by Tom Bissell
As with the Johannine epistles, a few early Christians rejected the apostle John as Revelation’s author. Today near-universal agreement exists among modern scholars that Revelation was not written by a direct follower of Jesus. The author barely mentions the ministry of Jesus and speaks of the apostles—among whom he claims no seat—as a generation long past. Among the earliest, most notable, and farsightedly firm dissenters on this point was Dionysius, who began as a student of Origen’s. While Dionysius admitted—tactically, it would appear—that he “would never dare to reject the book, of which many good Christians have a very high opinion,” he was, all the same, “not prepared to admit that [the author] was the apostle, the son of Zebedee and brother of James.” In a display of textual and linguistic sensitivity many hundreds of years ahead of his time, Dionysius based his rejection of Revelation’s apostolic authorship on its use of Greek. The other Johannine works, he pointed out, “are written not only without any blunders in the use of Greek, but with remarkable skill.” The author of Revelation, on the other hand, uses such “barbarous idioms” that its language is not “really Greek” at all. Later, when the Christian canon was beginning to take shape, Eusebius gave Revelation a place within the accepted and the disputed books of the New Testament. Without question, among all the works of the New Testament, Revelation had the hardest path into the Christian canon; the influence it has since had on bellicose and astrally pessimistic Christians, ancient and modern, makes it hard not to wish that doubters such as Dionysius had won the day.
VI.
While flying over Selçuk, I had noted how the ruins of Saint John’s Basilica resembled a microchip, its tidy grids and patternless circuits enclosed by grass-green substrate. From the ground, the ruins were no less abstract. Suzy and I walked into two-walled rooms, through doorjambs framed by blue sky, across the shattered and grass-strangled flagstones of once-marble floors. The basilica’s nave had been lined with several dozen sequoial columns of tinted rock. Of its five extant columns, only two had retained their capitals. On either side of the nave, there had been many chapels and a baptistery. The latter survived, its cracked stairs leading down into a pool partially filled with sand.
We entered what would have been the basilica’s courtyard. Along its foot-worn zigzag pathways, a number of small, pretty purple flowers struggled to grow. We rested next to a squat little pile of restored redbrick foundation. Suzy swigged from her water bottle and passed it over to me. “Does anyone really know what this place looked like, or is all this restoration just guesswork?”
I told her that a fairly detailed description of Saint John’s Basilica could be found in an apparently unfinished sixth-century work alternately known as Buildings, On Buildings, or The Buildings of Justinian. Its author was Procopius of Caesarea, who lived from approximately 500 to 565 and is generally regarded as one of the last secular scholars of the Greco-Roman world. Procopius’s self-appointed task in Buildings was to visit, and write panegyrics about, as many structures commissioned by the emperor Justinian as possible. Of Saint John’s Basilica, he wrote,
On that site the natives had set up a church in early times to the Apostle John; this Apostle has been named “the Theologian,” because the nature of God was described by him in a manner beyond the unaided power of man. This church, which was small and in a ruined condition because of its great age, the Emperor Justinian tore down to the ground and replaced by a church so large and beautiful that, to speak briefly, it resembles very closely in all respects, and is rival to, the shrine which he dedicated to all the Apostles in the imperial city.
Much of this was regarded by scholars as accurate. A small, wooden-roofed chapel, placed over what was believed to have been John’s tomb, was built in Ephesus—though possibly not on Ayasoluk Hill—sometime in the second century. By the fourth century, the tradition that John and Mary were in Ephesus together had fully developed, and churches were built in honor of both of them,*8 probably during the reign of Theodosius I, the last man to rule over a united western and eastern Roman Empire.
