On Meeting Gods in Disguise
The Myths of Ovid and the Message of Paul
[Greetings, friends, from Austin! Back in March, I wrote On the Unknown God, reflecting on Paul’s appeal to the Greek poets Epimenides and Aratus when speaking to an Athenian audience in Acts 17 (he also quotes Epimenides in Titus 1:12). Throughout his missionary journeys, Paul proves remarkably knowledgeable on the traditions of his variable audiences, masterfully adjusting when his audience was familiar with the Old Testament (i.e., predominantly Jewish) and when they were not (i.e., predominantly Pagan).
When his audience knew the Old Testament, Paul made his case for Christianity by appealing to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; when they were Pagan, he appealed to their understanding of the universal and rational knowledge of the One who ruled the world… the Unknown God or the One they called Zeus.
A few chapters before his encounter with the Unknown God, in Acts 14, Paul encounters the local myths of Lystra after performing a miracle—specifically, the legend of Hermes and Zeus visiting a village in disguise and testing its spirit of hospitality. It’s a tale told by Ovid, a Roman poet who lived from 43 B.C. to about 17 A.D., whose greatest work was Metamorphoses, a 15-book set capturing around 250 mythical stories from the ancient Greco-Roman world, from the creation of the world to the death of Julius Caesar.
It is to the story told by Ovid, and Paul’s encounter with the Pagans familiar with it, that we devote the rest of today’s essay.]
In Greco-Roman mythology, the gods often disguised themselves as mortals to visit the humans of Earth. As in the Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Aeneid, they sometimes did this for their delight, sometimes for deception, sometimes to protect their demigod children or favor their favorites. Other times, they did it to serve as spiritual guides.
One of the most famous tales of gods masking themselves (in this case to test humans for their xenia, or hospitality) is told in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, a “book of transformations” written in 8 A.D. with around 250 ancient tales of people and gods turning into other people, animals, or plants. It is a story that follows Zeus and Hermes traveling through Phrygia dressed as mortals and looking for shelter. All but a peasant named Philemon and his wife, Baucis, refuse their entry. Here’s the excerpt from Metamorphoses:
Jupiter [Zeus] went [to Phrygia], disguised as a mortal, and Mercury [Hermes], the descendant of Atlas, setting aside his wings, went with his father, carrying the caduceus. A thousand houses they approached, looking for a place to rest: a thousand houses were locked and bolted. But one received them: it was humble it is true, roofed with reeds and stems from the marsh, but godly Baucis and the equally aged Philemon, had been wedded in that cottage in their younger years, and there had grown old together. They made light of poverty by acknowledging it, and bearing it without discontent of mind. It was no matter if you asked for owner or servant there: those two were the whole household: they gave orders and carried them out equally.
So when the gods from heaven met the humble household gods, and stooping down, passed the low doorway, the old man pulled out a bench, and requested them to rest their limbs, while over the bench Baucis threw a rough blanket. Then she raked over the warm ashes in the hearth, and brought yesterday’s fire to life, feeding it with leaves and dried bark, nursing the flames with her aged breath. She pulled down finely divided twigs and dry stems from the roof, and, breaking them further, pushed them under a small bronze pot. Next she stripped the leaves from vegetables that her husband had gathered from his well-watered garden. He used a two-pronged stick to lift down a wretched-looking chine of meat, hanging from a blackened beam, and, cutting a meagre piece from the carefully saved chine, put what had been cut, to seethe, in boiling water.
In the meantime they made conversation to pass the time, and prevent their guests being conscious of the delay. There was a beech wood tub, suspended by its handle from a crude peg: this had been filled with warm water, and allowed their visitors to refresh their limbs. In the middle of the floor there was a mattress of soft sedges. Placed on a frame and legs of willow it made a couch. They covered it with cloths, that they only used to bring out for the times of sacred festivals, but even these were old and worn, not unworthy of the couch. The gods were seated.
The old woman, her skirts tucked up, her hands trembling, placed a table there, but a table with one of the three legs unequal: a piece of broken pot made them equal. Pushed underneath, it countered the slope, and she wiped the level surface with fresh mint. On it she put the black and green olives that belong to pure Minerva, and the cornelian cherries of autumn, preserved in wine lees; radishes and endives; a lump of cheese; and lightly roasted eggs, untouched by the hot ashes; all in clay dishes. After this she set out a carved mixing bowl for wine, just as costly, with cups made of beech wood, hollowed out, and lined with yellow bees’ wax. There was little delay, before the fire provided its hot food, and the wine, of no great age, circulated, and then, removed again, made a little room for the second course. There were nuts, and a mix of dried figs and wrinkled dates; plums, and sweet-smelling apples in open wicker baskets; and grapes gathered from the purple vines. In the centre was a gleaming honeycomb. Above all, there was the additional presence of well-meaning faces, and no unwillingness, or poverty of spirit.’
