I've done a lot of research in the past few years of the origins of the Bible and Christianity and things. A handful of Teaching Company lecture series, some Wikipedia, the Book of Enoch, assorted other things. (I blame Neal Stephenson's Snow Crash for starting this, with all of its ancient Mesopotamian mythos.)
Originally, I started out this morning by going over some Wiki entries on labyrinths and yew trees that I'd looked at yesterday, thinking those would be the topics of conversation. Buuuut that didn't really last, Mark went a little more into his studies than I'd planned. (This happens eeeevery time he talks. Convenient character flaw.) I did some double-checking before I wrote these passages out; a lot of this information lives in fragmented form in my head. I know the flood story variant is in Gilgamesh, but it had slipped my mind that even that description was borrowed from an earlier source. I knew the opening of Genesis paralleled the Enûma Eliš, but, having learned this from an audio lecture, I had NO frickin' clue how to spell it. (Ay-noo-mah AY-leesh.) So, this chapter brought to you by Wikipedia, Professor Amy-Jill Levine's course on the Old Testament, my mom who gave me a copy of Gilgamesh (and Star Trek TNG for causing this), aaand a little more Wikipedia.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
6 - Luce, continued
“Labyrinths were originally designed in pagan rituals to trap evil spirits, or to outline the paths of their heathen dances... and yet, the church sublimated those meanings, and claimed they showed only a path to God, the single entrance of birth leading to the final resting place of God in the center of all.” Father Douglas shakes his head sadly, a smile of old sorrow on his young lips. “I have found myself often wishing of late that I had been born to an earlier time. I feel I should have been a monk in some far-flung monastery, my whole life spent in books and silent contemplation. I find far more solace in these, than in providing weakly-founded advice to a flock I can barely relate to.”
The man has handed me the key to his soul, within moments of introduction. He shall be no challenge at all, then! Play, then, in place of work.
“Those who attend church – particularly those wealthy patrons whom churches are always so eager to cultivate – want only comfort, not advice,” I reply soothingly. “They go only to hear repeated those tropes they learnt in childhood, and still parrot to any who slight them. You need hardly worry yourself about providing fresh moral insight.”
“And yet fresh insight is what I should most like to find, if only it is to be found... I have grown weary – yes, weary, at such an age!” He laughs, but there is little mirth in it. “Weary of all the old rules, handed down over time, distorted with every generation of transmission. I should like best to find the underlying truths, upon which all of this rests. Simplicity is – I suspect – to be found in the details, obscured within variances of translation, lost in the fading of ink from a transcribed page.”
I hardly need prompt the man, he leads himself already into areas that many might well call blasphemous. It is little wonder that he finds no difficulty with Claude's Sodomite painting. “...such as?”
“Oh, where to begin! Here, I shall begin with the very beginning. The Old Testament, that most sacred and trusted of texts, provides two different accounts of Creation, in the very first chapters of Genesis. Even as a child, the telling of the seven days of Creation, and the story of Adam and Eve, felt quite disparate to my ears – it is only lately that I have found good reason for this. The Pentateuch could hardly have been written entirely by Moses, and it seems most likely to many scholars that it was compiled from four different written accounts. Even as the epistles of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John have their contradictions, so too do the earlier books. The first chapter of Genesis – those seven rigid days of Creation – use only one of the several Hebrew words for God: Elohim. Which, as an aside, translates only as 'gods', it was the generic term for any heavenly being, but that is another debate in itself. The narrative of Adam and Eve in Eden uses only the Tetragrammaton – which we often pronounce as Yahweh, though the Jews prefer not to pronounce it aloud at all. The styles of the stories are of course quite different, and there are strange parallels to other myths, which surrounded the world of the early Israelites...”
The priest meets my eyes, a smile at the corner of his lips. “I could continue on such a path for decades, you must forgive my deluge of words. It is rare that I have an ear in which to pour all the arcane results of my endless studies.”
