpreted the Gods of outsiders by their own names, and allowed their worship to continue. Romans only asked that an alter to Rome (or the current emperor) be built in whatever foreign city they were occupying, and that while the natives continued to kill oxes for Odin, they might occasionally burn a little incense for Rome, and pray for the health of the Emperor.
Naturally that was turned on it's head by Christianity. Christianity was exclusive, absolute and unambiguous. It wasn't enough to simply add Christ to the list of deities being worshipped. Conversion meant rejection of all other forms of divinity. A convert would not necessarily reject the existence of other Gods, but they would consider pagan Gods to be daemones, or minor demons, capable of miracles, but inherently corrupt and not worthy of worship.
This naturally had the effect of irritating the rest of the pagan world, who as a result saw Christians as anti-social and subversive to society. It also made the work of evangelizing Christ that much more dangerous. But most importantly, it gave a greater weight to the demonstration of miracles. In the mind of one who has just witnessed a miracle, not only was the Christian God real and powerful, but he demands obedience and exclusive worship. To ignore that was to invite damnation, and hellfire and brimstone were indeed thoroughly preached at the time. So, this added a sense of urgency and finality to the question.
Support/Incentives
Though the movement was very small, isolated (to urban areas), and limited in methods of outreach and advertisement, there were some incentives to being a part of a Christian community. Christians were typically of the lower, uneducated rungs of society (Pagan writer Celsus describes, in very unflattering words, the common practice of Christians recruiting Children and ignorant housewives in secretive conversations while adult males weren't looking) and often these were craftsmen or workers of a common trade. Often they would meet for common prayer and to receive the Eucharist in the backroom of a common workshop or place of business.
Although small, they would attempt to support each other when there was a need, and when possible would even open charitable endeavors for the general public. These would take the form of providing medical care for those in need, or food for the poor. There is a missionary aspect to these efforts, of course. It's not really all that different from what Churches to today to help the poor. Being a part of a "safety net" community like this was probably a draw for some. I doubt it alone was enough of a draw to make someone leave Paganism for Christianity, another reason in addition would be necessary (pressure from converted family members, perhaps, or some of the other motivations listed above).
I've written a lot, but definately not enough to do the topic justice. If you are still interested, I recommend reading the book.
Showing posts with label Christianity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christianity. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
The Myth of Early Christian Restorationalism
When it comes to historical figures, my rule of thumb is "the more you know, the harder they are to love". Everything human, both individual and institution is flawed. It's attractive to believe that these flaws are limited to the superficial, but they're not. Rot at the core spreads outwards, and we're all a little rotten, inside and out. Knowledge casts a complexity on something, and makes it difficult to lump it into absolutes.
I know some folks who have had a certain fixation on early Christianity. When I say early Christianity, I mean like apostolic. Only the first 50 years or so. Their affection for early Christianity is matched by their distrust and contempt for later, more orthodox flavors of Christianity (and beyond). Until lately, I've been sympathetic to this viewpoint. For one, I too have deep contempt for the history of orthodox and catholic traditions in east and west. Christianity of the 4th and 5th centuries took a deep, penetrating dive into some Extreme Nastiness which I don't think it ever recovered from. I'm also sympathetic to those who desire a less rigid and organized form of faith that goes "back to basics" as it were.
Lately, however, I've identified the psychological pull that makes apostolic Christianity so appealing: we know next to nothing about it. The Christianity of Peter and Paul was still gestating, it wasn't even in it's infancy yet. It was a cult in the true sense of the word, it really had no orthodoxy. What a Christian community looked like from city to city was very different. The nature of Christ himself, his relationship with God, how to properly worship aformentioned God were all still very much undecided. If you had to classify it at all, it would be as a sect of Judaism (leaving out Paul's flock of course).
And that's my point. To a large degree, it's a blank slate on which the modern Christian is free to project his own judgements. It's the legend of Camelot, a kernel of historical truth with modern notions and sensibilities appended. What do we really know about Peter? He lived. He had a following. He wrote some letters. He was martyred. But was he a dick? Was he condescending to people who took his dictation? Did he flirt with girls in his congregation? Dunno. Dunno because he wasn't prominent enough among his contemporaries to have his foibles recorded for posterity.
