If I were to ask you what the differences are between the ancient world and our contemporary world, what would you say? I mean, after you stopped laughing, because the gulf between the two seems so absurd. You’d probably start with an obvious one: we’re surrounded by gadgets that inform us, divert us, and assist us in our work. But that’s just the beginning. We can travel practically anywhere with relative ease. We can communicate all around the world at the speed of light. In fact, we know what the world looks like, not to mention the the stars in their galaxies and the subatomic structure of matter. And the scientific knowledge that makes all of this possible has also given us longer, healthier lives and put us at the doorstep of altering our own genome.
That’s an excellent answer, but I’d like to go deeper. All the foregoing are about our interactions with the material world. They are the product of knowledge that we, as reasoning animals, were certain to accumulate, given enough time. A deeper answer, for me, would be the changes in our institutions and how we interact among ourselves. For example, slavery was common in ancient times and, for the most part, it doesn’t exist anymore. Civil liberty was a nonexistent concept; whatever freedom there was belonged to men of an approved ethnicity and social standing. Today, sexual, racial, ethnic, and class prejudices still exist, but in the West a good deal of progress has been made both culturally and legally. Virtually all governing was done by despots or by privileged classes or tribes. Now we have dozens of well-established democracies and many, we hope, embryonic ones. Poverty, hunger, and suffering were everywhere, and there were no institutions to deal with them. Now we see a broad variety of charities, ministries, and foundations that struggle with them, and sometimes governments intervene directly. Relief has been far from satisfactory, but at least we’re engaged.
When I review all the respects in which ancient peoples interacted, I see a common theme: cruelty. Not only were people treated prejudicially, callously, and contemptuously, they were often dealt with violently. To speak against anyone in authority often meant death, and not necessarily a quick one. Crucifixion goes back to 600 BCE. Stoning, flailing, and hanging are just as old and were far more common than today. The ancient Persians devised a mode of execution called scaphism. (Look it up if you’re in an exceptionally morbid mood.) The idea of showing mercy or forgiveness to one’s enemies was practically unthinkable.
Into this matrix of repression and brutality a Jewish child named Yehoshua ben Yosef (Joshua son of Joseph) was born. No one knew him by another name until he was long dead and the New Testament appeared in Greek, with Yehoshua rendered as Jesus. (Christ, of course, means “the anointed one” or Messiah, and is no part of his name.) His religious views were influenced by the Essenes, a Jewish sect that lived communally and in poverty. They devoted themselves to charity and refrained from anger. What set Jesus apart from the Essenes were his teachings of love and the acceptance of all people. Conversely, the Essenes taught exclusivity and avoided anyone who didn’t share their lifestyle and strict religious observances.
Jesus’ parables best exemplify his uniqueness. In the parable of the Good Samaritan, we learn who qualifies as a “neighbor” in the dictum to “love your neighbor as yourself.” The scribe who questions Jesus thinks a neighbor is someone who is near, in proximity and in beliefs, but Jesus makes it clear that a neighbor is anyone who shares God’s creation; any prejudice in our hearts must be replaced by love and compassion. In the parable of the Prodigal Son, a related theme is struck. Here, in place of a traveler who is beaten and robbed through no fault of his own, we are told of a sinner and wastrel who has squandered his inheritance. He receives unqualified forgiveness—in fact, a joyful embrace—from his father, upon his return home in humiliation. The father, of course, represents God, and the son represents sinners to whom God grants forgiveness for repentance. The father is also a model for us: when people show us ingratitude or disrespect, we should be prompt to forgive at any sign of regret.
The most succinct statement of Jesus’ teachings are the Beatitudes, the eight “Blessed are…” assertions from his Sermon on the Mount. These four strike me most powerfully:
- Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. The humble and gentle are prized above the imposing and brazen.
- Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied. The oppressed, in their struggle for fair treatment, will be vindicated.
- Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. And it follows that those who practice cruelty will be denied mercy.
- Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. The efforts of those who turn away anger are godly.
These are declarations that defy arrogance, cruelty, and violence. In the ancient world, they fell like a bombshell; they created a humanistic Big Bang that has reverberated for two millennia, pervading all our institutions and forming the moral center of Western thought. Beyond doubt, then, the birth of Jesus is a cause for joyous celebration; however, I don’t celebrate it as most do. I don’t celebrate the nonsense of a church that misappropriated his teachings and made myths about salvation. When I hear “Joy to the world, our Lord has come,” “Glory to the newborn king,” “O come, let us adore him,” and “Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas day,” I think how such words are effective in converting the superstitious; Jesus, I feel sure, would cringe to know he’d become an object of worship. What I do celebrate is the genius of a man who understood how cruelty breaks society and compassion heals it. The real salvation he offers is the high bar he set for living together, if we can rise to it.
The Scratching Post 