REINCARNATION / NOVEL

Curiosity — 10

Origen Speaks

To read this novel from the beginning, click here.

I have come up in time nearly two thousand years to talk to you, to lighten my mind, to ease my heart, and to perhaps enlighten you.

I’ve come here to tell you what my contemporaries would not grasp, no matter how hard I tried to explain or how many tracts I wrote.

I’ve come here with the hope that you, in this new, much fresher and more advanced now; that you, less prejudiced, less paranoid — for yes, I believe that would be the word best to describe Jerome, paranoid — that this more open and accepting you will be able to understand, will be able to see what I tried to say in my day, tried so hard to show my fellows in Christ.

Our Savior, Lord Jesus Christ, you understand, was not a dim historical figure when I lived and contemplated and wrote; he was a relatively recent phenomenon (a word as good as any to describe him). I was born only some one hundred fifty years after His crucifixion, and I thought of him as you would think, say, of your President Lincoln. Definitely an historical figure, and not that long ago. Perhaps if you found the right (very old) person, perhaps, you’d even find an eyewitness — someone who had seen Mr. Lincoln. No, perhaps not, too long ago. I certainly never found anyone who had seen or spoken to our Savior, that would have been asking too much, I think; not that I was looking.

I was born into a Christian home, for my parents were Christian converts, so I came to know no other path. Truly, I yearned for no other path, for I knew by the light of my father’s eyes, by the joy of my mother’s smile, that the path was true. They spoke of Jesus as of someone they had met and knew well, as of a friend who had brought them many wonderful gifts. As if they had in fact seen him (which they had not). I came to know Him in that light.

At one point, my father traveled to Palestine and brought back many scrolls of well-copied Greek writing; mostly, they were the Gospels — those of John, of Luke, Mark, Matthew, Thomas, and of Phillip; and of Judas. He taught me, at a very early age, to read them. I had a gift for languages and found Greek both beautiful and logical. My father also taught me, as soon as I was old enough, to respect my intellect, to ask questions — of myself as well as of others.

And he taught me to seek and accept and venerate the truth in all my endeavors. He taught me not to shun science and philosophy, as these subjects hold truth as well as the Gospels. Not of the same holy substance, perhaps, he said, but truth nonetheless.

And he taught me to seek out teachers and how to tell the vain and greedy from the sincere and helpful. In truth, my father raised me as well as a father ever could, and I will always remain grateful to him.

And he gave me one final gift.

I was seventeen years old when Emperor Septimius Severus, fed up with the Christians and all things Christian by then, brought his wrath to bear on Alexandria. I saw my father killed. The urge to throw myself on the soldiers’ lances nearly made me follow him. Many protective arms restrained me even though I fought like a lion for the right to die. In the end, it was my mother’s voice that persuaded me to go on living.

It was then, with my head buried in my mother’s shoulder and my body still wracking from the loss of my father, that my father said to me — his voice as clear as a crystal bell: “My son, what you have just witnessed, my body crushed by stones and bleeding to death from these many lance wounds, is nothing but the veil of flesh opening to let me out. Nothing could be more insubstantial than the flesh. Nothing could be more untrue than the flesh, for I am still here, Son, still alive, and now I go to find myself another home, like the one I just left — if a little prematurely.

“And now I know what our Savior meant. I pray we shall meet again.”

“Father?” I said, looking up from my mother’s shoulder and brushing her hair from my face.

“Son?” She said.

I looked at her and she at me, and I told her I had heard my father speak.

She didn’t answer, but looked at me with concern.

They seized our house, for the soldiers carried scrolls of declarations that assigned to the killers the homes and belongings of any rebel they executed — though assassinated might be the better word.

We — me, my mother and siblings — were driven into the streets, and we were lucky to have carried on our persons enough money to buy a tent to shield us from the sun and rain.

After a while, I went to work as a teacher of reading and writing and earned enough to keep us alive. My mother worked as a washerwoman, while my siblings stayed behind to guard the tent: those who have something (if only a tent) are never safe from those who have nothing.

I was eighteen years old when the eyes of Demetrius, our local patriarch, fell upon me and saw in me someone who could head up the Catechetical School (Clement, who was its founder and leader, had fled during the Severus prosecutions and was apparently not coming back). I took the assignment gladly and went to work.

