Ah Revelations, aka the Apocalypse of St. John of Patmos. The favorite text of cult leaders and demagogues the world over. That book that mainline Protestants try to pretend doesn't exist. It's a fantastical almost nonsensical prediction of the end of the world...or is it?
Not so fast. Taken out of it's historical context, this text is a complete mystery. It reads like the ravings of a madman or a really bad LSD trip. But let's take a trip back in time to the early 2nd Century AD, and let's meet our author.
He's a small man, with curly brown hair and brown eyes like most of his countrymen. He's young, and wears an undyed tunic although his well-groomed nails and lustrous hair speak to his status. A cloak in faded red and brown drapes over his chair, with the simple brass shoulder pin still attached. Most would call it a fibula, but Ioannes would chew you out for using that Latin word. He scratches furiously on the papyrus, but his handwriting is surprisingly legible despite his speed. Still, the letters trip over each other in their haste to reach the end of the page. Despite his youth, you know he is already an accomplished writer. The chain that hangs around his neck holds a cross, but it's tucked inside his tunic near his heart. Ioannes is a quiet and meek man, a man you would never have noticed if he didn't go to Penelope's house for church. He winces. He'll need his wrist wrapped when he's done but you know better than to interrupt him. He's rewriting his book, his Apocalypse. It's the hot new thing up in Athens they say, a short text that reads like the ravings of a street-corner soothsayer. A fair number of them are little more than that. But not the one Ioannes is writing out now, you know. You corrected his first copy, and you know it's message.
It is a call to revolution, against Rome. He's writing an Apocalypse in order to maintain some deniability, after all most such writings are in fact just meaningless fancies. Yet, when this hits the streets it will be a match to set this tinderbox on fire. Up in Ephesus you heard about some kid who set that huge Roman temple on fire. Hellas has never borne the Roman yoke easily, and Rome has always been ambivalent about it's feelings towards the people of this peninsula. On the one hand, they revere your ancient culture: and on the other it is a threat to their power. There have been other rebellions against Roman rule of course, but none got very far. Right now, Rome controls something all-important. You pull a drachma from your purse, there, the face stamped onto it's surface: Alexandros o Megas, Alexander the Great.
You smile, and look at Ioannes. He is about to commit the greatest heist in history without breaking a window or flashing a knife. It's a simple enough trick, childishly simple in fact. It was inspired by the Rabbi whom Penelope managed to bring in from Antioch, who gave a sermon on the story of Abraham sacrificing Isaac. He explained that the shining ram which God gave to Abraham to sacrifice instead of Isaac was the Egyptian god Ammon, whom Abraham had been sacrificing to out of fear and habit. Ioannes had pulled out his tablet and scratched that into the wax. He carried that with him wherever he went, for he always said that one could never predict inspiration. Then he'd scratched "they say Alexander is the son of Ammon" in the wax, and grinned at you with fire dancing in his eyes. You looked at him confused, and then you realized. The key to defeating the Romans was to take Alexander away from them: and the key to doing that was to use this Jewish story. Alexander was the son of Ammon, the lamb is the son of the ram. You take out your stylus and raise an eyebrow. Ioannes nods, you can write something. You write "Christ is the lamb of God" on his tablet. his eyes get large, and he nods. He likes the idea. The code isn't hard to break, but they won't be able to prove anything either. It's a perfect crime really, one that the victim won't even know is happening. By merging Christ and Alexander, Ioannes can steal the symbol of your culture back from the Romans right under their noses. The ancient prophecy that he who controls Alexander's body shall rule Asia is as true now as it was when it was made. We cannot steal his physical body, lying in state in Alexandria. But we can steal his literary body, by stealing the most famous text about his life: Plutarch's Life of Alexander. We can simply substitute the personified city of Jerusalem for Princess Stateira, and lift the wedding scene from Plutarch, as our ending. This is the story Ioannes is now copying out. He stops, and looks up at you with a tired smile.
Revelations is not the only Plutarch rip-off, although it is certainly the best-crafted one. It is also the most historically significant one. What John of Patmos did here, is extremely clever. He re-appropriated the figure of Alexander right under Rome's nose. The text never explicitly says that The Lamb is Jesus, nor does it introduce The Lamb in any way. It expects you to know who this is: because John's original readers did know. They had a picture of him in their pocket. It is a merging of Jesus and Alexander: and by merging the two figures, John is stealing Alexander back from Rome. Rome quite literally stole Alexander's body: The Emperor Augustus had his own head affixed to a copy of Alexander's statue. He also metaphorically stole Alexander by claiming the titles that Alexander had used: "son of Ammon", being one of them. Thus began the cult of the Roman Emperors, which became the source of conflict between Rome and Judea: which became the foundation for Christianity.
