The Parthenon Paradox
Stories
Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit
Series IV Cycle C
As you read this, the 2004 Summer Olympics held at Athens, Greece, are history. Like any Olympics venue, the Greeks in general and the Athenians in particular, wanted their country and city to display to the world its charm and its glory.
The glory in this case is several thousand years old. Reminders of the glory of ancient Greece, from which came the Olympic tradition, are everywhere. But none, perhaps, are more visible that the venerable Parthenon which sits atop the Acropolis in Athens. Like any 2,500-year-old building, the structure has suffered from the effects of weather, war, and thievery. The roof is no longer there, and some pillars and statuary are missing. The Corinthian columns are chipped in places, and the marble is gray and mottled.
And we love it. We love gazing upon this ancient symbol of religion, philosophy, and life as we imagine the outlines of its former beauty, but marvel still at its present glory.
That's why many people are upset at plans to refurbish the Parthenon to spruce up its image as the city prepares for a summer of tourists -- the summer now past -- during the Olympics. They don't like the bright, shiny new marble and its contrast with the marble 2,500 years old. They think its deceptive not to tell tourists what is fresh from the quarry and what has been resting there for thousands of years.
Many of the Athenians don't want the Parthenon to look brand new. Mary Beard, a classics professor at Cambridge University puts it another way: "What we're getting is a kind of fifth-century B.C. theme park," she sniffs.
The plan will cost $30 million, and as I write this they're about halfway there.
What fascinates me is the paradox of the Parthenon: it's an ancient structure getting a facelift so that it will not appear to be ancient. Critics don't want it to look brand new. They want it to look ancient. It is ancient.
Like some people. They're ancient, but spend thousands of dollars on reconstructive surgery to look young. That's no way to reform one's life.
It's like we treat the saints and reformers of old: While applauding their achievements, we often forget they were human, and we lose an opportunity to learn from their mistakes.
The reformation God is looking for is not one that comes from replacing tired marble with gleaming pillars. It doesn't come with sprucing up the outside while the inner chambers are as dusty and damp as ever.
God says, "I am going to do something radically different." I'm going to change the form completely. This will not be a re-formation, but a re-creation. At the core will be a new law that God will write upon our hearts.
The glory in this case is several thousand years old. Reminders of the glory of ancient Greece, from which came the Olympic tradition, are everywhere. But none, perhaps, are more visible that the venerable Parthenon which sits atop the Acropolis in Athens. Like any 2,500-year-old building, the structure has suffered from the effects of weather, war, and thievery. The roof is no longer there, and some pillars and statuary are missing. The Corinthian columns are chipped in places, and the marble is gray and mottled.
And we love it. We love gazing upon this ancient symbol of religion, philosophy, and life as we imagine the outlines of its former beauty, but marvel still at its present glory.
That's why many people are upset at plans to refurbish the Parthenon to spruce up its image as the city prepares for a summer of tourists -- the summer now past -- during the Olympics. They don't like the bright, shiny new marble and its contrast with the marble 2,500 years old. They think its deceptive not to tell tourists what is fresh from the quarry and what has been resting there for thousands of years.
Many of the Athenians don't want the Parthenon to look brand new. Mary Beard, a classics professor at Cambridge University puts it another way: "What we're getting is a kind of fifth-century B.C. theme park," she sniffs.
The plan will cost $30 million, and as I write this they're about halfway there.
What fascinates me is the paradox of the Parthenon: it's an ancient structure getting a facelift so that it will not appear to be ancient. Critics don't want it to look brand new. They want it to look ancient. It is ancient.
Like some people. They're ancient, but spend thousands of dollars on reconstructive surgery to look young. That's no way to reform one's life.
It's like we treat the saints and reformers of old: While applauding their achievements, we often forget they were human, and we lose an opportunity to learn from their mistakes.
The reformation God is looking for is not one that comes from replacing tired marble with gleaming pillars. It doesn't come with sprucing up the outside while the inner chambers are as dusty and damp as ever.
God says, "I am going to do something radically different." I'm going to change the form completely. This will not be a re-formation, but a re-creation. At the core will be a new law that God will write upon our hearts.
