Menno in Athens, Philosophy in Anabaptism?: An interview with Ron Tiessen

MK: Your novel [Menno in Athens] is concerned with not only Mennonites and the ancient Greeks, but also with questions about origins – the origins of Mennonite identity and the roots of the most important existential questions like “Where are we going?” or “Where are we from?” What do the origins and ends of Christianity and Greek philosophy mean to you and your work?

RT: The Anabaptist effort to return to the early church for guidance and inspiration shows an awareness that institutions, and the norms that underpin those institutions, change over time. When the church becomes married to the state, those original teachings require reworking. In a parallel example, when democracy is married to free market capitalism, the former undergoes a real change.

Alongside political changes, the meaning of words change through time, and translations only increase the distance from the original meaning. For example, the Greek word for repentance, μετάνοια, is more focused than remorse or the confession of having done wrong. Instead, the term is focused on the renewing of the mind in a way that would prevent doing wrong. The usage in the New Testament echoes the view of Socrates that one would not do wrong if one were all-knowing.

I had a professor in Athens who advised that, when studying an ancient Greek tragedy, students should read the play over and over, without going to secondary sources for interpretation. He advised that if we wish to know the true spirit of a poem or, I would add, to know the true teachings of Jesus, we need to approach as closely as we can to the source. For me, it is always preferable to read the Dialogues of Plato in place of the interpretations of scholars, and to read the Sermon on the Mount in place of secondary voices.

Moreover, we benefit from subjecting a tradition – whether of Christianity or Greek philosophy – to probing questions about its origins. I think that we benefit from: seeing a picture of the cultural milieu of the teacher or philosopher in their context, gaining a closer apprehension of the parable or dialogue in relation to what it responds to, and examining how these origins contrast with the ensuing tradition.

MK: Menno in Athens is also concerned with revelation and how meaning and truth are given and made. How does your work point beyond the prophetic and biblical traditions and toward other sources of revelation, like those of artists, poets, philosophers, and playwrights?

RT: If you accept the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth as the way we should live, and then find similar exhortations and insights elsewhere, this coincidence suggests some sort of historical linkage or common source. If a philosopher advises that it is better to suffer wrong than to do wrong; if a playwright places an actor on stage who proclaims that she cannot accept hate, but only love; if a sage says it is better to forgive the murderer than seek vengeance; even when these voices are four to six hundred years before Jesus, it follows naturally, for Christians, to be reminded of Jesus’ teaching.

What can we make of this? First, the assumption that only one book holds the inspired writings stands in the way of accepting such coincidences as meaningful. The belief that there cannot be revelation in times and places outside of the Christian tradition similarly stands in the way of taking seriously other voices.

If one believes that truth, love, compassion, and forgiveness are absolutes, then manifestations of these absolutes, wherever found, are equally noteworthy and warrant consideration as revelations. To one person, such foreshadowing of the truths found in the Gospels may be a reinforcement of belief. To another, it is a threat, as the Asklepion and centre of learning at Pergamon was interpreted as “Satan’s throne” in Revelation.

MK: Your writing also calls to mind themes of war, violence, and sacrifice. Is there a particular vision of sacrificial economy in your work – where, perhaps, a scapegoat is used and abused to atone for the sins of all?

RT: One view has it that Greek mythology is an arrangement of the past, assisted by the imagination, in patterns that reflect the culture’s deepest values and aspirations. Myths are conveyors of meaning, so that we awaken to life and die by them. Helen of Troy’s brothers Pollux and Castor offer an example. Pollux is a son of Zeus and thus enjoys immortality whereas Castor does not. When Castor is wounded and dying, his brother wishes to save him from death. Pollux wishes to grant his brother his own immortality and asks Zeus to do so. Zeus instead grants each of the brothers a half a year of immortality, so that they spend six months in Hades and six months with the gods on Mount Olympus. Pollux voluntarily accepted the mortality of his brother. A sacrifice that gave life to another; he died in part of the year to give life to Castor. The example approaches that of a scapegoat because Pollux accepts a period of mortality so his brother can gain a period of immortality.

In the dim past, ancient Greek communities would select a scapegoat or pharmakos and drive them from their community. More often than not the scapegoat was selected for being imperfect, for being weak or ugly. During the classical period in Athens, the ancient custom was rationalized and replaced by ostracism. The latter was shaped by the influence of recently established democracy. In this case citizens voted to remove someone who was deemed a threat to the balance and order of the πόλις.

Beyond that, the life of Socrates is one of martyrdom. Was he a scapegoat? The answer would likely be yes, as he was charged with impiety and corrupting the youth of Athens. He was put to death for his intellectual freedom and curiosity, which led to answers to questions that were troubling for his jurors. Executing Socrates was supposed to put an end to probing questions, intellectual freedom, and the upending of the way things were. All of Athens’ troubles could be blamed on Socrates in a way that necessitated his death.