But, when John set pen to paper, there was no such thing as "Christianity". There were Jews who believed that Jesus was the Messiah, and gentile converts who looked to Jesus as a prophet of a new age. As soon as John of Patmos was done with his manuscript however, Christianity had emerged. From what? from the union of Alexander, the representation of Hellenism as a philosophy, and the city of Jerusalem as the representation of Jewish culture. A part of Christianity that many have tried to deny, because it is in some ways uncomfortable. Yet, one cannot deny it when confronted by the Lamb. This name derives from the story of Abraham sacrificing Isaac: which is one of a few stories that is told twice in the Toraic narrative. In one story, no ram is mentioned and Isaac seems to die. The text cryptically says that Abraham "and his family" returned to their home. Many have read this as the "bad ending", where Abraham abandons God and kills Isaac who is God's gift: preferring instead to retain his polytheistic lifestyle. The other story mentions the shining ram that suddenly appears caught in the thorn bush, and explicitly says that Isaac comes home with Abraham: because the ram was sacrificed instead. Now, like all biblical stories there is more than one possible interpretation here: but a very likely one is that we are dealing with a story about choosing between God's gifts, and appeasing other gods.
The writers of the Old Testament took an interesting view of the many gods that were worshiped by other peoples: a view more reminiscent of the one that the ancient Persians had, than of the conventional interpretation that Jews and Christians today have. Today, we ascribe no power to the statues of gods that we find in the ruins of ancient civilizations: we use them, but merely as symbols. Some more conservative cults view ancient (or modern) gods as demons or lies of Satan. However, the ancient writers do not attempt to deny the existence or power of other gods, nor do they attribute them to a semi-divine evil. The gods of the Canaanites and the Egyptians, the Assyrians and the Hittites are all real, to the ancient Jews. These are all powerful divine entities, with the very real ability to help and harm people.
Today we ask people if they "believe in" God, but that would have seemed an absurd question to ask someone in the ancient world: as indeed it would still be an absurd question in say Japan or India. Ancient people, like modern Hindus or Shinto practitioners, didn't "believe" gods existed: they personified and worshiped forces that did exist. People didn't worship every god of course, just the ones they needed favors from or needed to ward against. The Jews worshiped only their own deity, the personification of their own civilization: and believed that this deity took care of all of their needs. But, it was difficult for the early Jews to always maintain that belief. Thus the story of Abraham and Isaac. Presumably Abraham has been sacrificing to Ammon, the god of the sun, so that his cattle will have water. Perhaps he doesn't even view it as worship, since he detests Ammon and the sun (being a herder and all). This would then be why God asks Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. But, in the "good ending" story: God gives Abraham the choice to sacrifice Ammon (who was often represented as a ram, or ram-headed) instead, to fully trust that God will take care of him.
This interpretation is clearly what the writer of Revelations had in mind, because understanding the character of The Lamb requires this interpretation. The shining ram that Abraham sacrifices is not just a random animal but a god, a god who had a child. Now the child isn't specifically the historical figure that we know as Alexander. Alexander was only one incarnation of Ammon's child. Ammon was the King of the Egyptian Gods in the New Kingdom period: better known to you probably as Ammon-Ra. His son was the Pharaoh of Egypt. Now, there hadn't actually been a Pharaoh of Egypt for a while when John of Patmos penned his book. But, partially because of the practice of mummification, people didn't really think of them as history. Alexander himself, dead for several hundred years, looked like he would wake up from a nap at any time. We have Julius Caesar's astounded description of his three hundred year old corpse: wavy strawberry blond silver-streaked hair, light olive skin, dark brows and eyelashes, chiseled features, a smile still hanging on his perfectly curved lips. It's hard to think of a body this well preserved as dead, much less as a historical figure. That was, of course, the point. And it is exactly this which John of Patmos is using. In his time, people still believe in the power of Alexander, in the power that owning his body has: and this is the source of the Romans' hold on power in the lands outside of Italy. Their claim to legitimacy rests on claiming that they are the rightful successors to Alexander and the Ptolemaic dynasty: chosen by the god Ammon. And it is that claim which Revelations undermines. It claims that Jesus is instead the rightful successor to Alexander and the Ptolemies: that Jesus is the true son of Ammon. Ammon who is now one with God, having been sacrificed by Abraham: according to the logic that the Romans themselves used in sacrificial rituals.
