by Rene Fomby
As Sam and Margaret emerged from the car—leaving Maddie behind in the car for the moment, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes— they were surprised to see that the sky was filled with brightly colored hot air balloons, floating softly across a cloudless blue sky. “Oh, santo cielo! How lovely. I’d almost forgotten what all this looks like,” Margaret exclaimed, pressing a hand to her mouth. “But I hope you don’t have any plans to get me up in one of those.”
Mehmed smiled at her reaction. “Not unless one of you is really interested. The balloons are mostly just a tourist gimmick, and in my opinion aren’t really very safe. Too many of them in the air at the same time, and with a few exceptions, the operators aren’t all that trustworthy. I had hoped to give you an aerial tour tomorrow morning in the helicopter, before we take off north toward Ankara. The most dramatic view would be just after sunrise, if you can make it up that early.”
“That sounds perfect, Mehmed,” Sam agreed. “A cup of coffee and a pastry is usually the only breakfast Margaret and I need, anyway. And I’m sure I can arrange for a carton of milk for Maddie.” Looking back, she noticed that Maddie was now finally climbing of her car seat and heading their way.
“Then I’ll have a full thermos onboard waiting for you, and pick you up at your hotel around six.” He pointed behind him at the rocks. “In the meantime, let’s go take a look.”
Sam was surprised to see that most of the towering rock formations really did look like giant penises, but up close she could see small openings cut into the sides of the larger towers, windows and doors that had been dug out of the columns by ancient and long-forgotten monks. There were also stairways leading to other, larger caves carved into the cliffside that rose up behind the hoodoos.
“Let’s take a look at the hoodoos, then tackle the different churches and other facilities further up on the cliffs.” Mehmed pointed to one of the towers, with a door gaping open well above their heads. “As you can see, some of these monastic cells are relatively easy to access, but others not so much. To get in and out of this one, the monk evidently had to use some type of rope ladder. Although it must have been annoying at times, this arrangement meant he didn’t have to deal with visitors popping in unannounced, and it provided a great deal of protection from unexpected marauders.”
For the next thirty minutes, Sam and Margaret busied themselves taking pictures of the area and poking their heads into the more accessible cells, while Maddie ran up and down the stairs. Running off her energy, Sam noted with relief. Finally, Mehmed signaled that it was time to visit the cliffside churches. “As you have seen, most of the cells were well decorated in some form or fashion, some more so than others. The monks were very pious men, and religious symbolism would have been extremely important to them in their daily lives.”
“I noticed that many of the faces on the illustrations inside the cells have been scratched out,” Sam said. “What is that all about?”
“You’ll see that a lot in Turkey, the defacement of old Christian frescos and murals,” Mehmed explained. “Most of that was done by my fellow Muslims. Ours is what is called an iconoclastic religion, a rejection of what the Ten Commandments in your Hebrew Bible might refer to as ‘graven images.’ The Sunnis are particularly adamant about that.”
Margaret was outraged. “How could they do that, destroy the religious heritage of other people with no regard for what that means to us?”
“Well, I would agree with you on that, Ms. Ricciardelli,” he replied. “Especially since that works to eradicate the very historical material I need for my research. But, to be fair, the Muslims don’t have the corner on that kind of behavior. During the iconoclastic period of the early Christian church, much of the rich visual history of the Orthodox Church—the eastern half of the Christian church—was completely destroyed, following an edict by the Byzantine Emperor Leo III. These rocks and the underground cities wound up serving as a refuge for people fleeing Constantinople with their most highly prized icons and relics in tow. In fact, if it weren’t for Göreme, we would have almost nothing left from that early Christian period to study. Ah, here we are.” He pointed out an igloo-shaped rock structure they were quickly approaching. “As we enter the St. Barbara Church, look up and all around at the symbols that have been painted in red on the dome and walls of the church. Cappadocian monasticism was already well established during the iconoclastic period, and although this church actually dates back to the eleventh century, well after iconoclasm had died off, these symbolic decorations accurately reflect the iconoclastic style. You probably already noticed that many of the monastic cells also lack any kind of decoration other than simple religious symbols, usually sculpted or tempera-painted crosses. However, after the iconoclastic period ended, you’ll see brightly colored figurative painting returning to the churches, which will be apparent during the rest of our tour here. And most of the damage to the images of faces and other living things is constrained to the lower-lying images, which were easier to destroy, probably by people just tossing pebbles at the pictures. Speaking of which, you can take pictures of all this, but no flash photography is allowed. The bright light can damage the delicate frescos.”