On the other hand I know that Caesar was vain and sensitive about his baldness. I know that Marc Antony has a HUGE asshole who told lowbrow jokes, gambled millions of dollars in debt, and told his debtors to go screw themselves. I know that the emperor Tiberius kept a cadre of pre-pubescent boys (his "minnows") trained to follow him while he swam and nibble at his scrotum. And so, it's appropriate that we don't hold much reverence for Tiberius. But the reverence and special place that some hold for the early Christian movement, that has not been earned. It's only due to a lack of detail that we feel comfortable enshrining it. Perhaps if Peter and Paul were running the whole show, like Ambrose and Augustine were, history would shine a little light on their unapproachable holiness, and we'd be left with a more complex view of Christianity, that's doesn't file away so neatly and easily.
I know some folks who have had a certain fixation on early Christianity. When I say early Christianity, I mean like apostolic. Only the first 50 years or so. Their affection for early Christianity is matched by their distrust and contempt for later, more orthodox flavors of Christianity (and beyond). Until lately, I've been sympathetic to this viewpoint. For one, I too have deep contempt for the history of orthodox and catholic traditions in east and west. Christianity of the 4th and 5th centuries took a deep, penetrating dive into some Extreme Nastiness which I don't think it ever recovered from. I'm also sympathetic to those who desire a less rigid and organized form of faith that goes "back to basics" as it were.
Lately, however, I've identified the psychological pull that makes apostolic Christianity so appealing: we know next to nothing about it. The Christianity of Peter and Paul was still gestating, it wasn't even in it's infancy yet. It was a cult in the true sense of the word, it really had no orthodoxy. What a Christian community looked like from city to city was very different. The nature of Christ himself, his relationship with God, how to properly worship aformentioned God were all still very much undecided. If you had to classify it at all, it would be as a sect of Judaism (leaving out Paul's flock of course).
And that's my point. To a large degree, it's a blank slate on which the modern Christian is free to project his own judgements. It's the legend of Camelot, a kernel of historical truth with modern notions and sensibilities appended. What do we really know about Peter? He lived. He had a following. He wrote some letters. He was martyred. But was he a dick? Was he condescending to people who took his dictation? Did he flirt with girls in his congregation? Dunno. Dunno because he wasn't prominent enough among his contemporaries to have his foibles recorded for posterity.
On the other hand I know that Caesar was vain and sensitive about his baldness. I know that Marc Antony has a HUGE asshole who told lowbrow jokes, gambled millions of dollars in debt, and told his debtors to go screw themselves. I know that the emperor Tiberius kept a cadre of pre-pubescent boys (his "minnows") trained to follow him while he swam and nibble at his scrotum. And so, it's appropriate that we don't hold much reverence for Tiberius. But the reverence and special place that some hold for the early Christian movement, that has not been earned. It's only due to a lack of detail that we feel comfortable enshrining it. Perhaps if Peter and Paul were running the whole show, like Ambrose and Augustine were, history would shine a little light on their unapproachable holiness, and we'd be left with a more complex view of Christianity, that's doesn't file away so neatly and easily.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
On Prayer
To continue the dominant theme of the last few weeks - as well as my enjoyable role as devil's advocate - I'd like to write about prayer.
What I don't want to write about is the traditional atheist line about prayer being pointless or stupid. That's very played out, and not convincing to anyone but other atheists. Besides, it's so boring. No, sir. I'm going to argue that prayer is - in theory and in practice - immoral. Immoral for anyone who takes the concept of God seriously (as I do).
When I say God, I'm really referring to the modern version of the God of Abraham. A transcendent God. A God of infinite wisdom, power, and goodness. Not a flawed superhuman like Zeus. It's important to make that distinction, because really, what's the harm in petitioning a god like Zeus? Something like Zeus isn't worthy of worship, he's just the supernatural equivalent of a neighborhood bully. Stronger than the other kids, but not the equal of an adult. But Jehovah, on the other hand. There's a deity worth worshipping. He's not just stronger than the others, he is strength incarnate. Ditto for wisdom and benevolence.
Take a moment to try to imagine such a God. Maybe you're picturing the old man with the long beard. Probably not. Maybe you're picturing Christ. Maybe you're picturing a kind of fog that covers the whole universe. I tend to picture a single point of light in the center of the universe, which everything is bound to.
Whatever you happen to be picturing, it's an insult to the true nature of God. God is obviously not insulted, He is incapable of being harmed by you, or your thoughts. But you have disgraced yourself by thinking for even a moment that you can hold any piece of His Grace in your crude grey matter. Whatever you imagined, it was a product of you're own, limited self. God is limitless, and the attempt was a failure at a fundamental level.
That is the kind of shame you should be feeling when you try to imagine God. Now think of how much greater that shame should be when you try to petition God.
When a person says:
"I know you have the power to do whatever is best, which you exercise...
