This was a new idea in that the subject of the nature of time had not been brought up before, and so it is not contrary to any previous work, but decidedly definitive. Augustine’s arguments are concise and make sense, if one accepts the existence of God. Even if one does not, the idea that past and future do not exist and thus that time is an illusion is straightforward enough to be accepted without any religious justification. One needs only to accept God as existing if one wants to go further into Augustine’s arguments surrounding the question of what God was doing before It made the earth. Augustine answers that God was not doing anything “before” then as there was no “before”: since time is an illusion, there is only the now. In keeping with his religious beliefs, Augustine also throws in that there was no time before then, either, as God had not yet created it.

Perhaps one of the most clear-cut statements that Augustine makes pertaining to the nature of time is, “Who can measure the past which does not now exist or the future which does not yet exist, unless perhaps someone dares to assert that he can measure what has no existence?” (Augustine, Confessions, pp. 233). This is a clever and unique way of looking at time, especially since the subject itself had not yet come up in any major previous work. Another interesting thing that Augustine claims is that “both future and past events exist,” (Augustine, Confessions, pp. 233). This is interesting because, according to Augustine, the time in which these events should occur does not exist. Perhaps it can be said that all events that occur happen in the same instant. This could come from the idea that there are things happening now, there were once other things happening, and there will be still other things happening eventually, and how all of these happenings are, were, or will be valid and definite events. If such things are quite certainly in existence, but past and future are both unreal, then those things must be happening now, in the only time that is real: the present.

One obvious result of Augustine’s discussion of time might be the advancement of the subject by others. It is such an interesting subject upon which Augustine touched only briefly in his quasi-autobiography that others might wish to take it on to expand Augustine’s ideas, or argue against them to a different end. Another result might be, once again, the strengthening of the Christian viewpoint since Augustine’s work answers some disturbing questions about God, such as, what was God doing previously? Why did God stop doing that in order to create us? And, why did God change if It was already perfect? All of those questions involve the passage of time, which Augustine conveniently writes off, but only in the most logical and intriguing way possible. Thus Augustine’s work on time introduces new ideas to the world in an intelligent manner and gives more backing to the church. Though Augustine was more well-known for the autobiographical portions of his writing, this surely won him recognition as well.

As quoted in the prompt, Pico seemingly writes that through man’s own choice will he be able to reach the height of God. It is almost as though God is unnecessary in man’s attainment of grace except as a goal for man to aim toward. “[Man] should recollect himself into the center of his own unity, he will there, become one spirit with God,” (Pico, Oration, pp. 9), “[A philosopher] is a creature of heaven and not of earth,” (Pico, Oration, pp. 10), and “Let us emulate [Seraphim, Cherubim, and Thrones]… if we will it, we shall be inferior to them in nothing,” (Pico, Oration, pp. 13). These passages are but a small sampling of the height to which Pico holds man.

Never before has man been written of in such a exalted fashion. Previous attitudes, most notably that of Augustine, have been very humbling when it comes to mankind. Pico discards all of that and starts afresh with the idea that man is a creature truly worth acclamation. In this, Pico’s work is both new and contrary to previously held ideas.

Another difference between the writing of Pico and that of previous Christians is that Pico did not hesitate to include mention of non-Christians. The pages of Oration are filled with the names of obvious non-Christians, and Pico does not acknowledge them only to argue that they are incorrect. Quite the opposite, as Pico uses some of their work in his own arguments: “Nature, as Heraclitus wrote, is generated by war and for this reason is called by Homer, ’strife.’ Natural philosophy, therefore…” (Pico, Oration, pp. 21) and Pico goes on to make his point. Pico even went so far as to make mention of various pagan gods, such as Apollo and Bacchus (Pico, Oration, pp. 27).

Previous Christian writers shirked away from outright use of the names of pagans, especially pagan gods. While Augustine had much of Plato’s logic evident in his work, Pico came right out and included both Plato’s name and Aristotle’s in his work (Pico, Oration, pp. 39). For Pico to have done so must have opened new doors for Christian writers afterward. Not only Christian writers, either, but any Christian might now be more likely to include the name Zoroaster or Empedocles (Pico, Oration, pp. 32 and 10, respectively) in his or her discussion since Pico himself, an esteemed Christian writer, did.