As Procopius noted, the first substantive Ephesian church devoted to John was a relatively small structure. An intersecting series of vaults or catacombs were dug beneath this church, in which the supposed remains of its namesake apostle were interred. The remains were apparently much visited by Christians, but eventually the crypt was in some manner sealed off. In the fifth century, several Syrian bishops arrived in Ephesus and expressed their frustration at not being able to pay their respects to John’s remains, though, according to one scholar, “whether this blockage was literal and architectural or bureaucratic and political is not known.” In the sixth century, John’s first church was destroyed at Justinian’s order and replaced with a Latin-cross, triply naved, eleven-domed basilica three stories tall and more than 420 feet long. As Procopius indicated, Justinian’s basilica was inspired by Constantine’s Church of the Holy Apostles in Constantinople. Both churches stood as emblems of a faith suddenly free to draw on the financial succor of the Roman Empire. Within centuries, both had become emblems of Christian defeat. Today, a mosque stands on the foundation of Istanbul’s Church of the Holy Apostles.
No consensus exists as to when Saint John’s Basilica was destroyed. From the seventh century on, raiders hit Ephesus with increasing frequency. In the eighth century, Muslims briefly occupied Ephesus for the first time, after which the basilica’s Gate of Persecution went up and walls were built around the hillside. As invading Turkish tribes—militarily and culturally flourishing under the leadership of a family known as the Seljuks—consolidated their hold on Anatolia, the importance of Christian cities such as Ephesus began to fade among Byzantine strategists. The most decisive battle between Byzantine and Seljuk forces occurred at Manzikert (in modern-day eastern Turkey) in 1071, which set the stage for the eventual Seljuk conquest of Anatolia. In the eleventh century, there are records of active monasteries in and around Ephesus and of improvements made to Saint John’s Basilica, but in 1090 Seljuk conquerors installed themselves within the city. Seven years later, Christian crusaders wrested control of Ephesus away from the Seljuks and held the city for another two centuries. Some scholars believe that Saint John’s Basilica was first destroyed during the Seljuk occupation of 1090–1097, but there is no way to be sure.
Whatever the case, Christian Ephesus was in ruins by the twelfth century. By the early fourteenth century, Ephesus had become, and would remain, a Turkish city. Yet its Christian community did not immediately disappear, and there is a record of one of its bishops, Matthew of Ephesus, remaining in his seat well into the fourteenth century. At some point, the basilica was probably reconsecrated as a mosque. We do know, thanks to the eyewitness of a fourteenth-century German priest, that the basilica’s grounds were at one point used as a bazaar. This same priest also noted that John’s tomb was empty at the time of his visit and had been empty for some time. The last mention of a still-standing basilica—whether as a church, mosque, or bazaar—dates from the middle of the fourteenth century.
The Isa Bey Mosque, which is next door to the basilica ruins, was completed in 1375. This has led some to propose that Saint John’s Basilica, after its Islamic reconsecration, was destroyed in an earthquake known to have occurred in Ephesus around 1361. Rather than rebuild the reconsecrated basilica, this theory goes, the Turks of Ephesus opted to build a new mosque in the same area. This may account for the frequency with which visiting Christian pilgrims in later centuries mistook the Isa Bey Mosque for the former Saint John’s Basilica.
At the end of World War I, the Greek army occupied parts of the Anatolian peninsula, and a handful of archaeologists took the opportunity to exhume whatever remnants they could from the Byzantine Christian era. Selçuk was among the most scoured areas; the first pieces of Saint John’s Basilica might have been discovered at this time. However, the reconsolidated Turkish army, now under Atatürk’s leadership, succeeded in driving the Greeks from what soon became the independent nation of Turkey
.*9 The archaeological effort that began during the Greek occupation eventually continued, though now under the direction of Turkish archaeologists encouraged by the policies of Atatürk to study for the first time the Christian history of their people’s adopted peninsula. The ruins of Saint John’s Basilica were confirmed as such in the early 1920s. In the 1950s, a restoration effort was fully under way. In the late 1970s, the nave’s surviving columns were reerected and the foundation fully revealed. Although some work remained ongoing, the restoration as a whole was declared complete in the mid-1990s. In all of this, surely, Turkey deserves some credit. Not many Muslim nations have tolerated, much less advanced the cause of, the unearthing of a non-Muslim place of worship.
