Aphrodisias, Laodicea, and Hierapolis

The ruins of Aphrodisias, Laodicea, and Hierapolis each instruct anew of the fragility of all things human. How can one not be struck to the heart by the inexorable passage of lives, with their admixture of joys and sorrows, into the oblivion of the dust? But for the mercy of God and the hope of the resurrection, despair at demise, destruction, death, and decay looms.

Here, in each of these magnificent cities, once lived dancing children, harried mothers, officious fathers, and exhausted slaves. In forgotten precincts yet to be discovered by the archaeologists are places that witnessed the weal and woe, the gladness and grieving, of people thrilled at bountiful crops or devastated by inexplicable plagues. In the shadow of decorous marble columns heralding the high holy places of the gods–now reassembled as silent sentinels over vacant bases–festive processions and desperate suppliants once submitted themselves to powers greater than they.

They are gone. These people and the things dear to them have vanished from the earth. Their names, but for few exceptions, are forgotten. Their finely fashioned baths, bouleterions, temples, and theaters are no more. Their great city gates and high walls are broken and ruined.

Such sights (though surely not the same ones) maybe prompted Bertrand Russell, in characteristically bombastic form, to write words marked by the most bleak form of despair, the kind in which despair is celebrated proudly:

Blind to good and evil, reckless of destruction, omnipotent matter rolls on its relentless way; for man, condemned today to lose his dearest, tomorrow himself to pass through the gate of darkness, it remains only to cherish . . . the lofty thoughts that ennoble his little day; disdaining the coward terrors of the slave of Fate, to worship at the shrine that his own hands have built; undismayed by the empire of chance, to preserve a mind free from the wanton tyranny that rules his outward life; proudly defiant of the irresistible forces that tolerate, for a moment, his knowledge and his condemnation, to sustain alone, a weary but unyielding Atlas, the world that his own ideals have fashioned despite the trampling march of unconscious power. (“A Free Man’s Worship”)

For my part, I cannot “stand proudly defiant” before irresistible forces or preserve a mind “undismayed by the empire of chance.” If it all comes down to relentless, impersonal matter and energy that combine and separate by chance–if no more can be said of the cosmos than what’s offered in the latest repackaged version of Democritus’ millennia-old atomism–then there is no point.

However, if Democritus, Russell, and their comrades in despair are wrong, then death’s inevitability need not be defiantly resisted. If instead of smallness of spirit and austere aspiration, we have justification for a greater hope, then giving dear things over to dry dust’s keeping need not imply oblivion. For if dust’s neglectful vigil isn’t the end of everything, but if our beginning and end are in God, then even our dry bones may be re-membered as Ezekiel’s vision witnessed.

So shall what appears lost be recovered and regained? Shall the Aphrodisians, Laodiceans, and Hierapolitans walk again, recalling stories of old while living, learning, and loving in the presence of none less than God?

To the church in Laodicea and indeed to anyone with ears to hear, St. John invited as much as this and even more. He writes that Jesus said, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me. The one who conquers, I will grant him to sit with me on my throne, as I also conquered and sat down with my Father on his throne” (Rev. 3:20-21).

Thus, though I mourn the ruined cities of Aphrodisias, Laodicea, and Hierapolis, they do not leave me in despair. The sight of their fallen walls and upset columns, reminding me of the inevitable ruin that will befall what is mine, help me walk more steadfastly as a stranger and sojourner upon the face of the earth. Their weed-strewn agoras and dirt-filled wells, monuments to long-lost prosperity, counsel me to hold God’s blessings with greater gratitude and less possessiveness. The vacancy of their uneven marble streets and the echoing emptiness of their haunted halls inspire me all the more to cherish the companionship of dear friends and to pray for those who are alone.

Life gives way to death–about that there can be no doubt. Yet the abiding promise and glorious example of Christ is that for those that love God, death shall give way to new life. May the dead in Christ be raised from their dusty abode, and may I one day rejoice with them as they remember when Aphrodisias, Laodicea, and Hierapolis were grand.

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One Response to Aphrodisias, Laodicea, and Hierapolis

  1. Kirby Shaw says:

    Doug,
    I asked your mom and dad to share your posts from your study trip with me when they were at our home on the Fourth of July. As a retired middle school world history teacher, I enjoyed reading about so many of the places I had taught my students over the years. I read your posts from last to first and enjoyed each one immensely, but I believe this first one is my favorite. Having just marked the 10th anniversary of our son Ryan’s death on July 6th, your observations and conclusions in this post are so comforting to me: “. . .for those that love God, death shall give way to new life” and “to hold God’s blessings with greater gratitude and less possessiveness.” This trip sounds incredible. But your thoughts about these people and places of the past and your ability to express them so beautifully were even more incredible! Thanks for sharing.

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