18 - Hellas

This was no longer the Athens of Pericles, Socrates, or Sophocles. The disciples of Zeno still debated the problems of life and death, using the Socratic method of question and answer, but the Stoics were not deeply rooted in the old faith, and the nourishment for their philosophy was drawn from the shallow spring of their own intelligence. Thus the lessons taught in the stoa carried no individual moral obligation, even though theoretically they did achieve a supreme morality linked to the immortality of the soul, that is, man’s higher impulses.

The Sophists, whose ingenuity could create and demolish whole worlds effortlessly, reduced the Greek genius to a condition of static impotence, condemning the Greek spirit to fruitless repetitiveness. It was as though Apollo were compelled to drive his fiery chariot round and round a circus ring. Beauty, wisdom, strength and harmony themselves, as pure abstractions, became gods. The masterpiece of Phidias on the Acropolis evoked more admiration than the goddess it represented.

Paul went into the marketplace of Athens to bring the gospel to the Gentiles.


The great Agora was surrounded by hillocks, temples, and citadels. It started at the Piraic gate, ran the length of the Piraic street along the foot of the Acropolis, and was bounded on the other side by the Areopagus.

One part of the Agora flowed around the Areopagus, which was a steep rock on which stood a plateau or platform. Narrow, winding stairs, cut in the stone, led to the summit. Stone benches were arranged on the platform, for it was on this hill that the elders and judges of Athens assembled. It was also called the field of Mars, for tradition held that the very first trial ever held here concerned the god of war, Mars, who had committed a frightful crime against his sister goddess Aphrodite. Ever since then the Athenians had used the hill for the sessions of their councils and courts.

The chief market of Athens stood around a gigantic statue of Mercury at the foot of the hill. It differed little from other markets of the ancient world. There were narrow bazaar-alleys, covered with sheets or woven olive branches, little stone stalls, and booths that were reached by climbing narrow steps. Artisans and shopkeepers were everywhere. There were gold and silversmiths, sandal makers, and garment sellers. Perfume mixers worked next to garlic and onion dealers. Slave sellers loudly chanted the merits of their human merchandise. Paul saw a coal black Ethiopian mother standing on the block, and the dealer crying out that this woman was a breeder of mighty sons, every one of her offspring a veritable Hercules. A whole generation of gladiators, he roared, had already sprung from her loins, and those mighty breasts would yet nourish another generation of fighters. On another block stood a naked “Adonis,” a youth of mighty proportions. The merchant had anointed him with oil, so that the flesh shone like metal
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Images of the gods and goddesses of Athens were primarily displayed in a place called King’s Row, after Archon, the mythological half man and half fish. Pallas Athene, protectress of Athens, dominated followed by Demeter, with Hera, the goddess of fruitfulness, a close third. There were also many statues of Apollo and Hercules, for an image of these had to be placed in every school and gymnasium. The rich would also have these images in their children’s bedrooms to serve as inspirations to beauty and strength. There was also a considerable business in copies of Aphrodite, and of Bacchus, the god of wine and theatrical spectacles.

There was, however, one notable difference in the market of Athens from other marketplaces of the ancient world, for it was filled primarily with people from other places. Athens was the Jerusalem of the Gentile world. The Roman aristocracy, those who planned great careers for their sons, whether in politics, or in the army, or in the imperial administration, sent them to the schools and sages of Athens. Every lawyer who looked forward to a rich practice, every scholar and professor who dreamed of a position in a university, every actor even, whose ambition lay with the general public, knew that a first prerequisite was an Athenian reputation. Thus the city was filled with students and professors from other lands.

As Paul walked through the marketplace, he saw young students clustered around the forges of the rapier smiths, appraising the supple blades, testing the sound of the metal, and waxing enthusiastic over some exceptional piece of craftsmanship. Here and there a circle was made and a fencing bout took place. Other students gathered around the dealers in robes, learning the difficult art of throwing a mantle over the body in such a way so as to bring out the most graceful curves and folds.