A result of this must have been similar to the result of Aquinas’ five proofs. That is, now Christians would have a much wider source from which to draw their arguments for the support of their religion, due to the open-mindedness of Pico in his writing. Perhaps then Christians would not feel it a crime to mention the intelligent thoughts of a person if that person were not a Christian. Also, since Pico went so far in his defense and glorification of man, people might have begun to believe him. Even if only in small areas of their lives, subtle changes might have started. Perhaps the viewpoints of some would be changed to allow that they were not entirely condemnable creatures, or perhaps one might allow oneself to purchase luxury items, as “there was nothing to be seen more marvelous than man,” (Pico, Oration, pp. 3), and that man might deserve pampering.

Pico therefore helped enlighten his fellow man by letting the idea circulate that we are not to be completely detested, but instead “deserving of all admiration,” (Pico, Oration, pp. 4). This circulation would allow the lives of others to be improved because they might feel less guilt in doing good things for themselves, as well as allowing the strengthening of Christianity due to a widened base from which to draw logical argument in support of Christian ideas.

One future result of Aquinas’ five proofs would certainly be the strengthening of the church due to the fact that they would have more solid ground upon which to stand. Since Christianity would have more than unreliable faith on which to base its reason for existence, it is possible that more people would take it seriously. This wouldn’t work only for Christianity, either, but all religions that involve an absolute power that can be equated with the idea of God. Thus, while Aquinas’ arguments for proving God may have been coming from a Christian perspective, they help out other religions as well.

It is interesting that Aquinas’ proofs do nothing to upset Celsus’ ideas because Celsus believes in God as well. While Celsus sees that there are many deities, Aquinas’s arguments do not disprove the concept of polytheism. His arguments go back to a need for a special figure that is outside of time and physics (in that it is able to move a thing without having been moved itself) and focus around a single special figure, but they could just as easily be written so that many special figures are in existence. While it may be much more difficult to prove that there are multiple gods as opposed to just the one with which Aquinas deals, Aquinas’ proofs alone do not negate the possibility of having more than one god. This is interesting because it is almost certain that Celsus would have disagreed with Aquinas’ other opinions, considering his own view of Christianity, but Celsus would have to admit that the arguments of Aquinas do not actually go against Celsus’ own beliefs.

So it is that Aquinas’ five proofs do not provide a view contrary to Celsus’ established ideas. Aquinas’ arguments are contrary with other previous ideas, however, just as Anselm’s were, because their works claim that God can be proved with rational argument alone. Before either Anselm or Aquinas, those with faith would ask nonbelievers to believe in God based upon faith alone. The reliability of faith seems almost like the proof of God in that faith is reliable enough for those that have it, just as God’s existence is obvious enough to those that believe in It, but that for nonbelievers, neither faith nor God can stand alone. Aquinas’ proofs at least go a little further in making that less true; that is, in letting the idea of God stand on its own.

The curious part about this argument is that it only works for God; that is, one cannot say that because a purple unicorn can be thought of, that that purple unicorn exists. This is a very circular argument that Anselm makes, as it assumes that God is a special being in that the argument works only for It, and not for other beings, but this itself presents a problem because, for the argument to work, one has to assume that God exists to be a special being. This is pointless, of course, because the whole point that Anselm was trying to prove was that God exists; in order to do that, the argument cannot presuppose that God exists.

Anselm also goes on to write, “Thou so truly art, then, O Lord my God, that thou canst not even be thought of as not existing,” (Ans., Prosl.), and, “no one who understands what God is can think that God does not exist,” (Ans., Prosl.), both of which are quite false, as atheists believe exactly what Anselm is saying cannot be believed. Perhaps a rebuke by Anselm might be that these atheists then do not understand God, otherwise they would believe in It, but that presents a problem as well. That being, can any human understand God? It seems very hubristic of Anselm to demand understanding of deity, and ridiculous of him to expect that one must understand said deity before one can believe in it. This is because of the reasoning that one cannot expect understanding of a thing before one is certain of that thing’s existence; we need existence of an entity before we can truly understand it, because true understanding of a thing cannot come from mere ideas about the nature of that thing.

Aquinas finds fault with Anselm, and sums up Anselm’s argument’s main problem nicely:

Yet, granted that everyone understands… this word “God”… nevertheless, it does not therefore follow that he understands that what the word signifies exists actually, but only that it exists mentally. Nor can it be argued that it actually exists, unless it be admitted that there actually exists something than which nothing greater can be thought; and this is precisely not admitted by those who hold that God does not exist. (Aq., Summa Theol., Art. 1, Repl. Obj. 2)

Another response to an error in Anselm’s logic is, “because we do not know the essence of God, the proposition is not self-evident to us,” (Aq., Summa Theol., Art. 1, Answer).