This brings me to the reason that this book is included in the Bible. Christians do not believe that the holy book comes straight from the mouth of God. Divinely inspired yes, but written and crafted by mortal hands. The Bible was put together at the Council of Nicea, centuries after the gospels were written: and most of the gospels weren't written at the time of the events they depict. John of Patmos himself was writing almost a century after Christ's death. No church, to my knowledge, disputes these facts about the Bible. At first blush Revelations seems to have almost nothing to do with the rest of the books in the Bible. This is the reason that mainline Protestants tend to ignore it: it seems like it has no real reason for being included. But it does.
This book created Christianity as a separate phenomenon from Judaism. Jesus did not create a religion, nor was he trying to. He was a Jew, and he saw himself as a reformer: perhaps as a Prophet, in the mold of Samuel and Elijah. Paul and Thekla weren't creating a religion either: they were leading a revolutionary and counter-cultural movement. Religion and politics went hand in hand in Ancient Rome, to be loyal to the Emperor was to worship the Emperor. Mystery cults of particular gods, in the time of John of Patmos, were all the rage: cults devoted to recreating and sharing in a particular god's mythology. People of all backgrounds and all types were participating in these cults: and there were fashionable ones, like the cult of Mithras. Because of this context, any counter-cultural movement was necessarily religious. Secular societies, such as the Stoics, simply could not mobilize in any meaningful way. Stoic resistance to the excesses of the Roman Empire was frequent, and constant: but completely futile. Religions however, had threatened Rome since it's early days: even if they had also been it's salvation in times of crisis.
The first Christians knew very well the story of the Parthian mother goddess and the Galli. In the 3rd Century BCE, even as the flesh-and-blood Alexander marched across Central Asia, Rome was sacked by the Celts. With the city in flames and it's government in disarray, the fledgeling republic turned to it's sacred heart: the Sybiline prophecies. Supposedly these scrolls foretold the city's destiny. Though in reality it's likely the prophecies were an invention, used by the city's elite to convince the rest of the people that whatever happened was destiny. Of course, that works as long as you actually manage to achieve world domination. In any case the scrolls supposedly said that the city needed a statue of this Parthian mother goddess and a group of her priests, the Galli, to care for it. The political motivation for this has been obscured by the centuries, but presumably there was one. And, as it happened, one was available: thanks to Alexander torching Persepolis.
The statue was one thing, the cult another. Bringing a new god into Rome would ordinarily not be seen as a bad thing, and bringing in a mother goddess seems like a sensible idea when you need to rebuild a city. But this mother goddess was something that Rome was not ready for. She wasn't Demeter or Hera, goddesses who were powerful but who supported and upheld the masculine paradigm that dominated ancient Greece and Rome (and indeed much of the ancient world). Her cult was akin to, and probably an offshoot of, the cult of Kali-maa in India: a cult still very much alive today. It's unique feature is that it believes, not in feminine equality, but in feminine supremacy. The foundational myth is of the war goddess Durga transforming into the bestial Kali to battle a demon so strong all the other gods working together couldn't have defeated it. The battle is epic, for the demon has many forms and many lives. Finally it is dead, but Kali is overcome by bloodlust and does not stop her rampage. Afraid that she will kill all the other gods, her husband Shiva lies down in her path. When she steps on him, she realizes her mistake and stops. Now, one must understand that Shiva is the god of death: one of the strongest and most worshiped gods in the Hindu pantheon. Death submits to Kali: and this is the ironclad basis of this cult's belief system. The feminine ability to create life cheats death of it's power over humanity: allowing all things (Hindus believe) to go through the cycle of reincarnation. Kali incorporates all that is terrifying, and all that is amazing, about the reproductive process: and the cult of Kali sternly teaches men to accept the process in all it's horror and glory, as Shiva did. This was the goddess which the Romans now had to reckon with.
But the Parthians had taken things one step further from the Indians. The landscape of Northern India is dotted with citadels constructed by Kali-worshiping princes, so fanatically devoted to their goddess that they fought to annihilation rather than be conquered by the Mughals. But the Parthians had one-upped their southern compatriots thousands of years earlier. The Galli were not simply priests, they were eunuchs. Not men who had been enslaved and forcefully castrated: no, these were free men who had castrated themselves in a public ceremony. Even their home society had trouble accepting them. But, the awful power of their goddess could not be denied: she kept the fields fertile and the rivers full. If Parthia had an uneasy relationship with this cult, Rome was going to have an even more troubled time.