One shop of oils and ointments attracted a particularly large crowd of students, where the dealer swore by all the gods of Olympus that his oils and perfumes had the mystic power of awakening the love of a woman, to arouse her to such a pitch of desire that the mere emotion itself brought on pregnancy. Young men bought presents for their latest loves from the cloth merchants and then went over to the gold and silversmiths. There was also a constant demand for fruits, herbs, spices, and plants of all kinds, along with great masses of delicate things of all colors to wear. The flower stalls were riots of color, from dark brown to bloody purple, from cinnamon to flaming saffron, which the youth bought generously, in order to make wreaths to hang on the doors of the beloved.

Older folk, more seriously inclined and more learned, could be found in the book and papyrus shops. Learned slaves sat here on grass mats dipping their sharpened metal pencils in colored inks and copying manuscripts, word by word, as dictated to them from a reader. Single leaves of covered papyrus, samples of the work produced by the copyists, were hung up, and prospective customers were grouped around them. This was their chance to examine the classic text of an ancient work for themselves, instead of having to hear it recited badly by poor actors or even worse mimics.

In front of one bookshop, a dealer had hung out several pages of one of Aristophanes’ comedies, and a lively discussion was going on among the students and scholars on the everlasting theme of the attitude of that ancient writer toward the gods and heroes of Greek mythology. The discussion was lively but apparently pointless. The Sophists claimed that Aristophanes was a blasphemer, but then turned around and declared that blasphemy was the highest form of praise for the gods. Those who defended him then turned around and said that his mockery of the great gods Bacchus and Hercules could be nothing but harmful to the youth. So the only result was that a bystander couldn’t guess who was for Aristophanes and who was against him.

And so it went in the marketplace in the Agora of Athens.

But this was just one part of the Agora. An alley of pillars led from the foot of the statue of Mercury across to the second half of the Agora, at the foot of the Acropolis. Entering this section, the visitor was lost in a confusion of temples, altars, and statues that rose along the slopes and steps toward the supreme temple on the summit.

There was competition among the heroes, poets, and warriors in regards to the temples and altars. Every ruler wanted to see his statue erected among the divine images and altars of the Agora. The Roman generals who conquered Athens treated the city with a respect and consideration granted to no other province, and they wanted to contribute buildings to the city. Not just the mightiest Romans, a Julius or an Anthony, but even the lesser overlords, competed with each other in their gifts of statues, colonnades, and porticoes. It was a mark of high culture for a ruler to squeeze taxes out of his groaning subjects so that he might add something to the adornment of Athens. The Jewish tyrant, Herod the first, had sought feverishly the privilege of having one of his own buildings in Athens. He failed. But one of his predecessors, the High Priest Hyrcanos, had, strangely enough, risen to this apotheosis, and his image stood among those of the Athenian heroes, poets, and legislators.

Very little praying was done in these temples. In fact, one might say that there were more temples than there were serious worshippers.

Paul wandered about this part of the Agora, lonely and bewildered. The temples and altars made him think of a cemetery. He read the inscriptions, such as, “Go and do no evil,” and, “Never betray your friend.”

He watched the unattended ceremonials carried out in the temple of Dionysus-Bacchus, of Apollo, and of the two-faced Janus. His Jewish temperament turned passionately from the beauty of the architecture and the fine severity of line of the Doric columns that supported the temples. His heart was moved to anger, and he burned with zeal for God. He thought to himself, “They have a father-god, a mother-god, son-gods, and bastard gods, and gods who go whoring after the daughters of men. But not one of them can speak or hear.”


The path led up to the Acropolis, where the temples seemed to be hewn out of the primal rock. The tall pillars soaring into the air broke at the top into a burst of leaves. Fragments of rock peered out from among the temples, and sometimes you couldn’t tell what God formed and what man formed. In some places a ledge of stone jutted out, threatening to overwhelm the graceful terraces, walls and colonnades. And yet the temple walls were a harmonious continuation of the rock, as though growing from it.

Paul went by the temples of Aphrodite and Vulcan, both nestled in a cleft of the rock. Statues of poets, tyrants, heroes, and gods, in all poses, looked down at him as he ascended the broad marble steps. At the summit, only one goddess reigned before her glorious Parthenon – Pallas-Athene, the protectress of Athens. Her mighty figure, fifty feet high, stood on a broad platform and was surrounded by a host of gods whose figures barely reached her knees. A golden three-pointed helm flashed from her head over the Acropolis, over the city, over the Aegean Sea, and over the spirit of Greek thought.