As they ducked and entered the church, Sam and Margaret were immediately astounded by the richness of the frescos covering the otherwise bare rock walls. Sam pulled her phone from her pocket to take some pictures, turning off the flash and shooting in the low light. She checked to make sure the pictures had come out okay, and was pleased to see that the colors in the photos were even more vivid than in real life.
Mehmed pointed toward the door. “If you think this is something, wait until you see the Dark Church, the Karanlik Kilise. The frescos in there are easily the best in all of Cappadocia, if not all of Turkey. It was used as a pigeon house until the 1950’s, but after they scraped all the pigeon droppings off the walls, the restorers discovered richly pigmented frescos depicting a wide variety of scenes from the New Testament. Part of the church has collapsed, so there’s quite a bit of light in there now, but originally the only light came through a tiny hole in the narthex, the antechamber at the entrance to the church. That’s probably why the frescos remained so well preserved, and that’s why it’s called the Dark Church. Let’s go see it.”
Sam had to stoop slightly to get through the exit, and as she eased through the doorway she noticed a small black symbol about halfway up, just inside the door frame. It looked a little off to her, sitting there all alone, with no other symbols or pictures nearby. It was a Chi Rho, the same symbol that Luke had on the chain in his desk drawer. The same symbol that—
Mehmed had already stepped outside, but when he saw Sam apparently captivated by something on the door frame, he returned to the church to check out what she had found. As he bent down, resting his weight on one knee, Sam looked back. “I know what this is. It’s a Chi Rho.”
He leaned in closer to get a better look. “Yes. Curious.”
“Why do you say that?” Sam asked. “It’s an old Christian symbol. Somebody probably painted it in the doorway back in ancient times. Like the rest of these paintings.”
Mehmed looked puzzled. “Actually, Miss Tulley—Sam—I don’t know why that’s there. In fact, I have pretty much memorized every symbol and fresco in these caves, and I’ve never seen anything like this before.” He rubbed a finger over the right side of the symbol. “Somebody evidently made an effort to try and make this blend in, but the edges of the symbol are just a little too crisp, and the ink isn’t right.” He pulled out his phone and took a quick close-up. The flash startled Sam.
“I thought you said it was prohibited to take flash pictures in here.”
“No, I said it was illegal for you to take flash pictures. But I’m a licensed researcher for the park, so the rules don’t apply to me. Besides, the ban on flash photography is only for the ancient paintings. This particular symbol is brand new.” He looked down at his phone, checking the image. “I’m going to send this off to a fr
iend of mine at the university, see what he thinks about it. And good job catching that, by the way. I think most people would have just breezed on through without ever seeing it. I know I did.”
“So you’re just upset that some stupid people are apparently defacing this site? Again?” Sam asked.
“No. Well, yes,” Mehmed answered. “But that’s not the real problem. If it was only one little mark, then that’s just the cost of letting people have access to all this. As that one comedian says, you can’t fix stupid. But the thing that has me concerned is that this is not just an isolated incident. Chi Rho symbols are starting to show up all over western Turkey. Always hidden away. Always tiny and black, and made to look like they blend in. And, from what I understand, almost always at important historical sites for the ancient Christian church.”
“So what does it mean?” Sam asked.