I smile broadly, and rest an arm across his shoulders, leading him not toward the exit, but farther into the labyrinth, for now. “Not at all! I am eager to hear more of this – it is long since I have heard a differing view on the old Torah, and I find it quite interesting. Church tradition has clung so desperately to its one interpretation for centuries now, that it forgets it is only one interpretation, which refuses to admit anything but direct divine dictation.”
He returns a warm smile, nodding his agreement. “I don't know whether you have heard of this, but several years ago a refined scholar made a presentation which he called 'The Chaldean Account of Genesis'? Ancient tablets had been found in Mesopotamia, which related a story in striking parallel to that of the flood in Genesis. Though the names of the gods and persons were different, the story itself was much the same, and further archaeological findings have led to similar consternation among the more legalistic clergy. There is another text of the Chaldeans, who kept the Israelites in captivity for so long, titled the Enûma Eliš, which also provides the story of a creation. When placed side by side, the Chaldean and Israelite stories are in perfect contrast to each other – the Chaldeans say there was separation of wind and water, the Israelites say the same, the parallels running line by line. The Chaldeans describe sacred locations, while the Israelites ignore location – they have, at this point in time, been physically removed from their homeland – and describe instead sacred hours of time. It seems to me that there can be no other answer, but that one was written in direct response to the other.”
Though I seem to the man to be nodding in slow comprehension, it is instead in concordant memories. He is not, of course, entirely solid on the facts... but nor, it seems, am I, after such passage of time. The general ideas of his explanation, however, feel familiar to the ancient memories which have been so long untouched in my mind.
“The name of Adam has the same origins as Adapa, who is the hero in another myth of that time and place, who unknowingly refused the gift of immortality. In the Afra-hasis, mankind is created by gods who mixed together clay with the blood and flesh of the dead god of wisdom – while our Adam was created of dust mixed with the breath of God, which infused spirit and soon wisdom. All of it tangles together, covered in the dust of ancient days... Yet these other stories, the heathen ones, are written on tablets which are far older than the oldest representations of our Bible. Which stories inspired which? Or are they all corruptions from a single source, and no one story is any nearer the truth than the others? We all, it seems, came first from Eden, but what is the truth of the story in that long-lost paradise?” He ends with a long, slow breath, stretching his arms and looking up into the freshly-starred sky. “Only the stars have continued, from that day to this...” he muses quietly, staring up into their shining atmosphere.
Only the stars... which, though they fall, yet continue on.
We walk in silence for some long moments, and even I have lost myself in this labyrinth for a time, my thoughts stretching out through the thousand corners and expanses, doubling back on themselves into things achingly familiar, yet only half-remembered...
And, oddly, we find ourselves at the exit. I had thought of no such thing, though perhaps my muscles led us here without conscious direction, from habit alone. I feel almost shaken by the sudden return to the everyday world, as though I had been in some other place entirely, rather than simply a corner of my gardens.
“Ah! I should never have found a way out alone, for I had scarcely paid any heed as I walked. I do thank you, Master Luce.”
I nod, and smile politely, though I am aware that my gaze is unable to focus quite correctly. “Of course... it is no trouble. Do feel free to avail yourself of my labyrinth whenever it would be conducive to your meditations – I should be happy to hear more of them.” Happy? It is far from the right word, but it is the correct one to use in such conversation. My motions and speech are all from rote, while my thoughts are far away.
“I greatly appreciate the privilege.”
Most visitors, I would now invite inside, for more luxurious diversions. But while his mind has strayed far from the church's regulation, I do not think his body is yet entirely willing. It can wait. “Allow me to offer you a carriage home? It is quite late, and I could not think of you walking. I only regret that I might not accompany you, but I have other guests whom I have neglected, such pleasure did I have in your company.”
He makes a slight bow, as do I, and takes my hand warmly. “I am much obliged to your generosity. I look forward to meeting with you again.”