‘Meanwhile the old couple noticed that, as soon as the mixing bowl was empty, it refilled itself, unaided, and the wine appeared of its own accord. They were fearful at this strange and astonishing sight, and timidly Baucis and Philemon murmured a prayer, their palms upwards, and begged the gods’ forgiveness for the meal, and their unpreparedness. They had a goose, the guard for their tiny cottage: as hosts they prepared to sacrifice it for their divine guests. But, quick-winged, it wore the old people out and, for a long time, escaped them, at last appearing to take refuge with the gods themselves. Then the heaven-born ones told them not to kill it. ‘We are gods,’ they said, ‘and this neighbourhood will receive just punishment for its impiety, but to you we grant exemption from that evil. Just leave your house, and accompany our steps, as we climb that steep mountainside together.’
They both obeyed, and leaning on their sticks to ease their climb, they set foot on the long slope. When they were as far from the summit as a bowshot might carry, they looked back, and saw everywhere else vanished in the swamp: only their own roof was visible. And while they stood amazed at this, mourning their neighbours’ fate, their old cottage, tiny even for the two of them, turned into a temple. Wooden poles became pillars, and the reed thatch grew yellow, until a golden roof appeared, richly carved doors, and a marble pavement covering the ground. Then the son of Saturn spoke, calmly, to them: ‘Ask of us, virtuous old man, and you, wife, worthy of a virtuous husband, what you wish.’
When he had spoken briefly with Baucis, Philemon revealed their joint request to the gods. ‘We ask to be priests and watch over your temple, and, since we have lived out harmonious years together, let the same hour take the two of us, so that I never have to see my wife’s grave, nor she have to bury me.’ The gods’ assurance followed the prayer. They had charge of the temple while they lived: and when they were released by old age, and by the years, as they chanced to be standing by the sacred steps, discussing the subject of their deaths, Baucis saw Philomen put out leaves, and old Philemon saw Baucis put out leaves, and as the tops of the trees grew over their two faces, they exchanged words, while they still could, saying, in the same breath: ‘Farewell, O dear companion’, as, in the same breath, the bark covered them, concealing their mouths.
The people of Bithynia still show the neighbouring trees, there, that sprang from their two bodies. Trustworthy old men related these things to me (there was no reason why they should wish to lie). For my part, I saw garlands hanging from the branches, and placing fresh ones there said: ‘Let those who love the gods become gods: let those who have honoured them, be honoured.’1
Unlike many other stories told in Metamorphoses, Ovid is the only ancient Greco-Roman author to relay the legend of Philemon and Baucis, and the town flooded for its impiety.2 This naturally raises the question of whether Ovid made the myth up.
But then confirmation of the myth comes from a curious place: the Book of Acts. Telling the story of Paul and Barnabus on their missionary journey to Lystra (a region near Phrygia) 40 years after Metamorphoses was published, Luke records the details of an encounter with a people who carry the memory of the myth of Philemon and Baucis.3 That tale is told in Acts 14:8-18.
Shortly after entering Lystra, Paul miraculously heals a man lame from birth. As relayed by Luke, the townspeople immediately started whispering that Barnabas was Zeus and Paul was Hermes... the gods were visiting them in disguise, just as they visited Philemon and Baucis years ago. Not wanting to repeat the mistakes of their ancestors (who were wiped out by a flood for failing the test of hospitality) and convinced the gods were among them, the people of Lystra started making arrangements to offer sacrifices to Paul and Barnabas. Here’s the full story from Acts:
At Lystra a man was sitting who had no strength in his feet, lame from his mother’s womb, who had never walked. This man was listening to Paul as he spoke, who, when he had fixed his gaze on him and had seem that he had faith to be made well, said with a loud voice, ‘Stand upright on your feet.’ And he leaped up and began to walk.
When the crowds saw what Paul had done, they raised their voice, saying in the Lycaonian language, ‘The gods have become like men and have come down to us.’ And they began calling Barnabas, Zeus, and Paul, Hermes, because he was the chief speaker. The priest of Zeus, whose temple was just outside the city, brought oxen and garlands to the gates, and wanted to offer sacrifice with the crowds. But when the apostles Barnabas and Paul heard of it, they tore their robes and rushed out into the crowd, crying out and saying, ‘Men, why are you doing these things? We are also men of the same nature as you, and preach the gospel to you that you should turn from these vain things to a living God, WHO MADE THE HEAVEN AND THE EARTH AND THE SEA AND ALL THAT IS IN THEM.4
In the generations gone by He permitted all the nations to go their own ways; and yet He did not leave Himself without witness, in that He did good and gave you rains from heaven and fruitful seasons, satisfying your hearts with food and gladness. Even saying these things, with difficulty they restrained the crowds from offering sacrifice to them.5
Keeping Ovid in mind, a few interesting things about the story in Acts catch our attention. The first is that the townsfolk seem to know the story about Zeus and Hermes, which Ovid attributes to the same general region. This would explain why they were so quick to call Paul and Barnabas Hermes and Zeus, respectively, and offer sacrifices in the interest of hospitality.