MK: Being a text between the categories of the “secular” and the “religious,” Menno in Athens concerns the nature of God and the gods. What does divinity mean to you in religious and philosophical terms?

RT: A number of years ago, after the commencement of civil strife in Yemen, four nuns who looked after residents in a home for the elderly were called home by the Vatican. It was deemed too dangerous for them to remain in Yemen. But they refused to leave because no one would be left to care for the elderly. Not long after that, all four were killed.

In 2006, in Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania, ten Amish girls were shot in their school, and five of them died. For a moment the world news centred on the killing. Attention remained on the horror of the killing of innocents. But it seemed that the world stood still because of what followed: the families of the deceased forgave the murderer and sought to comfort the family of the shooter.

In the present war between Israel and Gaza, doctors and nurses continue to tend to the wounded as bombs and missiles strike all around them. With each day more have died while saving the lives of their patients.

In addition to the life of Jesus, the above examples illustrate “an eruption of the absolute in ordinary history” (the words of classicist Anne Carson). The absolute in this sense is the presence of divinity which binds together, or rebinds, that which is broken (the etymology of the word “religion”). Where love is absolute there too is found Antigone in Sophocles, or Patroklos in Homer, or Pollux in Greek myth, or Menokritos on the Island of Karpathos.

The Greek Orthodox are less embarrassed by mystery than the Western church. The ineffability of God is understood. There is an acceptance of unknowing. In the Mennonite tradition we have our own Anabaptist ‘saints’ through whom we seek to approach the divine. And in our early confessions we admit to looking to nature to experience God. The Mennonite “Elbing catechism” of 1778 states how we can know there is a God. We are taught this through nature and the sacred scriptures. Nature is that which may be known of God. The presence of divinity, of the sacred in nature, recalls the belief in immanence of God in nature espoused by Pythagoras.

MK: Religious and secular thinking would not be possible without communities. Do you see a connection between the Mennonite gemeinde and the Greek πόλις, or “δεμοκρατία”?

RT: Δεμοκρατία in the ancient Greek πόλις could be recognized by a number of core principles. Firstly, there was the law, or statute, that was arrived at by common agreement and was equally binding on all. Secondly, ισονομία was that which would bind together the citizens, balance opposing views, and ensure equal opportunity to participate in decision making. Thirdly, the assembly, or εκκλεσία, was not representative but rather participatory. There was an absence of experts so that the common person could be heard. Fourthly, the practice of filling positions by lot guaranteed that no individual was above the assembly; rather office holders were accountable to the assembly.

It would be difficult to demonstrate an historical connection between the 16th-century Anabaptists and the ancient Greeks. However, their purpose was not so different; namely, to live in community. And that is the startling similarity: community that does not recognize hierarchy. In the Mennonite gemeinde, common agreement, binding all together, was reflected in the confession of faith or catechism. In this case too all members participated at meetings, at the bruderschaft (which only a few decades ago began to include women). And the lot was still used in my youth to select lead ministers. In the Mennonite context the assumption was that God might assist in the choice, whereas in ancient Greece the goal was to assure the position had no independence from the εκκλεσία.

MK: Mennonite thought – in theological, historical, and philosophical terms – is, in some respects, resistant to rigid creeds, doctrines, and canons. How do you see these terms in relation to the narration of Menno in Athens, especially the drama of the protagonist and his father.

RT: The ancient Greeks were not pagans in the Latin meaning of the word, unless they resided in the countryside. The character Paeta in Menno in Athens would have thought of all Greeks as pagans, as non-Christians. That was not a beginning productive of finding agreement between Paeta and his son. The Old Testament, the story of a chosen people, would necessarily exclude the Greeks, as would the prophecy of the Messiah in the Old Testament and its fulfillment in the Gospels. And revelation could only be found in Scripture.

For my character Menno, creeds, canons, and doctrines had less rigid boundaries. We can imagine that he found the exclusivity of only one tradition a challenge to accept. The fluid belief of the first centuries after Christ was appealing to him for its diversity of views. Later, with the thought that only some writers were divinely inspired, other writings had to be hidden, like the Gnostic Gospels.

If in one’s search for truth one is drawn to sources outside of the sacred Scriptures and one discovers instruction that compares to Gospel insights and exhortations, the discovery invites examination. If Jesus is the measure – that life we aspire to emulate – and this measure is used to assess another source found outside accepted inspired writings, one has not strayed from the tradition. Rather one has enlivened that tradition.

MK: In the most basic terms, language is our means for transmitting meaning. What do you think language is and does when it fails to transmit (i.e., when signifying words fail to link with their signified meanings)? How does a position on peace and justice influence your vision of language?

RT: Sometimes when language fails to transmit meaning it is, according to Wittgenstein, when its everyday use is not examined. Everyday use is difficult to determine from a distance, either over time or across cultures. Add to this challenge the fact that words often have come to us through translation. Our word “idiot” illustrates what might happen when language fails to transmit meaning. We use “idiot” to describe someone who is foolish or stupid. The roots of the word are Greek, ιδιότης, which referred to someone who did not participate in the πόλις for the benefit of the public. Instead, this person gave attention to private matters only. Originally the word’s meaning was focused and crystal clear. But over time and through translation the meaning became blurred and anything but clear.