It did not pay particularly well, but well enough to allow my family to move back in under a decent roof, cooler in the summer, warmer in the winter. Also, at this time, I came to befriend Ambrose, who had come to me with many questions, all of which I answered to his satisfaction. As a result, he became a Christian and gave me all the credit.

“You,” he said to me many times, “you need to reach the many.”

“I am reaching the many,” I answered. “Every day. The school is full.”

“You need to reach beyond the walls of this hall, beyond your pupils. You must write down your thoughts that others, far away, may read them and become astounded, as have I, and so that they too may convert to the True Faith.”

Then he would add, “I have the funds. I have ample funds. I will make it possible.”

Yes, he did have the funds. He was one of the wealthier men in Alexandria, and once I had agreed to write my explanations and comments on the Scriptures down, he gave me all assistance I could ask for: as many scribes as I needed to take dictation; as many copyists and proof readers as I wanted to make the copies; all the papyrus and ink I could possibly use. In fact, Ambrose dedicated most of his resources to my new mission, while also making sure my family wanted for nothing. Was it the Savior who had brought Ambrose to me, or me to him? Surely, this must have been so.

Before I forget, let me get something out of the way: Did I, or did I not castrate myself? I know it has been on your mind to ask, and I guess you have a right to know. The answer is yes. But there is more to that, yes, than just a yes. I guess you can put it down to equal measures of youthful folly and propriety. You see, I had many pretty young girls as my students, and it would not, certainly would not do to in any way foster indecorous speculation. So, in order to preserve and protect the good reputation of the school, yes: yes, I did it. The youthful zealot that I was interpreted Matthew 19:12 (I am sure you are familiar with it: “For there are eunuchs who were born that way from their mother’s womb, and there are eunuchs who were made eunuchs by men; and there are eunuchs who made themselves eunuchs for the Kingdom of Heaven’s sake. He who is able to receive it, let him receive it.”) a little (or a lot) too literally, and so it was done.

I did regret it, and often, though this exuberant folly did serve its purpose: I never lusted unbearably — only bearably.

Consider that question settled.

There have always been — and most likely always will be — two kinds of people. There are the many who are of simple mind, happy at the plow, or with their nets, and who will remain satisfied with the corporeal gospel: they understand that Jesus was born of the Spirit and the Virgin Mary, and that he died for our sins — handing us a crucial lifeline. And that is all they need to know. Faith (that virtually blind confidence that Jesus has shouldered all my sins and that all is now forgiven, provided I pray and believe) takes care of the rest.

But there are those few who are not simple, who are intellectually hungry, who crave the spiritual gospel: the truth beneath or beyond the apparent and physical. There are those who crave true understanding — those who crave to illuminate their faith with true vision.

Ambrose was one of the few, and he had many questions. I did my best to answer him.

I, too, had many questions, and again I did my best to answer them. And I knew as I wrote down the answers I found, or dictated them to one of my scribes, that I did so for the few, for those who wanted to see, who wanted to illuminate their faith with true vision.

I have my father to thank that I knew science and could think clearly.

This was my task: Ambrose came to me, time and again, asking me to clarify, by example and elucidation, each of the Gospels as well as each of the books of the Old Testament.

This was my problem: How was I to know which version, and there were many, many versions (especially of the Old Testament in Greek translation) extant in Alexandria at the time; how was I to know which version to trust, which version to clarify for Ambrose’s benefit?

The Gospels, recorded in Greek from the outset, were all recent writings by comparison and had not had the chance to proliferate and thus alter as much as the Old Testament books, and so presented less of a problem. Still, there were differing versions of the Gospels as well: I encountered four different renditions of Luke, for example. But the Old Testament, originally composed in Hebrew, had a host of Greek versions, some drastically conflicting both with the original and among themselves. My first task then, as I saw it, were I to expound on the meaning of the Scriptures, was to establish what indeed were the Scriptures; to ascertain, as well as I could, what had been written, and before that — before anything at all had been written down — what had been said, and before that (overly ambitious though I was in this regard), what had been intended.