But closer inspection raises a strange question: How did uneducated Lycaonian-speaking peasants communicate with the foreign apostles? Verse 11 tells us that the crowd spoke Lycaonian, so it’s unclear whether either group would have understood the other without some sort of translator. Even if they could understand each other, how likely is it that the people of Lystra would have used the names Zeus or Hermes if they weren’t speaking Greek?
Could it be that the author of Acts, Luke, adapted the story recorded in Acts after the fact for the intended readers—the Greeks—rather than recording the events as they literally happened? We see Luke’s (and / or Paul’s) familiarity with Greek tradition in Acts 17 when he quotes the Greek poets, so it would make sense that either / or might have tailored their message for the Greek tradition.6 Or did whoever was responsible for relaying to Paul and Barnabas what the people of Lystra were doing alter the words of the people into a message they thought the missionaries would understand?
These questions are fun to pose but will likely never be resolved with anything more than mere speculation. So before we go too far down the rabbit hole, we must stop and ask ourselves: Does it make any difference to the legitimacy of Paul’s missionary efforts or the message of Christianity?
Not necessarily. Whether the parties in Lystra could clearly understand each other or only vaguely make out what the others were trying to say through the interpretation of actions, the encounter highlights the legitimacy and truth of the Christian story by positioning it as a continuation or evolution of the Pagan classical tradition. As I mention in On the Unknown God:
[I]f the Christian believes in Christ, then they must believe that there was a reason he chose to come at a particular time in history. That something about the days leading up to his arrival was a preparation to fully receiving him. That something about Paganism—with all its myths and legends—was necessary to be fully Christian.
In many ways, Paul’s message in Lystra mimics the message of the Unknown God in Acts 17: “Hey, you Pagan people, you already sense and see that there are deities at work in the world, and your instinct to revere is right… now turn your eyes to the one true God your hearts have been prepared to recognize and worship.”
When Paul says, “[i]n the generations gone by He permitted the nations to go their own ways; and yet He did not leave Himself without witness, in that He did good and gave you rains from heaven and fruitful seasons, satisfying your hearts with good and gladness,” he is making an appeal to the “law written in their hearts”7 and inviting to the people to consider how they might have received veiled images of the one true God in their tradition, even if they called it something else entirely. Even if they had, up to that point, been unable or unwilling to see it, there was a force felt in the experience of every man at work in the world and impossible to deny.
It is a force still felt by every man and impossible to deny, which reason alone cannot account for. This raises the same question for the modern world that Paul raised to the people of Lystra: How long can we eat the Fruit while rejecting the Tree?
The answer to that, I fear, is like looking up to find yourself soon swallowed by black fog. Very dark, indeed.
—
P.S. Two things to remember. The first comes from C.S. Lewis:
There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations - these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub and exploit - immortal horrors or everlasting splendors. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of that kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously - no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption.8
The second comes from Hebrews 13:
Let love of the brethren continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it.9
Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book VIII, lines 611-724 (A.S. Kline translation).
In On Intimations in Ancient Greece, I discuss the overlap and intertwining of the traditions and stories coming out of Athens and Jerusalem. In the myth of Philemon and Baucis, we see several parallels to Biblical stories. The flood wiping out the corrupt in Genesis 7. Abraham and Lot’s entertainment of angels and the fire that destroys Sodom and Gomorrah in Genesis 19. The near destruction of Nineveh before Jonah convinces them to turn from their twisted ways in Jonah 3.
There is nothing to suggest that Paul read Ovid like he had some of the Greek poets.
This is an interesting reference to Old Testament scripture that the audience would not have been familiar with (See Psalm 146:6 and Exodus 20:11). This can be contrasted with the Greek poets Paul quotes a few chapters later in Acts 17. Perhaps we are witnessing Paul improve his approach?
Acts 14:8-18 (NASB translation).
In Greek tradition, Zeus and Hermes are “guarantors of emissaries and missions.” (See Plato, Laws, 941A.) To deliver a false message was to sin against the injunctions of Hermes and Zeus, and to deliver “good news” was to embody the spirit of Hermes. Whether the association was made by the people of Lystra or by Luke in writing the message for the Greeks, it is no coincidence that Paul is associated with Hermes for his delivery of the Gospel—or Good News.
Hebrews 2:15.
C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory, p. 15.
Hebrews 13:1-2.