Aquinas does the best job of proving the existence of God in his five proofs, and the first of these makes the most rational sense. He states that everything that is set into motion must have been moved by some previous action, and so on back in time. However, this cannot go on infinitely, because that would mean that there was no first mover and thus that there was no beginning to movement. That is clearly not the case, as there is movement now, action and reaction now, and so there must have been a beginning.

To have a beginning, though, there must be a mover that did not require a mover itself. This mover-without-prior-mover we call God. One might ask what makes God special, and not requiring a mover Itself, but that is looking at the situation from a wrong angle: the definition of what God is said to be makes It special. It is called God precisely because It does not require a mover for It to move, precisely because It is special. If what we called God did require something to move It before It could be set into motion, then we would be mistaken in calling It God. We would apparently not have gone back far enough into the chain of movers and the objects they move. This leads to the interesting idea that if we cannot see that God exists, it is our own shortcoming, and certainly not one of God’s due to Its lack of existence.

Aquinas’ second proof is very much like his first; he seemingly only exchanges the words “mover” and “moved” for “cause” and “effect.” In his third proof, there is a small problem, and it is this: Aquinas states, “We find in nature things that are possible to be and not to be… But it is impossible for these always to exist, for that which is possible not to be at some time is not,” (Aq., Summa Theol., Art. 3, Answer). However, just because it is possible for something to happen does not mean that it must happen. The possibility is there, and so the potential for occurrence is there, but it is not a certainty that the possibility will ever be fulfilled. It is important that Aquinas is wrong in claiming what he does, for he goes on to say, “Therefore, if at one time nothing was in existence, it would have been impossible for anything to have begun to exist… which is absurd,” (Aq., Summa Theol., Art. 3, Answer). Because it is only a possibility that at one time nothing was in existence, and not a definite certainty, then the rest of his argument is null.

Aquinas’ fourth proof is not as well written as his first, but it does stand on its own. An analogy for what he seems to be claiming can be found in a set of numbers: for any given set of numbers, there must be a highest number. Even if there are several numbers of the same highest value, those several are the highest values. God can be said to be the highest value in the set of numbers that is all creation. Aquinas talks of the gradation of things, and uses the words, “less good, true, noble, and the like,” (Aq., Summa Theol., Art. 3, Answer) to describe the relationships between objects. He says that God is “something which is to all beings the cause of their being, goodness, and every other perfection,” (Aq., Summa Theol., Art. 3, Answer), i.e. the highest term in our set of numbers.

The fifth proof that Aquinas delivers is done nicely as well. Aquinas writes of beings that have no obvious intelligence and yet always they act toward the same end. Repetitively, without fail, these beings reach the same result each time they are acted upon in the same manner. (Chemical elements and their properties come to mind, for example.) Aquinas states that such order in clearly mindless entities cannot be by chance, or by any desire of the mindless entities themselves. Any direction that these entities possess must come from an intelligent being, and that being is God.

Aquinas’ argument makes sense when one considers, from what other being would such direction come? Human beings may throw together specific chemicals, but we do not make those chemicals react how they do. Since we are the most intelligent species of which we know, and we are definitely not causing particular elements to behave as they do without fail, there must be some higher power that is.

It is therefore by logical necessity that God must exist. While not all of the arguments set forth by Anselm and Aquinas were foolproof, only one good argument is necessary to prove God’s existence if that one cannot be disproved. Perhaps in the future when new discoveries come to light, we may find reasoning that can beat even the sturdiest of Aquinas’ five proofs, but for now, we must concede that God does exist, at least until we can prove It does not.

In one fell swoop, Antony heard the truth, believed it, and acted upon his new belief. While it is possible that less value was placed on material possessions in Antony’s time than is now, it was still no trivial thing to rid oneself of everything that one owned, including money. To further illustrate the seriousness of Antony’s actions upon converting, he put his only sister in a convent before setting out on his own to become a monk. This would also not have been a trivial thing to have left his only remaining family member in the care of strangers, even devoutly religious ones, or to have left his home to live in the wilderness.

Augustine’s conversion, by stark contrast, was a long and arduous journey which was plagued by much self-doubt and at times something close to self-loathing. “I was deeply disturbed in spirit, angry with indignation and distress that I was not entering into my pact and covenant with you, my God, when all my bones were crying out that I should enter into it and were exalting it to heaven with praises,” (VIII.19). He was greatly disturbed to hear of Antony’s quick conversion and could not understand why an uneducated person could accept Christianity when Augustine, a highly educated and intelligent person, could not. Augustine was in his early thirties before he experienced his conversion, and he had been trying to find truth since his youth. Even when considering this alone, it seems a very long time, but when it is compared with the one day in which Antony both discovered truth and converted his will to accept it, the length of Augustine’s conversion process seems a great deal more noteworthy.