And I know your divine plan is one of infinite grace...
And I know that you only want what is best for us...
And I know that I am incapable of understanding the entirety of you and your will...
And I know that do not perfectly understand how you manifest the will on this Earth, etc, etc....
But you see, my mother is very ill. Could you please alter your arrangements to make my life temporarily more comfortable, convenient and proper, in my own flawed perception, even though I don't even deserve this audience in the first place because of my overwhelming sin.."
Shouldn't they feel shame? At least a little? And doesn't that shame indicate something about the rightness or wrongness about their thoughts and actions?
Would it not be better for a person of faith to simply say "I do not understand this world, but I trust in your will and I will endure what I must"?
At some time in my life, I put this question forward to a believer. The person responded by saying that the prayer itself was of little consequence to God, but it was a demonstration of the person's willingness to ask God for help. A kind of theatrical exercise, that puts a man's modesty and lack of pride on display. I accepted this at face value. But not long after, I found this explanation inadequate. You exercise modesty by pretending to exert some kind of control or manipulation over the divine, by whining and flattering the divine with excessive praise? So in other words, you display one quality, while in actuality displaying it's opposite.
Here is my proposal. The theory of God has outgrown the practice of prayer. Prayer was something which made perfect sense when a "god" was just some local asshole who could destroy your crops if you didn't burn the incense properly. Now our concept of God is different, but we continue the old practice because it makes us feel good. But this is a false joy. It does not match well with the required humility of Christianity. It contradicts and diminishes the concept of God in that faith. It confuses the weak minded. It should be dropped.
What I don't want to write about is the traditional atheist line about prayer being pointless or stupid. That's very played out, and not convincing to anyone but other atheists. Besides, it's so boring. No, sir. I'm going to argue that prayer is - in theory and in practice - immoral. Immoral for anyone who takes the concept of God seriously (as I do).
When I say God, I'm really referring to the modern version of the God of Abraham. A transcendent God. A God of infinite wisdom, power, and goodness. Not a flawed superhuman like Zeus. It's important to make that distinction, because really, what's the harm in petitioning a god like Zeus? Something like Zeus isn't worthy of worship, he's just the supernatural equivalent of a neighborhood bully. Stronger than the other kids, but not the equal of an adult. But Jehovah, on the other hand. There's a deity worth worshipping. He's not just stronger than the others, he is strength incarnate. Ditto for wisdom and benevolence.
Take a moment to try to imagine such a God. Maybe you're picturing the old man with the long beard. Probably not. Maybe you're picturing Christ. Maybe you're picturing a kind of fog that covers the whole universe. I tend to picture a single point of light in the center of the universe, which everything is bound to.
Whatever you happen to be picturing, it's an insult to the true nature of God. God is obviously not insulted, He is incapable of being harmed by you, or your thoughts. But you have disgraced yourself by thinking for even a moment that you can hold any piece of His Grace in your crude grey matter. Whatever you imagined, it was a product of you're own, limited self. God is limitless, and the attempt was a failure at a fundamental level.
That is the kind of shame you should be feeling when you try to imagine God. Now think of how much greater that shame should be when you try to petition God.
When a person says:
"I know you have the power to do whatever is best, which you exercise...
And I know your divine plan is one of infinite grace...
And I know that you only want what is best for us...
And I know that I am incapable of understanding the entirety of you and your will...
And I know that do not perfectly understand how you manifest the will on this Earth, etc, etc....
But you see, my mother is very ill. Could you please alter your arrangements to make my life temporarily more comfortable, convenient and proper, in my own flawed perception, even though I don't even deserve this audience in the first place because of my overwhelming sin.."
Shouldn't they feel shame? At least a little? And doesn't that shame indicate something about the rightness or wrongness about their thoughts and actions?
Would it not be better for a person of faith to simply say "I do not understand this world, but I trust in your will and I will endure what I must"?
At some time in my life, I put this question forward to a believer. The person responded by saying that the prayer itself was of little consequence to God, but it was a demonstration of the person's willingness to ask God for help. A kind of theatrical exercise, that puts a man's modesty and lack of pride on display. I accepted this at face value. But not long after, I found this explanation inadequate. You exercise modesty by pretending to exert some kind of control or manipulation over the divine, by whining and flattering the divine with excessive praise? So in other words, you display one quality, while in actuality displaying it's opposite.