Suzy and I had yet to visit the basilica’s bema and altar, under which John’s supposed remains had been kept until their disappearance during the Middle Ages. A large English-speaking tour group, at the urging of their guide, had begun to gather around the bema. Suzy suggested we join them.
We assumed our places behind the tour group, and I sensed what made visiting this tomb feel so different from those of John’s fellow apostles. At every apostolic reliquary, you felt gusts of anxious longing. Apostolic resting sites were places that asked you to know what cannot be known, where the randomness of earthly remains arranged themselves into coordinates of cosmic faith. They were rationality’s cease-fire zones. Here, though, beneath us, was a tomb of acknowledged emptiness.
Only one small section of the otherwise dirt-floored bema had been relaid with purple star-patterned marble. At the center of the bema was the altar—little more than a square burial marker, really—at every corner of which stood a thin white column. Nearby were two equally ugly grates. The smaller grate, found just off the altar’s edge, was welded shut. The larger grate, located a few feet away from the altar, allowed access to the confessio below, provided you were able to persuade someone to remove its padlock. (It was through this passage that our friend Mehmet had visited John’s tomb.) The confessio was said to contain four tombs arranged to resemble a cross, the largest of which was reserved for John. Although the confessio was first discovered in the 1920s, the tombs themselves remained unexcavated until the 1950s.
The tour guide—a short bald man with bowlegs and a silver goatee—now stood in the middle of the bema, next to the altar, his hand raised in indication that he was about to begin to speak. A large gold crucifix dangled from his neck. This crucifix, along with his dark skin, allowed me the brief excitement of imagining I had found that okapi rarity: an actual Turkish Christian! I then noticed the name tag pinned to his plaid button-down short-sleeve shirt: GODOFREDO. This was not a Turkish name.
“History proves us that John was the Beloved Disciple,” Godofredo said in opening, “and today you are standing above his ancient tomb.”
His audience comprised twenty gape-mouthed senior citizens, two childless couples, half a dozen families emitting a fascinating variety of ambient tension levels, and Suzy and me. Those of us who were not standing had turned some bricks piled along the bema’s eastern edge into makeshift bleachers. I admired Godofredo’s energy, if nothing else. All around him, several dozen miserably heat-weak human beings were sweatily headed toward dehydration comas, but perspiration beads streaked across his bald scalp like escape pods of excess vitality.
“John’s tomb,” Godofredo went on, “is now empty, and no one has known when his remains disappeared, or why they disappeared. However, history proves us that Turkish armies captured Ephesus in 1304. After that, beloved John’s remains may be destroyed. There are the people believing that John’s remains were hidden before the Turks arrived, but the one who hid John’s remains I think forgot to tell anyone about this.” Godofredo stopped and waited for the laugh his spiel had been timed to respond to. “Yes, I think he forgot to tell. Thank you. However, if the remains of beloved John were destroyed during the ancient times, we do not blame our friends in Turkey, who care so much to protect this basilica.
“After Lord Jesus Christ ascended to Heaven, history proves us that John and Peter worked together in Jerusalem. In that same city, John and the apostle Paul met each other and became great friends. But John understood he could not stay in Jerusalem and made his plan to leave. We know John owned a house in Jerusalem. We know the Virgin Mary, Mother of God, was living with John. So when John left Jerusalem, Mary was so happy to come with him, ah?
“He came to Ephesus to spread the new religion, like his brother apostles. The journey to Ephesus began around year 48, which is the last time John and Mary were living in Jerusalem, so you know. Between years 50 and 54, our beloved apostle John was founding the city’s first church. Later, when Paul came to Ephesus, they journeyed through Asia together to teach the people about the Word of Lord Jesus Christ.