Rome was founded on a firm belief in the supremacy of masculine excellence. Young and vigorous men were the source of Rome's glory, it was believed: and very few had dared to question this. The practice of castrating men was taboo in Rome, even if wealthy Romans frequently had eunuch slaves just like everyone else. Eunuchs were objects of scorn, even if they hadn't chosen their situation. When the Romans witnessed the initiation rites for the Parthian goddess, they were shocked and disgusted: the citizens very nearly revolted. This was given the provision that no Roman citizen could join the cult. However, even in the beginning there were Roman men who looked not with disgust but with jealousy. As the centuries wore on, there were more and more petitions from Roman citizens to join the cult. Yes, Roman men petitioning the state to let them castrate themselves. Eventually, the Emperor reluctantly agreed to let even Roman citizens into the cult. Christians were around by this time, and they saw this. The power of this mystery cult to both induce ideological change in individuals, and to force the hand of the mighty Roman Empire, was lost on no one.
Don't you think it's odd, that the bringers of the apocalypse are horsemen? I did. Why should they be horsemen, in a book full of monsters and talking animals? why something as mundane as horsemen? The answer is that they are horsemen, because they are Macedonians. They are Alexander's chief generals: Ptolemy, Parmenio, Cleitus and Seleukas. It's not even that hard to work out which is which. Parmenio is Death: for he was killed on Alexander's orders. Ptolemy is War (Conquest): for he was the one most renowned for his military might. Cleitus is Famine: because he razed Thebes, and because of his scorched-earth campaign in Central Asia. Seleukas is Pestilence: because the Empire he created after Alexander's death was seen as a bastion of immorality and decadence. Stealing these four would furthermore have been just as important as stealing Alexander because they are pivotal to Alexander's legacy.
Alexander could not have done what he did without them: without their skills and their support. The story of Alexander is not simply the story of a single remarkable individual: although the real Alexander was indeed remarkable. It is the story of many remarkable individuals working together towards a common goal. Ptolemy is rightly revered for his own deeds. The Egypt that he chased the Persian garrison out of in 334 BC was a nation hurting from betrayal and languishing in obscurity. It's economy was in shambles, it had no military of it's own, and it was culturally stuck in the past. By the end of his life, Egypt was the economic and cultural powerhouse that it had traditionally been once again, and with the military power to back that up. Parmenio was an old man in Alexander's time, a friend of his father King Philip. He had accompanied Philip through all of his exploits, and then went on to ably defend Alexander's rear. His death was a tragedy worthy of the stage: his son Philotas committed treason, so Parmenio had to be killed in order to prevent a blood feud. Cleitus might have had a mean streak (and a drinking problem), but he was an inspirational leader to his own soldiers and a street-savvy politician whom several future Roman Emperors took as a role model (including arguably the greatest: Trajan). Seleukas was also an able ruler and a shrewd diplomat: unifying a dizzying variety of ethnic groups under his banner, and allying himself with a young Chandragupta Maurya, before anyone else had realized this eighteen year old pretty-boy prince was a force to be reckoned with. He poured his share of the war booty into artistic projects, some of which still exist in some form. He was also a great city-builder, probably responsible for three of the four cities that bore the name "Alexandria", and definitely responsible for Palmyra. If Alexander had never existed, these four men would still be remembered for their own deeds and qualities. But because they were his generals they had a ludicrously outsized impact on world history: to the point where it's easy even for modern commentators to forget these were men.
But what does any of this have to do with modern society? I'm talking here about events that took place at least 2,000 years ago. Because Revelations is an example of something that some postmodernists have attempted to argue is impossible: re-appropriation. An extraordinarily successful example. Love it or hate it, Christianity is one of the most wildly successful social movements in all of human history: and John's little book is one of the major reasons why. For all it's weirdness, it made a convincing argument: the Emperor in Rome is no true successor to the great Alexander, Jesus is.
Indeed, Revelations managed to so entangle the myth of Alexander with the myth of Christ that Christianity actually co-opted Alexander's cult: the cult of Sol Invictus. Ever wondered why Christians end prayers with the word "Amen"? I did. It's the Hebrew form of the Egyptian name Ammon. This practice is a holdover from the cult of Sol Invictus. That is not to say this hasn't created problems. Indeed many of the problematic ideas in Christianity, modern or historical, can be traced to the cult of Sol Invictus. And, as ideas about sex and therefore marriage changed: people reinterpreted the wedding imagery in Revelations, leading to anti-Semitic ideas like that Jerusalem needs to be conquered by Christians before the Apocalypse comes (double whammy, misogyny AND anti-semitism). However, Revelations still provides a fantastic example of how to re-appropriate a symbol, and of just how powerful actually pulling that off can be.