If one prays for peace and justice in the world, one can readily see how language comes to be molded to suit the ends of the user. What is happening when we are subjected to phrases like “collateral damage” in place of “civilians killed or wounded”? Or when we use the euphemism “enhanced interrogation techniques” in place of “torture”? Or “friendly fire” in place of “deaths caused by our own side”?

In an essay, George Orwell once suggested such words are needed “if one wants to name things without calling up mental pictures of them.” The nefarious purpose is to muddy the water, to limit genuine understanding, so that the common meaning of words becomes blurred.

I am reminded of the alternative: when Paros’ Archilochos refers to the gallant “thousand who chased down and killed the seven,” or “for private gain we sacrificed the common good.” I am reminded of Homer’s grisly clarity of description of the warriors’ deaths on the Trojan Plain.

The business of going to war is reliant on buttressing from language usage. When nations states go to war, it helps greatly that there be such ideas as a just war, or that only through war we can achieve peace. Injustices and violence continue to be perpetuated when language assists in covering up the associated motives.

MK: As you may know, I also work in research engagement at a medical school, and so – selfishly – I wonder how, in contrast with war and violence, health and healing in the ancient Greek context may have inspired your approach to the novel?

RT: In Greek mythology, the story of Asklepios drew my attention for several reasons. He was the son of Apollo and Coronis, a mortal; he was apolitical; he healed those who came to him; he was struck down by Zeus. And later he is resurrected. The healing sanctuary at Epidauros in the Peloponnese was active for close to one thousand years. The parallels in this story to that of Jesus were striking to me.

Ancient Greek medicine at Epidauros, and also later at Kos, gave emphasis to the whole person – the place of the gods, as in Asklepios’ role, but also through surgery, diet, and exercise recommendations. The extant works of Hippocrates illustrate this holistic approach. To understand the ancient Greeks requires coming at the subject from different vantages and places and voices: through the historian, the philosopher, the architect, the playwright, the sage, the poet, all in an attempt to gain a wholistic portrait.

Moreover, the thought of Pythagoras is instructive. He saw human beings as microcosms of the universe. For followers of Pythagoras, sickness in the human body was the same as an absence of balance and order, where every organ cannot fulfill its purpose. This imbalance was understood to be the same as the lack of agreement in the πόλις.

In the Iliad, Homer paints a picture of strife in one circle among the gods who have taken sides in the war, on the next circle the hostilities between Troy and the Achaeans, and ending on the discord among the Greeks, and finally the opposing options of whether to stay or withdraw from the war depicted at odds within King Agamemnon. By analogy, through the macrocosm and microcosm, we are given a picture of the battle being waged on the Trojan plain.

Greek medicine at its outset was seen as bringing συμφονία, or agreement to the human body, as the law-giver sages brought agreement within the πόλις, or the Olympic Games were to bring a spirit of oneness to the Hellenic world. The holding of hands as the sacred truce was referred to required an orbit of virtues that for individuals included forgiveness, reconciliation and the rejection of the use of force.

MK: Two interiorly diverse traditions intersect in your book – the Christian and the Greek – so it bears questioning: how would you differentiate between the Promethean vision of stealing fire from the gods, and the death of Jesus on the cross?

RT: The sources of the myths surrounding Prometheus are numerous. Before Hesiod’s accounts in the Theogony and Works and Days, there appear to be forerunners of the Titan in Sumerian myths. We may be on firmer ground in the fifth century sources of Aeschylus and Plato. Prometheus wished to save humanity from the destruction planned by Zeus. To do so, Prometheus gave them fire, but also the arts of civilization that included science and mathematics and medicine. The list of gifts in other sources include understanding, and the virtues of justice and reverence. From Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound, Prometheus states: “I gave to mortal man a precedence over myself in pity.” Earlier, he says that he “rescued men from shattering destruction, that would have carried them to Hades’ house.” A fitting end of Prometheus’ myth involves another sacrifice: the Centaur Chiron goes to Zeus and offers to give up his immortality to free Prometheus and end his suffering. One sacrifice begets another, the King of gods agrees and Prometheus is freed.

The significance of the death of Jesus on the cross is perhaps best summarized by John 3:16: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” In John, love is central to the crucifixion of Jesus, and the outcome promised is everlasting life. Here the promise is personal and dependent on belief.

In the mythology of Prometheus, the gift given is for all of humankind. Humankind is saved from destruction, or extinction. And central to this story is compassion, next to the arts of civilization, without which there cannot be a full life. Here humankind is saved, differently.

“I will suffer for your benefit.” Therein lies the similarity of Prometheus’ and Jesus’ sacrifices.