As I nod in agreement, a servant appears to lead Father Douglas to the stables, where a carriage is always held in readiness. We finish our farewells, and as he disappears into the dark night, I turn back toward my labyrinth. It is formed of yew trees, which are often planted near cemeteries, and symbolize sorrow and grief. In some places, yew is thought to serve as guides for the dead spirits returning to graves on All Saint's Day, and in others, it is a symbol of long life and eternity. The ancients made use of its poisonous berries to commit honorable suicides rather than surrender. Chapels have been carved within the enormous trunks of yews perhaps a thousand years old... Those here are of a different species, of course, and yet... and yet this image of death, and the image of bypassing death with such impossibly long life, and death chosen rather than dictated... all bound in the infinite coils of a path unto God?
At this, I laugh, my face lit only by those very distant stars which rise above my thoughts. I turn toward the house, and my many neglected guests. I shall have some interesting epigrams to beguile them with, this night.
The man has handed me the key to his soul, within moments of introduction. He shall be no challenge at all, then! Play, then, in place of work.
“Those who attend church – particularly those wealthy patrons whom churches are always so eager to cultivate – want only comfort, not advice,” I reply soothingly. “They go only to hear repeated those tropes they learnt in childhood, and still parrot to any who slight them. You need hardly worry yourself about providing fresh moral insight.”
“And yet fresh insight is what I should most like to find, if only it is to be found... I have grown weary – yes, weary, at such an age!” He laughs, but there is little mirth in it. “Weary of all the old rules, handed down over time, distorted with every generation of transmission. I should like best to find the underlying truths, upon which all of this rests. Simplicity is – I suspect – to be found in the details, obscured within variances of translation, lost in the fading of ink from a transcribed page.”
I hardly need prompt the man, he leads himself already into areas that many might well call blasphemous. It is little wonder that he finds no difficulty with Claude's Sodomite painting. “...such as?”
“Oh, where to begin! Here, I shall begin with the very beginning. The Old Testament, that most sacred and trusted of texts, provides two different accounts of Creation, in the very first chapters of Genesis. Even as a child, the telling of the seven days of Creation, and the story of Adam and Eve, felt quite disparate to my ears – it is only lately that I have found good reason for this. The Pentateuch could hardly have been written entirely by Moses, and it seems most likely to many scholars that it was compiled from four different written accounts. Even as the epistles of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John have their contradictions, so too do the earlier books. The first chapter of Genesis – those seven rigid days of Creation – use only one of the several Hebrew words for God: Elohim. Which, as an aside, translates only as 'gods', it was the generic term for any heavenly being, but that is another debate in itself. The narrative of Adam and Eve in Eden uses only the Tetragrammaton – which we often pronounce as Yahweh, though the Jews prefer not to pronounce it aloud at all. The styles of the stories are of course quite different, and there are strange parallels to other myths, which surrounded the world of the early Israelites...”
The priest meets my eyes, a smile at the corner of his lips. “I could continue on such a path for decades, you must forgive my deluge of words. It is rare that I have an ear in which to pour all the arcane results of my endless studies.”
I smile broadly, and rest an arm across his shoulders, leading him not toward the exit, but farther into the labyrinth, for now. “Not at all! I am eager to hear more of this – it is long since I have heard a differing view on the old Torah, and I find it quite interesting. Church tradition has clung so desperately to its one interpretation for centuries now, that it forgets it is only one interpretation, which refuses to admit anything but direct divine dictation.”
He returns a warm smile, nodding his agreement. “I don't know whether you have heard of this, but several years ago a refined scholar made a presentation which he called 'The Chaldean Account of Genesis'? Ancient tablets had been found in Mesopotamia, which related a story in striking parallel to that of the flood in Genesis. Though the names of the gods and persons were different, the story itself was much the same, and further archaeological findings have led to similar consternation among the more legalistic clergy. There is another text of the Chaldeans, who kept the Israelites in captivity for so long, titled the Enûma Eliš, which also provides the story of a creation. When placed side by side, the Chaldean and Israelite stories are in perfect contrast to each other – the Chaldeans say there was separation of wind and water, the Israelites say the same, the parallels running line by line. The Chaldeans describe sacred locations, while the Israelites ignore location – they have, at this point in time, been physically removed from their homeland – and describe instead sacred hours of time. It seems to me that there can be no other answer, but that one was written in direct response to the other.”