Ambrose understood my reasoning and did all he could to help. He found for me, of the Old Testament, first: a clean, newly copied from an ancient original, Hebrew Text; second: this Hebrew text very literally — word for word — translated into Greek; third: Aquila’s Greek translation; fourth: Symmachus’ Greek translation; fifth: the Septuagint; and sixth: Theodotion’s Greek translation. Later, Ambrose unearthed two more Greek translations for which we could determine no author, so I used them only sparingly.

Armed then with these six versions of the Old Testament, and with a Hebrew Scholar — who knew Greek as well as I did (I had not yet mastered the Hebrew language, although I was studying to learn it in what little spare time I could find) — by my side, I set to work to determine what had indeed been written or said by the Biblical Fathers.

To accomplish my goal, I assigned to each version a column, and I placed these columns side by side for easy comparison. Thus outlined, I could, first with the help of my Hebrew scholar, later — by the time I had grown proficient in that language — by myself, determine, to the best of my ability, the true text of the Old Testament. I set this determination down in Greek — to create what I still think of (with some pride) as Origen’s Old Testament.

I understand that this book, my Old Testament, has indeed (and sadly) been lost (or destroyed), along with the Hexapla, which is what I named my six-column comparison.

With these Old Testament labors under my belt, I now felt both proficient in and comfortable with this, my six-column approach, and so treated the Gospels in a like manner.

The ever-resourceful Ambrose recovered for me six different renditions of the New Testament, which I proceeded to list in a similar side-by-side column fashion to afford me an overview of the variations. From that, I constructed what I understood to be the true Gospels and recorded them in Greek. This document (Origen’s New Testament), too, from what I can ascertain, has been lost (or destroyed).

Why did I go to all this trouble?

As I said, if I were to think deeply upon and clarify for the few the spiritual meaning of both the Gospels and the Old Testament, my first duty was to establish the true text, or a text that was as close to true as I could possibly make it.

Let me, too, say that this work consumed many years of my life, nearly thirty. But as I completed a Psalm or a Chapter or one of Paul’s Letters, and now possessed the true version (or as true as I could ascertain), I then contemplated upon it, inviting as I did so the Spirit to help me see.

Then I set down, or dictated, my understanding of it. This is what was later referred to as my commentaries. They were many, and they were for a time quite widely read — in fact by many more people than I could ever have hoped.

In the third year of the reign of Severus Alexander, that would be the year 225 by your reckoning, I began the work which landed me in more trouble than any other.

In that year, Ambrose came to me one day, and he asked, “Of what nature is God?”

When I did not answer immediately, for I didn’t know what to answer, he added, “Of what nature is the world, the earth, the water? Are they perhaps not God’s dream?”

“You, Ambrose,” I said, “ask me of what are the Universe and its Maker made?”

“These are questions one cannot help but kindle,” he answered.

I looked at my friend and nodded, yes, yes, he was right. For the few who thirsted to know, these were questions invariably (as you peeled off the obscuring questions/layers one by one) awaiting their turn.

“I shall try to answer them,” I said. “But I will have to think about it, and I will need the inspiration of the luminous Spirit.”

“As always,” said Ambrose, “I shall do all I can to help.”

And so, that year, I started to write On First Principles. The title is not mine; it belongs to my teacher, Clement, who, before he fled Alexandria, sometimes spoke of a work he called First Principles and Theology. I never saw this work complete, only fragments that he sometimes would share. Perhaps he never finished it.

In First Principles and Theology, Clement set down his answers to questions raised by the brighter students, much as Ambrose raised these questions with me, and I was now to follow in my teacher’s footsteps.

So, you see, I was not the first to embark upon this venture, nor was Clement, for he benefited from the labors of Justin, Tatian, Athenagoras, and Pantaenus, as would I. But perhaps I was the first to complete such an effort. I should like to think so.

What I tried to do, what I honestly attempted to do with this book, was to reconcile the Old Testament and the Gospels with the wisdom of Greece and that of the Orient — for yes, we had many a trader in Alexandria at the time that called themselves Hindu, and some that professed the teachings of a man they called Gotama Buddha.

Though I was not well versed with either of these teachings, I did listen to these men and asked them questions, if for no other reason than to see whether they pondered the same problems as did I. And, yes, they surely did. And, of course, that stood to reason for they, although several seas away, did not live in another Universe, or on another planet. They would have to obey the same spiritual laws as did we in Alexandria.