Here is my proposal. The theory of God has outgrown the practice of prayer. Prayer was something which made perfect sense when a "god" was just some local asshole who could destroy your crops if you didn't burn the incense properly. Now our concept of God is different, but we continue the old practice because it makes us feel good. But this is a false joy. It does not match well with the required humility of Christianity. It contradicts and diminishes the concept of God in that faith. It confuses the weak minded. It should be dropped.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Breaking My Friend, John
I want to make it clear why I must break one of my most beloved friends, John Stegeman. Since he's - in all likelihood - the only person reading this, I won't be wasting anyone's time, and he's sure to misinterpret my motives. What I do is not for his own good; I don't believe he will be happier as one of the godless. It's not for the betterment of society, since it will probably not make him a more productive person. And it's certainly not for the cause of Justice or Righteousness or some such thing. It's for the cause of aesthetics. When the light hits my retinas and I see him faithless, things will be a little more orderly and neat. Something that was skewed for so long will have been squared neatly with the rest, and the overall scene will be much more pleasant because of it.
I am a man of reason. I'm not stating that because I'm proud of it. I don't think that reason necessarily makes a person happier, stronger or more proper. It's just a statement of fact. I've tried and failed to have faith. It's not in me to suspend disbelief. For me, I can only have one vehicle for understanding the world, and that's reason. I've stopped resisting this and now embrace it.
My friend Alex is the opposite of myself. To quote Orwell for the second time today, Alex is a Newthinker. If Alex is alone in a room, and he believes that he is floating, then he is floating. If something is required to be true, Alex makes it true through belief. If that same thing is suddenly required to be false, it is instantly false through Alex's belief. If something is required to be both absolutely true and false in the same instant, then it is. Alex has the "true faith" in a way that even the most devoted mystics and holy men could have never imaged, or understood, for that matter. Alex's faith is beautiful because of it's total purity, simplicity and raw will.
So, if I'm an Oldthinker, and Alex is a Newthinker then that makes my friend John the protagonist. Winston Smith, the everyman that most will relate to; that's John. He is a reasonable man with a set of beliefs. He's usually very committed to those beliefs, although it's certainly true that he frequently transgresses. He'll be quick to take the blame for his own flaws and mistakes, though. He would never question the validity or value of his Church and Doctrine. At the same time, he would never give up reason for the sake of belief. You won't see him bombing an abortion clinic or any such thing. He'll continue paying his taxes and going to work.
John has two vehicles for understanding the world. He's got a foot on each vehicle, and as the world proceeds, and each vehicle veers together, then apart (sometimes far apart), John's legs splay, his body contorts, and appendages dislocate. It's quite an effort that he pulls off remarkably well. But it's unfortunately true that someday (maybe decades from now) the world is going to break him. He's going to lose one of the vehicles, and he's going to be left with only reason. How can I be so sure that he won't give up reason for the sake of belief? Because John could never be Alex. He's simply not made of the right stuff (perhaps noone is). He can't have that "true faith", and he's also not the sort to pull the release valve and give in to madness. That leaves him with firmly in the domain of reason, and the faithless.
I will not wait for that to happen. It's an assault on taste to allow this half & half act to continue any longer than it has to. The nauseating mix of dogma and a prioi reason that churns out of his spaghetti factory. Repulsive. In the end, he'll end up with one of us, and I know it has to be me. "Observe this prize person who denies he's for hire!". We all have our limits and our price. In the end, there's a level of pain that will buy him. So, what I do is a kindness, not a cruelty. Why wait until he's a useless old husk? Let's get this over with now. I think I'm going to have to get out of my comfort zone if I'm going to pull this off. I'm game for the challenge, though.
I am a man of reason. I'm not stating that because I'm proud of it. I don't think that reason necessarily makes a person happier, stronger or more proper. It's just a statement of fact. I've tried and failed to have faith. It's not in me to suspend disbelief. For me, I can only have one vehicle for understanding the world, and that's reason. I've stopped resisting this and now embrace it.
My friend Alex is the opposite of myself. To quote Orwell for the second time today, Alex is a Newthinker. If Alex is alone in a room, and he believes that he is floating, then he is floating. If something is required to be true, Alex makes it true through belief. If that same thing is suddenly required to be false, it is instantly false through Alex's belief. If something is required to be both absolutely true and false in the same instant, then it is. Alex has the "true faith" in a way that even the most devoted mystics and holy men could have never imaged, or understood, for that matter. Alex's faith is beautiful because of it's total purity, simplicity and raw will.