“History proves us that John and Paul were taken to Rome to face punishment. In Rome, John was almost killed two of the times. For the first time, he was given to drink a poison, but John made his poison into the snake. The second time John was throwed into boiling oil, but thanks to our Lord Jesus he escaped. The Roman emperor Domitian, who hated the Christians, knew he could not hurt John, and so he exiled him to Patmos, the Greek island. And you know on Patmos beloved John wrote the Revelations. After the death of the emperor Domitian, John came back to his great church of Ephesus and as an old man wrote his gospel between years 95 and 100. According to the researchers, John’s gospel tells about a different time in Jesus’s life, and also many things about the divine love and the human love. Finally, beloved John, the only apostle to die naturally, was buried here, on the Ayasoluk Hill, according to his will.”
Godofredo took several questions, his answers little anchors of precise simplicity. No one betrayed any skepticism of Godofredo’s Life of John, but one person wanted to know how Godofredo was so certain that his dates were correct. Godofredo rather wishfully attributed his dates to the Council of Ephesus in 431 and Eusebius, after which his questioner’s head pumped up and down in airtight satisfaction.
When the tour group left, I walked over to the grate and peered past the bars and into the darkness below, out of which emanated odors of animal-den pungency. Men—several hundred men, from the smell of it—had urinated through this grate and into the confessio.
Augustine records a legend that had John’s tomb breathe in and out during certain times of the day, and during the Middle Ages the dust gathered from around John’s tomb was thought to have healing properties; it had been sold as a tonic all over Mediterranean Europe. Now the dust around this still, unbreathing place was contaminated with inorganic salt and urea. A legend spawned from a second-century Christian polemicist’s misunderstanding was strong enough to have saved the Fourth Gospel from oblivion and to enshrine it forever at the heart of Christian thought. Yet this same legend could not prevent its supposed author’s tomb from becoming a public restroom.
VII.
If I had thought to ask Godofredo a question, it would have been about that poison-filled chalice from which John, as Godofredo said, was challenged to drink. In some versions of this legend, the high priest of Ephesus’s Temple of Artemis gives John the poison; in others, the Roman emperor Domitian does. The John of legend transforms the poison into a serpent, which leaps (or, in some versions, sprouts tiny wings and flies) from the chalice. This legend—which possibly derives from Mark’s tenth chapter, wherein Jesus tells the Zebedee brothers they must share the cup of martyrdom with him—eventually provided John with one of the more shocking symbols associated with any member of the Twelve: a snake.
John’s most famous and enduring symbol is the eagle. Another of John’s symbols: the cauldron. This was attributable to the other legend Godofredo had mentioned, which has John in Rome and being lowered into hot oil that miraculously fails to parboil him. Tertullian was an early promoter of this legend, which eventually led to a small, beautiful, and rather weird Roman chapel known as San Giovanni in Oleo (Saint John in Oil) being built on the spot where early Christia
ns imagined John had been dunked.
A legend Godofredo did not mention has the apostle John standing as the groom at the wedding at Cana, which is described in the Gospel According to John’s second chapter. John’s bride in this legend is none other than Mary Magdalene. After witnessing Jesus transform water into wine for their wedding party, John and Mary decide to forgo marriage and devote themselves to the miraculous vintner himself.*10 While the Cana legend failed to create any symbols associated with John, it did brighten the aura of ascetic virginity that still traditionally clings to him.
Some of the most popular legends concerning John can be found within The Acts of John, portions that emerged, in all likelihood, from the unique Christian traditions of Alexandria. Many scholars judge The Acts of John to be one of the oldest pieces of surviving Apocrypha due to its erratic Christology and the fact that many other apocryphal Acts seem to be aware of it. Also telling is the text’s failure to cite the New Testament, which indicates an author distant from nascent institutional Christianity and consequently driven more by pious imagination and what he could recall of whatever scripture he had heard. It was not formally condemned by the church until the Second Council of Nicaea in the late eighth century, though an earlier, less formal condemnation by the church judged it as something “to be consigned to the fire.” Orthodox flame did, in fact, claim a goodly amount of The Acts of John, and the roughly 70 percent of the work that remains extant is in several languages and spread across numerous and often highly variant manuscript fragments.