One of the delights of Menorca is that there is no shortage of peaceful places where one can go and be still.  While the words of many sermons and articles arise while wandering the paths of the island, others stem from just sitting quietly.  I understand, therefore, the origin of the biblical book of Revelation in a quiet cave on the Greek island of Patmos.  John the Divine (or John the Theologian for the eastern Orthodox churches) found himself exiled there and experienced a series of visions, many of which have parallels in other apocalyptic writings in the Bible, together with messages for the nascent churches in Asia Minor (now Turkey, and parts of northern Greece).  At the end of May, Kate and I were able to visit this cave, and to remain there between tour groups, to immerse ourselves in the tranquility of the setting. 

I am not going to comment upon the way the book of Revelation has been abused by some modern Christians, but let’s simply note that its contents contain a message of hopefulness for the early Church, for whom life was not always easy under Roman rule during its first three centuries of existence.  And if we strip away some of the more esoteric interpretations of its contents, there are words of hope for those who nowadays find their lives oppressed by the powerful entities that manifest themselves in modern variations of the imperialism of Rome in the first three centuries.  

In some ways, it is quite remarkable that Christianity survived its first three centuries at all, because it was decidedly counter-cultural, at times subject to oppression or persecution - an easily identifiable minority that often had to hide its existence underground (literally, as in the catacombs beneath the city of Rome).  Of course, many would argue that with a divine supporter the odds were stacked in favour of surviving and then thriving!  

The emergence of what became the Christian church owes much to a handful of people, amongst whom the Apostle Paul was foremost, with his itinerant ministry of leadership and teaching.  In our travels through the Greek islands and the west coast of what is now Turkey, we retraced some of Paul’s steps, including a visit to the excavated city of Ephesus, with its amphitheatre where the apostle preached and which is still used for performances today - Elton John, Sting, Ray Charles, and Jose Carreras, for example, have all performed there.  

Eventually we spent a few days in Athens, which had to include a visit to the Parthenon atop the hill called the Acropolis, and to the smaller hill, once a gathering place, called the Areopagus, where Paul addressed the Athenians. 

The Parthenon is a remarkable place with a colourful history - and I left with a feeling of sadness.  Because despite the residue of architectural and artistic accomplishment, the centuries have marked it with destruction and violence (not to mention the theft of the Elgin marbles).  It would seem that once the Christian church had become established within the Roman empire in the fourth century, there were those who felt obliged to vandalise or destroy what were perceived as symbols of pagan idolatry (namely, depictions of Greek gods).  

Ten years ago (in May 2015), I wrote in Roqueta about the problems arising from trying to judge people of another time and culture against the standards of our own time.  That was prompted by a visit to the home of Junipero Serra in Petra, Mallorca.  He was the priest who established the Missions of the Roman Catholic Church along the west coast of North America, and gave many cities in California their current names, but whose legacy was being questioned.  

I wrote then: ‘Junipero Serra is being judged on the basis of our current knowledge and justifiable sense of shame about the effects of imperialism and colonisation on native people … an eighteenth century European might not have the same feelings as a twenty-first century North American.  This is not a simple matter, but it does suggest that we need to be cautious about the way in which we revise our understanding of history.’ 

So I suppose that I should be wary of judging those who genuinely felt that pagan art was offensive to their faith, even if they seem sadly misguided now.  Rather than destroying what seems alien to current sensitivities, or beliefs, or morals, or ethical standards, we might step back and think rationally about what we can learn from history.  Instead of tearing down statues of people whose philanthropic offerings derived from the economics of exploiting others (for example, from the slave trade), we might at least ponder the fact that there was philanthropy, even if its basis was far from perfect, and not the modern tendency to accumulate personal wealth without regard for the plight of those less fortunate.  Instead of tearing down statues, would it not be more effective to put a notice on them to the effect that, ‘This person profited from practices that today we find abhorrent.  He invested some of his wealth in charitable ventures which in the context of his time were valued and benefitted others.  Without condoning the economics of imperial or social exploitation, we should recognise that there were those whose lives were improved by charitable and philanthropic practices.’   Well, that’s rather long-winded, but uplifting charitable enterprises while recognising past mistakes seems better than trying to eradicate parts of history.  Humanity has a persistently destructive characteristic, which if resisted, allows for learning and constructive progress.  Personally, I feel that it is better to learn from history than to destroy it. 

Our guide around the Acropolis and the Parthenon was at pains to point out that the latter was a symbol of Athenian culture during a time when it created a legacy that has percolated throughout the world.  Athens, she said, gave us democracy, based upon residence rather than socio-economic standing, in contrast to most of the ancient world; it gave us drama and theatre; it gave us art; it gave us philosophy, and the idea of rational thought.  As she also pointed out, it was far from perfect: while a ship-owner and a servant had the same standing in terms of participating in government, or legal activity, that was only for men of a certain age.  Women and younger people were excluded.  So does that mean that we should ignore Athenian social progress?  Or might we consider ways in which it might benefit society today, and be refined and improved to do so?  

I mentioned the Areopagus, and my namesake’s address to the Athenians gathered there.  He did not tell the Athenians to go out and destroy the artefacts of pagan deities.  Instead, he walked patiently around the city, paying careful attention to what he saw, and eventually gave an address that acknowledged the Athenians’ spiritual and religious practices, suggesting that they might in fact all be pointers to the Christian faith that he had come to embrace.  He met people where they were, and carefully pointed to a different way forward.  Isn’t that much better than coercion, or shouting virtually at one another on social media?  Of course, it requires listening skills - something to be considered in Roqueta next month. 

In April 2018, I mentioned in Roqueta the words of L.P. Hartley, from The Go-Between: ‘The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.’  Indeed, it is a foreign country in which we cannot comfortably reside permanently as creatures whose physiology and surroundings are constantly changing and evolving.  But it is a foreign country that might teach us something about our own time and our own culture.  Maybe if we take advantage of the tranquility and peaceful places of Menorca to sit quietly and contemplate the lessons of the past, we might find ourselves transformed, just a little, in the present.