Her features, cut in ivory by the master hand of Phidias, showed no touch of femininity. There was no subtle, alluring smile like on Aphrodite. She was severe and just, dedicated to the useful and necessary, the patroness of the known and experienced. Neither the rounded lines of a mother-body nor the proud lines of her throat indicated her rule. Her rule was through wisdom alone, and shone in her great and steadfast eyes. The master had clothed her in a long, massive, golden robe, whose folds fell in a straight cascade over her bosom, her hips and her knees, down to her ivory ankles. Her golden shield, blazing in the sun, was adorned with scenes of battle. In one hand she held a long golden spear. In her other arm she held the image of Tyche, who stretched out the olive wreath of the conqueror to her. A gigantic serpent, symbol of medicine, wound around her feet in golden coils, a cleft tongue protruding from its open jaws.

Behind her stood the loveliest building in Athens, the most perfect and most harmonious human utterance ever expressed in architecture – the Parthenon. It wasn’t the procession of the gods hammered into its frieze that fashioned perfection in the Parthenon, but rather the sheer simplicity of its form. Not a single superfluous line marred the integrity of the structure. Whatever had been put into it was there by virtue of need and rose from the hunger of the human eye for beauty. The calm severity of the building made one think of the quiet murmur of a spring; not the song of a mighty cascade, but of a still-flowing stream among the shadows of heavy cypresses. The power of the Doric columns that stood like guards around the building might have looked appalling in another setting. But here, against the white background of the marble façade, they seemed to beckon hospitably into the shadow of the robes on the graceful bodies of the feminine figures.

A lone little Jew stood in front of the towering statue of Pallas-Athene. Paul the apostle, a Pharisee and a son of Pharisees, gazed up at the goddess who didn’t exist, for of course, there were no gods or goddesses. There was only the one God of Israel, who filled all the worlds. His glory was in all places. No image or statue could enclose Him, and no word could express Him. He simply was “I am that I am.”

Everything else was the work of His hands. The dead image of gold, erected by the clever Athenians, was the creation of one of His creatures. God created the material that made up the image. The mind that created the figure and endowed it with lines and inspired it with loftiness and beauty was a gift of God to the craftsman. In this sense, the image was not an abomination, as others thought. It was without force of itself, and those who believed in its divinity were only transferring their own concept of the divine to it. In reality they were seeking the one living God, but in their blindness they couldn’t perceive Him, so they worshipped the creation, twice removed, rather than the Creator.

Addressing the image, Paul said, “Your gold will be your undoing, goddess of Athens. For it will provoke men to shatter you and melt you down, and with all your glory and strength you will be defenseless against them.”


It was quiet on the Acropolis. The dying rays of the sun lay on the pillars of the temples. The tattered sandals of the apostle clattered on the marble as he descended, between temples and gods, from the summit of the Acropolis. His shadow was thrown back on the altars, and they seemed to shrink from the stern sound of those sandals. The gods stared after the alien Jew, brooded on his footsteps, his frail, bent form, and on his huge head. Other than the sound of his footsteps, the only sound was the tinkling of bells the priests sounded to remind the people that the gods were still there.

Suddenly Paul came to a halt. Before the image of one of the gods a young couple stood, hand in hand, addressing him in prayer.

“Most praised among the gods, immortal Jove,
Highest on earth below and in the heavens above.
The first great cause. Your word is nature’s law.
Before your throne we mortals humbly bow,
For we are of your seed, and to man alone is it granted,
Yes, to man alone, to lift his voice to heaven.”

“God of Israel,” said the apostle, inwardly, “how near men are to You. Through the darkness of the night they grope for You. Turn Your face to them, O God and see how they hunger after You. Renew Your bond with them through Your holy servant Jesus Christ.”

In that moment it felt clear to him that God had indeed turned His face to man. In all the world, this spot, in Athens, on the Acropolis, and among the idols had been chosen for a sign. There was a limit, and there would be an appointed hour of judgment.

* * * * *

It was evening when Paul reentered the Agora, and the altars and images were shrouded in shadow. There was a lively tumult as crowds streamed toward the Dionysus Theater in the eastern wall of the Acropolis. They were holding torches and lanterns to illuminate the path. Young men pressed forward, keeping step to the sounds of flute players. Here and there a litter carrying one of the councilors of Athens threaded its way through the crowd, preceded by heralds who called out the name of the important man who demanded passage. There were many women, too, heavily robed and veiled, surrounded by their overseers and servants. They were going to see a play called Oedipus Rex by Sophocles, with one of the famous actors of Athens in the leading role. It seemed the entire city was going.