Though I seem to the man to be nodding in slow comprehension, it is instead in concordant memories. He is not, of course, entirely solid on the facts... but nor, it seems, am I, after such passage of time. The general ideas of his explanation, however, feel familiar to the ancient memories which have been so long untouched in my mind.
“The name of Adam has the same origins as Adapa, who is the hero in another myth of that time and place, who unknowingly refused the gift of immortality. In the Afra-hasis, mankind is created by gods who mixed together clay with the blood and flesh of the dead god of wisdom – while our Adam was created of dust mixed with the breath of God, which infused spirit and soon wisdom. All of it tangles together, covered in the dust of ancient days... Yet these other stories, the heathen ones, are written on tablets which are far older than the oldest representations of our Bible. Which stories inspired which? Or are they all corruptions from a single source, and no one story is any nearer the truth than the others? We all, it seems, came first from Eden, but what is the truth of the story in that long-lost paradise?” He ends with a long, slow breath, stretching his arms and looking up into the freshly-starred sky. “Only the stars have continued, from that day to this...” he muses quietly, staring up into their shining atmosphere.
Only the stars... which, though they fall, yet continue on.
We walk in silence for some long moments, and even I have lost myself in this labyrinth for a time, my thoughts stretching out through the thousand corners and expanses, doubling back on themselves into things achingly familiar, yet only half-remembered...
And, oddly, we find ourselves at the exit. I had thought of no such thing, though perhaps my muscles led us here without conscious direction, from habit alone. I feel almost shaken by the sudden return to the everyday world, as though I had been in some other place entirely, rather than simply a corner of my gardens.
“Ah! I should never have found a way out alone, for I had scarcely paid any heed as I walked. I do thank you, Master Luce.”
I nod, and smile politely, though I am aware that my gaze is unable to focus quite correctly. “Of course... it is no trouble. Do feel free to avail yourself of my labyrinth whenever it would be conducive to your meditations – I should be happy to hear more of them.” Happy? It is far from the right word, but it is the correct one to use in such conversation. My motions and speech are all from rote, while my thoughts are far away.
“I greatly appreciate the privilege.”
Most visitors, I would now invite inside, for more luxurious diversions. But while his mind has strayed far from the church's regulation, I do not think his body is yet entirely willing. It can wait. “Allow me to offer you a carriage home? It is quite late, and I could not think of you walking. I only regret that I might not accompany you, but I have other guests whom I have neglected, such pleasure did I have in your company.”
He makes a slight bow, as do I, and takes my hand warmly. “I am much obliged to your generosity. I look forward to meeting with you again.”
As I nod in agreement, a servant appears to lead Father Douglas to the stables, where a carriage is always held in readiness. We finish our farewells, and as he disappears into the dark night, I turn back toward my labyrinth. It is formed of yew trees, which are often planted near cemeteries, and symbolize sorrow and grief. In some places, yew is thought to serve as guides for the dead spirits returning to graves on All Saint's Day, and in others, it is a symbol of long life and eternity. The ancients made use of its poisonous berries to commit honorable suicides rather than surrender. Chapels have been carved within the enormous trunks of yews perhaps a thousand years old... Those here are of a different species, of course, and yet... and yet this image of death, and the image of bypassing death with such impossibly long life, and death chosen rather than dictated... all bound in the infinite coils of a path unto God?
At this, I laugh, my face lit only by those very distant stars which rise above my thoughts. I turn toward the house, and my many neglected guests. I shall have some interesting epigrams to beguile them with, this night.
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