Mehmed shrugged. “I honestly have no idea. Maybe it’s just some stupid tourist leaving his own personal mark behind as he moves across Turkey. Maybe it has some deeper meaning to someone. Or some group. What I do know for sure is that it’s all pretty recent. In the last few months kind of recent. And then there’s the whole problem with Istanbul. Or, should I say, Constantinople.”
64
Göreme, Turkey
With Maddie safely tucked away in bed, the three of them sat down that evening over a simple meal of ground lamb kebabs with a spicy tomato chili sauce and a delightful side salad dressed with olive oil and lemon. Between bites, Mehmed laid out to Sam and Margaret the long history of the Chi Rho symbol, and its deep connection to Christianity.
“It’s said that the Roman Emperor Constantine had a vision of the Chi Rho symbol just before the epic Battle of the Milvian Bridge in 312 CE, along one of the major roads crossing the Tiber River and leading into Rome. Constantine was facing the forces of a rival emperor, Maxentius, for control of the Empire. In his vision, the Christian God commanded him to lead his army into battle under this ancient sign of Christianity, the Chi Rho. Maxentius drowned in the Tiber River during the battle, and Constantine used that victory to end the Tetrarchy—the four-person council that ruled the Empire—and as a result became the sole ruler of Rome. According to the legend, that victory also led Constantine to convert to Christianity, and to make the Christian faith the official religion of the Empire.”
“So that’s when he founded Constantinople,” Sam suggested.
Mehmed nodded. “Actually, that happened about twelve years later, but close enough, considering Constantine had to shift almost the entire bureaucracy of the Empire out of Rome. Historically, the new capital city for the Empire was known as Byzantium, and was already a force to be reckoned with in the Eastern province of the Roman Empire. When Constantine arrived, he renamed the city New Rome, the new capital for both the Empire and the Christian church.”
Sam looked confused. “Look, I know I grew up Jewish, so maybe I missed something along the way, but how come I’ve never heard of any of this? I thought the Catholic Church had always been based in Rome. Margaret, you were raised Catholic. Have you ever heard any of this?”
“No, I haven’t.” Margaret admitted. “But to be fair, I never really paid all that much attention to world history. I was a philosophy major, so one class in art history was as close as I ever got.”
Mehmed spread his hands wide. “Don’t feel bad. The Vatican has done a remarkable job for almost two thousand years selling the idea that they are the one true religion. But really, if you just follow the line of ascension, the true heir to Saint Peter would likely be His Most Divine All-Holiness, the Archbishop of Constantinople, the Patriarch of New Rome. Or possibly the Patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church, which claims to have been founded by none other than the Apostle Andrew. At any rate, after Constantine, the Roman church was really little more than a branch office for a very long time. Although the Bishop of Rome always claimed some form of supremacy, in practice the early church regarded him as, at best, the first among equals of the five patriarchs of the Pentarchy, ruling over the episcopal sees in Rome, Constantinople, Alexandria, Antioch, and Jerusalem. Church governance required that any significant change in religious doctrine or policy required a consensus among all five patriarchs, with none of them having any particular extra authority.”
“So what happened to change all that?” Margaret asked, pouring herself another glass of ice cold water to wash down the spicy chili sauce.
“That is a very long and complicated story, too long and too convoluted to cover in an evening like this,” Mehmed said, grabbing some bread from the center of the table. “The short story is, after Constantine died in 337 CE, he left the empire in turmoil. His son Constantius II somehow managed to beat back all his brothers and become the empire’s new leader. But he spared his cousin Julian, who was only five years old at the time and was therefore not an apparent threat to Constantius’ rule. But Julian managed to surprise everyone by eventually becoming Emperor himself. Julian the Apostate, the Empire’s last pagan emperor. Did I mention that historians still argue over whether Constantine was ever truly Christian in the first place? Even after his so-called conversion, there’s good evidence that he remained committed to a local version of the old Egyptian sun god.”
