Seeds of Knowledge
By Claire Sommers
During my dissertation defense, when discussing my chapter on Philip Sidney’s Arcadia, one of my committee members asked me about the thematic similarities between the story of Christ and the mythology of Hercules. I realized as I answered his question that in this academic setting, I was more used to discussing Greek mythology than my own Catholic religion. Even now, on those occasions when I do have the opportunity to discuss Christianity as portrayed in literature, my focus on early modern English productions (from roughly 1500-1700) often means finding a less than positive appraisal of my own denomination. When England went Protestant, writers offered many negative portrayals and evaluations of Catholicism intended to validate the country’s turn.
So it is perhaps not surprising, especially given my own interests in classical reception, that in re-reading Acts 17, I was particularly drawn to the passage’s creation of an analogue between St. Paul’s preaching and Greek philosophy, literature, and linguistics. Communicating a central tenet of Christian belief, St. Paul tells the assembled crowd that “He made from one the whole human race to dwell on the entire surface of the earth, and He fixed the ordered seasons and the boundaries of their regions, so that people might seek God, even perhaps grope for Him and find Him, though indeed He is not far from any one of us. For in Him we live, and move, and have our being.” St. Paul then immediately notes a parallel between his own doctrine and the literary works known to his Greek audience, telling them “As some of your own poets have said, ‘For we are also his offspring.’”
Although St. Paul does not identify any of these individuals by name, one writer to whom he is most likely referring is the third century BC poet Aratus. Aratus’ only surviving work Phaenomena asserts Zeus’ omnipresence and casts humanity as the progeny of the Greek god. Despite predating the Resurrection and operating within a non-Christian framework, Aratus nevertheless recognizes God’s effects, even if the poet does not actually know His name. St. Paul’s allusion to Phaenomena thus expands upon his central thesis—God is in all places and for all time. St. Paul’s reference to Aratus proves that our own ignorance cannot stop God’s love and truth from being conveyed and felt. Therefore, when St. Paul instructs us to “grope for” God and “find him,” he reminds us that we must seek God out, that His omnipresence will be revealed in our active choice to discover Him and His works. We may even find Him in a text that predates the Resurrection by three hundred years.
But it is not just Aratus who unknowingly expresses St. Paul’s message to us. The vitriolic comments of the Epicureans and Stoics also unintentionally support the very man whom their remarks condemn. The St. Joseph’s Bible that I was reading had the representatives of these often contradictory philosophical schools agree on their classification of St. Paul as a “scavenger.” But other sources translate the Greek word as “gossip-monger” or “babbler.” I’ll admit that my inner philologist took over and compelled me to read the passage in its original language. After going down the ancient Greek rabbit hole, I found that the word used by the Epicureans and Stoics to insult St. Paul was spermologos, which literally means “to pick up the seeds of birds.” However, the term also has the more figurative signification “to pick up scraps of knowledge.”
When I saw this word, the passage took on a new meaning for me. The exchange between St. Paul and the philosophers became an illustration of God’s power, as it demonstrates that even those who try to delegitimate His message ultimately reaffirm it. I could not help but smile because the philosophers’ best attempts to insult St. Paul not only fail, but in fact serve to articulate the very procedure that he uses in Acts 17. The Epicureans and the Stoics are right. St. Paul is gathering seeds—he is finding the beginnings of knowledge in pre-Christian philosophy and literature. The seeds of our Christian faith have always been present—we just have to be willing to see them.
St. Paul’s model would continue to influence medieval and early modern theologians, who would frequently allegorize classical figures to establish linkages between antiquity and ecclesiastical doctrine. Having grown up in a world where Greco-Roman beliefs are more often than not divorced from Christianity, I’ve always found comfort in this type of reading because I am able, even when I’m discussing mythology, to keep my own religion close to me.
But St. Paul’s methodology in Acts 17 also reminds me of my own experiences teaching premodern literature. In the same way that St. Paul finds God in works that predate Christianity, I am constantly asking my students to find the good in premodern works that do not conform to their worldview—to see why they’re important, to understand why we read them, to find in them common and universal ethics, and, even when they don’t meet contemporary standards, to see the progress that we have made over time. I guess on a much smaller level, my classroom becomes a version of the Areopagus where I do my best to follow St. Paul’s example: I invite my students to build a bridge between the premodern world and their own so that they may discover old truths in texts that seem antiquated.
Acts 17 makes me realize that my academic life is not as separate from my faith as I once thought. I see in St. Paul’s words that God is in all things, all knowledge, and so my Catholic faith allows me to gather the seeds of God in all that I read and teach.
Claire Sommers is a lecturer in the English Department at Washington University in St. Louis and a member of The Carver Project.