Touring Turkey: Part 2 “The View from Assos”

The harbor at Assos (photo by me)

Sometimes what seems like a throw-away biblical text surprises us.  I discovered an instance of this while reading the book of Acts just before touring Turkey.

From September 10 to 25 I helped lead a Whitworth tour to Turkey.  There were twenty of us.  It was an amazing experience of travel with a group of people who quickly became friends.

Turkish service is the best I have ever witnessed.  We were warmly welcomed no matter where we traveled, from the most popular tourist sites to remote places that rarely see tourists at all.  The country is also beautiful: mountainous in the interior, rugged along the coastline.  I hope to return, perhaps with a group of pastors.

Turkey is especially appealing as a travel destination because it has so many layers of civilization: Greco-Roman and early Christian, Byzantine, Ottoman, and modern.  We beheld the ancient ruins of Ephesus and Perga, the Byzantine wonder of the Hagia Sophia, the caves of the desert fathers and others in Cappadocia, the Ottoman opulence of Topkapi Palace, and the modern cities of Istanbul and Antalya.

Paul traveled through much of this region, and on more than one occasion, too.  He planted churches in cities like Pisidian Antioch, trained pastors in Ephesus, and traveled along the Aegean coastline, preaching along the way.  He exercised a formative influence in shaping the early Christian movement, laying its foundation, as he wrote in I Corinthians 3, which many others—many, many millions—have built upon ever since.

That foundation remains to this day, unlike the Roman Empire, which is long gone.

Yet one can hardly find material evidence of the presence and influence of early Christians.  For example, Christians didn’t build churches until after Constantine came to power in the fourth century.  We know that Christianity spread; we also know it had cultural impact, as Acts 19 and Pliny’s letter to Trajan in the year 111 demonstrate.  But there is scant archeological evidence of its influence.

How could Christianity establish such a robust and stable movement without any form of state support?  Without creating the kind of material culture that we often associate with Christian impact (like church buildings).  One passage gives us a hint.

“We went ahead to the ship [which was mooring in the port city of Troas] and set sail for Assos, intending to take Paul on board there; for he had made this arrangement, intending to go by land himself.  When he met us in Assos, we took him on board and went to . . .” (Acts 20:13-15)

Luke is writing about his own personal experience.  A little band of disciples, which included Luke, was traveling by ship down the Aegean coast.  It was at the tail end of Paul’s third and final missionary journey.  They spent an evening in Troas, where Paul preached almost all night long, and then set sail for Assos, a small port city.

But Paul chose to walk instead, which would have taken three or four days.  Why?  What was he thinking?  Why did he want to be alone?

The Acropolis at Assos (photo by me)

However small, Assos, like most Roman cities, had an acropolis that towered some 500 feet above the hillside city.  Paul would have easily seen it as his ship sailed out of the port.

Perhaps he smiled as he looked up at the acropolis.  It was a confident smile.  Paul knew what he was about.  It was not Rome, at least not directly.

The contrast between the two is too obvious to miss.  Rome’s presence throughout the Mediterranean world was ubiquitous and powerful, like modern sports in America.  Rome flexed its cultural muscles, and very effectively, too.  It intended to intimidate. In effect, Rome shouted, “Gaze upon me.  Stand in awe of me.  I am reality.  There is no other.”

In contrast, Paul’s presence was small, his work unworthy of much notice.  To compare Rome to Paul is like comparing New York City to a small town in the midwest, Harvard University to a community college, a Puccini opera to Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.

If we were betting on Rome or the Christian movement back then, we would have put our money—every penny of it—on Rome.  We would not have bothered to pay much attention to that little man sailing in that little ship pulling out of that little port on his way to visiting those little churches.

And we would have been wrong.

We keep forgetting this.  We assume Rome always has the advantage, which is why we keep betting on it.  We keep betting on churches that resemble the Roman acropolis and pastors that behave like Roman emperors, on political parties that appear to favor Christianity and on political leaders that court—or manipulate—the Christian vote.  Anything that promises easy and instant success.  Anything that dazzles us.  Anything that promises power.

We keep getting it wrong.  Jesus grew up in a small town, Paul planted tiny churches, the Christian movement reached powerless people.

That ship sailing out of Assos embodied God’s strange work in the world.

There are always two stories unfolding in history at the same time, as Augustine argued: both on the same stage, using the same props, involving the same cast of characters.  One story is big, brash, and boastful, the other small, quiet, and humble.  One is obvious, the other obscure.  One tells the human story without reference to God, the other God’s story as God redeems this world.

There’s the towering acropolis in Assos symbolizing Rome.  There’s Paul’s ship symbolizing a fledgling Christian movement.  Knowing what we know now, we would probably change our bet.  And with good reason.