What I tried to do was to assimilate all I had learned and all I could deduce — this in the light of the Spirit — to see what could be seen. And what I saw I wrote down as honestly as I could, and I called these writings On First Principles.

Once written and copied and passed along to my students and several others, I soon had ample cause to regret my spiritual inquiry for those I still think of as simpliciores — those who fear all independent thought and are wont to raise the cry “Only Believe” — condemned my book out of hand. Demetrius, for reasons of his own, even deemed it heretical.

Let me say this though: had I not written this work, had I not compiled these questions and traced these answers in the depth of my soul, someone else would have, for these were questions always raised by the few in the serenity of their own hearts, and I saw it as God’s edict, something I had to do to serve the Church. And let me say, too, that I felt myself gifted with the grace of the Holy Spirit while I pondered these questions and set down my answers. I say my answers, when in truth I feel that many of those answers were dictated by the Holy Spirit and so belong to Him.

I also admit that the meaning of this work is not recognized by all, and will not appear plain to those somewhat dull. I include among the dull ones many bishops and the occasional pope.

And let me also say this: I have a clear view now. I can look back upon what I thought and said these many, many years ago, and I can see what the Christian, and especially the Church, has done with this inquiry. I told the truth as best I could, guided by the Holy Spirit. This was not a pleasant truth, perhaps, nor a profitable one to those whose purpose, both within the Church and without, was self-aggrandizement and riches.

And let me return here to Jerome, the so-revered, so-saintly Jerome: he was not a bad man, just very vain and very afraid to be branded for heresy along with me.

Rufinus was right when he observed that he saw Jerome derive more pleasure from the works of his own pen than from any other source; that he almost exclusively pursued tasks that promised greater fame: that of being father of the word, not a mere translator.

Jerome had a wicked pen and a very clever one. Rufinus commented that Jerome was so skilled with words that he could make one whom he wished to injure and to wound remain ignorant of his wounds and injuries. Very subtle, Jerome. Rufinus also said that idle gossip would stir Jerome to fault-finding and vituperation. Far from saintly, Jerome.

And Jerome helped himself to much of my early writings, did the good Jerome, when it suited his purposes; this with not as much as a sigh in disagreement, but, oh, how fast he recanted once popular opinion came down on the side of my enemies. Oh, my, how the man sweated and washed his hands off me, and for a lot less than thirty silver pieces. Oh, dear. I didn’t really mean to draw that comparison, but well, now that it’s done, I shall let it stand.

And Jerome was not alone. Many a bishop and many a pope have looked upon my writings and found them unprofitable, for they stir thoughts and raise questions among the simpliciores — who should “Only Believe” — and this tendency is not to the pecuniary advantage of the Church.

I claimed then, and still do, these two things which joined me to the ranks of heretics: That the soul is immortal, has always lived, will always live; and that God is not so hateful as to create a Hell that is punitive rather than remedial.

I believed then, and still do, that all souls stem from God, and that all souls will one day return to God, who truly is all in all. The obvious fact that this return to God would include Satan as well is, to my thinking, beside the point, but not so to the mighty Church, which saw its coffers threatened.

For if man did not die at body death, and if Hell was not eternal, what sway could the Church hold over the simple believer? How could she extract tithes and other riches that allowed priests and bishops and popes to live like kings while the simpliciores starved to death? My mistake was to not estimate correctly the grip that greed, envy, and vanity can have upon Man’s soul, whether within the Church or without.

You can read it if you want, my On First Principles. Perhaps you should. Rufinus made a good enough translation of it, the only copy to survive the wrath of Justin and the 5th Council of Constantinople.

And let me finally say, beware of anyone who tells you what to think, and even more so of anyone who tells you how to think. Honest men are hard to find on this planet. Should you discern one, read him and understand him, and ask all the questions you will, for he may well be able to answer them, or at least provide you the light by which to seek and find those answers for yourself.

I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you for listening.

To read the next chapter, click here.

© Wolfstuff

[embed]Ulf Wolf Here are the song poems that I am happy enough with to share with what little sliver of the world might find its way to…www.youtube.com