So, if I'm an Oldthinker, and Alex is a Newthinker then that makes my friend John the protagonist. Winston Smith, the everyman that most will relate to; that's John. He is a reasonable man with a set of beliefs. He's usually very committed to those beliefs, although it's certainly true that he frequently transgresses. He'll be quick to take the blame for his own flaws and mistakes, though. He would never question the validity or value of his Church and Doctrine. At the same time, he would never give up reason for the sake of belief. You won't see him bombing an abortion clinic or any such thing. He'll continue paying his taxes and going to work.
John has two vehicles for understanding the world. He's got a foot on each vehicle, and as the world proceeds, and each vehicle veers together, then apart (sometimes far apart), John's legs splay, his body contorts, and appendages dislocate. It's quite an effort that he pulls off remarkably well. But it's unfortunately true that someday (maybe decades from now) the world is going to break him. He's going to lose one of the vehicles, and he's going to be left with only reason. How can I be so sure that he won't give up reason for the sake of belief? Because John could never be Alex. He's simply not made of the right stuff (perhaps noone is). He can't have that "true faith", and he's also not the sort to pull the release valve and give in to madness. That leaves him with firmly in the domain of reason, and the faithless.
I will not wait for that to happen. It's an assault on taste to allow this half & half act to continue any longer than it has to. The nauseating mix of dogma and a prioi reason that churns out of his spaghetti factory. Repulsive. In the end, he'll end up with one of us, and I know it has to be me. "Observe this prize person who denies he's for hire!". We all have our limits and our price. In the end, there's a level of pain that will buy him. So, what I do is a kindness, not a cruelty. Why wait until he's a useless old husk? Let's get this over with now. I think I'm going to have to get out of my comfort zone if I'm going to pull this off. I'm game for the challenge, though.
Friday, January 21, 2011
On Evangelism
My good friend John Stegeman posted a blog about facebook evangelists that I want to elaborate on.
John is against the bible-beating, churchy evangelists since they usually don't succeed in converting people, and they end up alienating people in general. His point is that it's better to maintain friendships by using a light touch, and offering conversion only when your friend initiates the conversation.
My point was that, if you have a duty to convert, then shouldn't you go absolutely balls out on it? Isn't anything less a copout, since your putting a secular relationship before your duty to God? And doesn't that say something about Christianity in general, and how it's adherents are able to strike a happy balance while living in a less than totally Christian environment?
I want to elaborate on that last point a little more. In my opinion, the vast majority of Christians are quite reasonable and well integrated individuals, who really have no interest in getting "all up in my business". However, I think the reason why they're well rounded and balanced about spiritual and personal matters is because they're choosy about which doctrines they want to put into practice, and rigidly they do so.
But isn't that a serious theological problem? If you can't obey Christ's teachings literally, wholely and without reservation in every aspect of your life without ending up as a nutty evangelical, doesn't that indicate a flaw in the whole doctrine/ethos/what-have-you?
Kookie analogy
It's like having a recipe for cake, with some instructions that are clearly wrong (perhaps some elements of cookie-making have made their way into the recipe). If you follow them word for word, you'll end up with a horrible culinary chimera, a mix of cake and cookie that's in no way satisfying. But if you are using your own best judgment (say 1 egg instead of 3) to fix the recipe, how do you know what the end product is supposed to look like? Can it even properly be called a recipe?
John is against the bible-beating, churchy evangelists since they usually don't succeed in converting people, and they end up alienating people in general. His point is that it's better to maintain friendships by using a light touch, and offering conversion only when your friend initiates the conversation.
My point was that, if you have a duty to convert, then shouldn't you go absolutely balls out on it? Isn't anything less a copout, since your putting a secular relationship before your duty to God? And doesn't that say something about Christianity in general, and how it's adherents are able to strike a happy balance while living in a less than totally Christian environment?
I want to elaborate on that last point a little more. In my opinion, the vast majority of Christians are quite reasonable and well integrated individuals, who really have no interest in getting "all up in my business". However, I think the reason why they're well rounded and balanced about spiritual and personal matters is because they're choosy about which doctrines they want to put into practice, and rigidly they do so.
But isn't that a serious theological problem? If you can't obey Christ's teachings literally, wholely and without reservation in every aspect of your life without ending up as a nutty evangelical, doesn't that indicate a flaw in the whole doctrine/ethos/what-have-you?
Kookie analogy
It's like having a recipe for cake, with some instructions that are clearly wrong (perhaps some elements of cookie-making have made their way into the recipe). If you follow them word for word, you'll end up with a horrible culinary chimera, a mix of cake and cookie that's in no way satisfying. But if you are using your own best judgment (say 1 egg instead of 3) to fix the recipe, how do you know what the end product is supposed to look like? Can it even properly be called a recipe?
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