From Athens to Jerusalem
A teacher I had in college once said that the whole body of Western Philosophy can be subdivided into two groups: materialists and materialists-plus. The former views the world as a collection of atoms in vacuum, a constellation of objects we can touch and forces we can measure. The members of the first group analyze the relationships between these objects as well as our perceptions of them. The latter faction sees our universe as pretty much the same thing, plus something we are accustomed to calling “God.” Their world is incomplete without a higher power, the omnipotent force, the intelligence we cannot fully grasp. God is a part of their worldview, an integral component of their philosophy, and the main focus of their writings. They start out by exploring the relationship between the material world and God; only afterwards, once this matter is resolved to their satisfaction, can they focus on examining the material world itself.

The first group sprang out of Athens, the second—out of Jerusalem.

Athens gave us secular science. This is not to say that science was invented there, but in Athens it finally took flight, became a respectable discipline, and flourished. Athenians were the first to systematically study the world outside of any religious reference. Athens also gave us Prometheus, a Titan who challenged the gods by stealing their fire and giving it to humans. Prometheus did not rise to the level of gods, but he came close. He knew he would be severely punished, but still did what he had to do.

The Ancient Greeks created a myth in which a mortal outsmarted the gods, defied them, and conquered the forces of nature. Arguably, the golden age of science was a direct result of this attitude toward the world: those who lived on Earth shook their fingers at the inhabitants of the skies.

Without Athens, there would be little or no scientific progress in the world--no electricity, no antibiotics, no space missions, and no river dams. "Athenians" never accept the sky as their limit and never explain anything in terms of creationism. If they don’t know the answer to a complex question--how our world was created, for example--they search for it instead of pacifying themselves with references to divinity. If they or their loved ones are dying from a terrible disease, they look for a cure rather than acquiesce to their fate as a part of God’s will. Often, they end up paying dearly for their defiance, but over and over again, the descendants of Athens challenge the status quo, human or divine, and steal the fire.

Jerusalem gave us humility, morality, spirituality, and the understanding of how little we know. Jerusalem gave us “The Book of Job”--one the greatest literary creations in the history of humanity. The man praised his God when he was healthy, wealthy, and happy. Job continued to praise God when he was a sick pauper, having lost everything he once had, everything that made his life worthwhile, including his family. He wailed, he cried, he complained, he asked questions, but he never challenged his Creator. Who am I to challenge God? I am nothing but a worm before my Master, and it’s not my place to tell him what to do with his lowly creations. If he punished me, there must have been a reason. God’s ways are unknown to man...

One doesn’t have to open the Bible to read the Book of Job. We read it on the Internet almost daily. I was molested as a child, beaten by my mother, hated by my family, and abused by my husband. I have an incurable neurological disease, and my only child just lost his leg in the war. But boy, DO I LOVE GOD! If I am poor and sick, I thank God for the love of my family. If I am lonely and miserable, I thank God for my health. If my loved one is ill, I pray for her health. If she is cured – thank God for performing this miracle! If not, God must have wanted her to be near him because she is such a wonderful person; I am sure she is happy up there. We’ll see each other soon anyway. If I have cancer, I pray and hope to be cured. If I am cured, I thank God for answering my prayers. If I learn that my situation is hopeless, I praise God for all he’s given me and for the love I’ve known. And if I die alone, poor, and miserable, I still thank God for...something. For the air I breathe. No matter how bad my life is, there is someone out there who is even more miserable. I have nothing, absolutely nothing, no health, no money, and no love in my life, but I still have my God.

Job lives on and will live on forever. He has many names, Hope, Faith, and Love among them. Job is humankind’s last rope to sanity as well as its eternal symbol of humility.

Like two snakes on a caduceus, the traditions of Athens and Jerusalem are intertwined in the history of Western Civilization--often tightly entangled, sometimes drifting apart, but never separating for long. Yet they influence more than our civilization as a whole—they form the core of each and every one of us. Any time I open a philosophy book, I first ask myself whether the author is from Athens or Jerusalem. It’s the key to one’s worldview. Tell me what city you are from, and I’ll tell you who you are.

One of the hardest tasks in life is learning to listen to those who came from a different city, to open our hearts and minds to their arguments. If we tried to put ourselves in the Job’s or Prometheus’ shoes, we could see what each tradition has to offer us as human beings. Otherwise, what’s the point of reading philosophy books? It’s easy—in theory.

I try, as hard as I can, to understand them. I know how much I still don’t know. No, wait, I don’t know, and can’t know, how much I don’t know. I listen to the arguments of the philosophers of the Jerusalem school again and again, and sometimes I even comprehend what they are saying. I walk, I creep, I crawl along this endless road from Athens to Jerusalem. I open my heart to the place that is supposed to be closer to me by birthright. I concentrate. It’s close—one more step, and I am there, in the ancient city of my ancestors.

But over and over again an invisible force returns me to Athens, to where I belong, to Prometheus—far, far, as far as possible from Job.