Paul let himself be drawn along with the crowd. The rising tiers were packed with young and old, and vast though the amphitheater was, it couldn’t accommodate all who wanted admission. There was some scuffling for seats, mostly between the slaves who attended their masters, and it was almost impossible to maintain order. At the gates of the theater mobs pressed forward, and the larger the numbers of those admitted, the larger were the crowds left outside.

Paul was sort of carried into the theater in a sudden rush. He was anxious to see the play, for he knew that of all the Greek tragedies this one embodied most perfectly the world outlook of the man of Greece.

The leading citizens of Athens occupied the stone benches closest to the arena. A group of priests stood around an empty throne reserved for Dionysus, “the bringer of joy and of play to man.” It was a popular belief that he attended every one of the plays and rendered judgment on the quality of the performance. The tiers farthest away, reaching far up the slope, were packed with the ordinary citizenry.

Jammed together, the occupants of the seats kept up a ceaseless clamor. Friends shouted to each other, and even threw each other their flower wreaths. The players stood in the open arena along with the chorus of old men. Some of them were dressed in fantastically colored costumes and held the masks they would put on during the performance. The audience was much interested in the actors, and as it recognized one favorite after another, his name was called out loudly, like spectators encouraging gladiators to the fight. Other actors, who perhaps had disgraced themselves in recent performances, were greeted with laughter.

The priests blew the silver trumpets and the audience slowly grew quiet. Their high gaiety turned into earnestness and concentration, for they considered this not just a theatrical performance, but a religious service as well.

In the play, even before Oedipus is born to his parents, the King and Queen of Thebes, the gods set a dreadful and unalterable destiny for him. He will kill his father and marry his mother. In Paul’s mind, the trial is not planned for the prince to perfect his character or strengthen his faith, as was the case with Job, so that he might triumph over adversity. That would be the purpose of the Jewish God. The gods of Olympus lay out this ghastly future for Oedipus for no reason at all. They do it out of sheer playfulness.

The parents learn of the decree and do all in their power to prevent it. They’re even prepared to sacrifice the child rather than let it live into the unspeakable future. But they can’t prevent it. And they’re not alone. Even the gods are impotent to prevent the unfolding of the course of events that they themselves decreed.

Everyone knows the story. But watching this masterpiece of the great dramatist, they live through it as though seeing it for the first time. Breathlessly they follow the scenes. Without knowing why, and without the cooperation of his own will, Oedipus fulfills the words of the oracle to the letter. He kills his father, marries his mother, and has two sons through her. And now the gods demand vengeance for the sin. There is pestilence in the city of Thebes, and Oedipus, in ignorance of the source of the pestilence, dedicates himself to finding out who committed the criminal act that moved the gods to anger. His mother-wife, knowing the truth, tries in vain to discourage his search.

The end draws on with the swiftness of a flying arrow. The mother can’t prevail on the son to remain in happy ignorance. She takes her own life. Noble-spirited Oedipus, learning the truth, stabs out his own eyes and condemns himself to eternal exile.

This evidence of the ceaseless aspiration of the Gentiles toward the truth, even to their own undoing, moves Paul’s heart as never before. For this is not Oedipus alone. This is the Gentile world at its best. The entire audience participates in the Oedipus tragedy, all of them chained to blind destinies. The gods know destiny, but not grace. No redeemer has been born to them. There is no one in the heavens to represent them.


Paul learned much that evening, and his heart overflowed. He wanted to jump to his feet and cry out, “No, no, this is not the truth you’ve been shown. Man is not a beast among the other beasts, tied to the destiny of his own nature. Man is the chosen of creation formed by God in his own image and endowed with special attributes. He has a soul, which is a part of Him. He prepared the blessing before the curse, salvation before calamity. Yes, even before He created the first man, God created the savior of man.

He felt fountains of bliss opening up in his heart as he remembered the name of the savior in this place. Living waters came up and refreshed him.

As he walked back towards the hospice through the night streets of Athens, there was a dancing in his footsteps. He was drunk, not with wine, but with joy.