“But you said he made Christianity the Empire’s official religion,” Margaret pointed out, trying hard to follow along. “And wasn’t he the Roman emperor who created the Bible?”
Mehmed laughed lightly, shaking his head. “Ah, that old saw springs up again. It seems that all kinds of reality can find life on the Internet these days, regardless of whether it has much basis in fact. Add to that some popular books and movies, and before you know it, Constantine himself wrote the Christian Bible. But the truth is much stranger than that.”
He pulled out a notepad and, laying it in front of them on the table, drew an ‘F’, an ‘S’, and an ‘HG’ in a rough triangular pattern, then circled all three. “In the early days of the Christian church— which is actually a poor way of putting the state of Christianity back then, since there were easily as many factions within the faith back then as there are today—the biggest issue splitting the various groups was the nature of the Trinity. The Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, how they all fit together. After the Pauline side won out over whether non-Jews should be allowed into the faith, a philosophical battle broke out over whether Jesus was a man, a God, or a combination of both. And for those who leaned toward the latter two options, was the Holy Trinity of Father, Son and Holy Ghost really just three different manifestations of the one God, or were they, in fact, separate entities while still somehow closely linked?”
“Okay, you lost me there, big guy,” Sam said. “I get the man versus god thing, but that last part—that just sounds like people trying to invent arguments for the sake of arguments.”
“Right,” Mehmed agreed. “And to some extent you’re probably correct. But remember that Christianity sprung out of thousands of years of Hebrew orthodoxy regarding monotheism. You know, how there is but one God, Yahweh. Jewish Mosaic law spells out very clearly in the Ten Commandments that you shouldn’t worship any of the other gods, but that very statement strongly suggests that there are other gods. And Jewish mythology also clearly identifies another god-like force, Satan, who apparently exists on a level very similar to the one God. So, that gives us two gods at least.”
“But isn’t Satan just a fallen angel?” Sam asked.
“Angel. Demi-God. It all really comes down to how you want to define it. If he’s an angel, that suggests he’s a lesser being than God, subservient to God. But, for a lesser being, he sure seems to be able to throw his weight around quite a bit.”
“Gotcha,” Sam said. “So, whether the Devil is an angel or a god is kind of like the argument about whether the Holy Trinity is one being or three. It’s all in how you want to look at it.”
“Exactly, Sam. But again, let’s go back to the second and third centuries, a time when Christianity
was struggling to establish its own spiritual identity after a long period of expulsion from mainstream Judaism. And outright persecution by the Roman authorities. The one major schism that persisted at this time was this threading the needle argument over whether Jesus was one and the same with God, or whether God in fact created Jesus, thus making the Son subordinate to the Father. This first group eventually became known loosely as the Nicaeans, and the second group were called the Arians, after Arius, a church leader from Alexandria, not to be confused with the more recent German racist movement. Among this latter sect was a philosopher named Origen, who was perhaps the first major Christian biblical scholar. Origen eventually became an ordained priest, but due to internal bickering and jealousy within the church at Alexandria, he wound up being banished from Alexandria, and ended up settling down in Caesarea, where he founded one of the first Christian libraries.”
“Oh, Caesarea!” Margaret had started to drift off, trying desperately to keep track of the long list of names and places, but now she seemed to have perked up again. “That was where we landed this morning. Kayseri.”
“Close,” Mehmed noted. “But actually, Ms. Ricciardelli, this Caesarea is another city entirely, a port city in upper Samaria in Israel, near Mount Carmel. It was quite common back in the old days to try to play on the egos of the various Roman Emperors by naming a city after them, much as your Jamestown colony was named after the then current king of England. But like Kayseri—the capital of Cappadocia—Caesarea Mauritius quickly became the capital of Judea, and so it was a natural place for Origen to continue his scholarly work. Part of which was to build what is called a parallel version of the Old Testament, written originally in Hebrew and then translated into Greek, with appropriate religious and philosophical commentaries added to explain what the various Bible stories really meant.”