Since Antony became a believer earlier on in his life than Augustine did in his, Antony had more time to act out his beliefs and less time to commit great sins that only a nonbeliever would usually do. Even if this had not been the case, Antony’s childhood was very mild-mannered; Antony was a very obedient child who never did greatly immoral acts. In fact, all of Antony’s life was lived closer to Christian ideals, even before Antony became a Christian.

Augustine’s childhood was much more interesting than Antony’s, if only because it was so much less mild-mannered. In describing his youth, Augustine used phrases such as, “my past foulnesses and carnal corruptions,” (II.1), “I was burning to find satisfaction in hellish pleasures,” (II.1), and “clouds of muddy carnal concupiscence filled the air,” (II.2). Antony, on the other hand, had his childhood described with phrases like, “not frivolous,” (Life Ant. 1), “he did not pester his parents for food of various and luxurious kinds,” (Life Ant. 1), and “all his yearning… was for living, an unaffected person, in his home,” (Life Ant. 1).

No details are given by Athanasius about any misdemeanors that Antony may have committed as a young man; Augustine does not scrimp in providing such information about himself. With Antony, we are greeted with a few short, sweet paragraphs about the time before his conversion and then the rest of the biography covers his life as a “God-loved” (Life Ant. 4) convert. The better part of Augustine’s autobiography, oppositely, covers his life as a pagan and it is only toward the end of the novel that we encounter a redeemed man at peace. A small example of this is that, while several paragraphs are spent describing what Augustine’s “miserable soul coveted,” (II.12) (namely, a few pears), which was just one incident in the youth of Augustine, only mere sentences describe the entire youth of Antony. Such illustrates the quality of Antony’s early years as being unremarkable in their benignity.

Demons play a large part in both biographies, although they are of very different natures. While Augustine struggles with inner demons that everyone must face, even today, Antony struggles with literal demons that would be very foreign to Christians in modern-day America. Augustine’s demons were his own fears, insecurities, and moral dilemmas; they had no tangible form. Antony’s demons are so tangible that they “whipped him with such force that he lay on the earth, speechless from the tortures,” (Life Ant. 8). One might think this is a metaphor representing the same types of demons with which Augustine dealt, but Athanasius provides details that make that unlikely. “The friend came the next day… and seeing [Antony] lying, as if dead… [the friend] picked him up and carried him to the Lord’s house.” The appearance of demons in Antony’s biography even goes so far as to say that Antony once met Satan himself.

Augustine’s autobiography ends with his beliefs about certain things, such as the nature of time, that are not reflections upon his life but viewpoints that seem to be have been thrown in after Augustine had said all he wished about his life. Antony’s biography, though, tells the story of Antony’s life and ends when that story is complete. There are no quasi-articles inserted at the end that describe viewpoints held by either Athanasius or Antony.

This is a notable difference between the two biographies because it implies that the purpose of each work might be different. This is quite true, too, as Augustine’s biography reads more like an extended fable by Aesop than a true biography. He conveys just enough of his life to illustrate the point he is trying to get across concerning how a person should live. Had Augustine wanted to narrate the story of his life, he would have included more information about the vital details, such as his son. As the story is now, however, it reads as though the message that Augustine wants the reader to obtain from the story is of the ideal life. That is, a life led with God as the focal point, a life led according to Christian beliefs and dogma.

Antony’s biography conveys the same message but to a lesser degree. It is almost as though Augustine is pushing his message upon the reader, while Antony’s story is tugging the reader along by the nose in the right direction. Both works guide the reader into seeing the benefits of a Christian life, but one does it with a more forceful manner than the other. Antony’s story is mainly intended to be a biography, detailing the life and times of Antony; the Christian message is a subordinate theme. Augustine’s story, while called a biography, is mainly intended to lead others to the truth as Augustine knows it; here, the biographical part is a subordinate theme. Had Augustine’s message been more clearly and fully gotten across without any mention of his own experiences, he may have written it much differently than he did.

So it is that the larger purpose for the writing of each man’s work is different from that of the other work. Augustine wished to motivate future pagans to convert to Christianity while Athanasius wished to describe the inspiring life of a devout Christian. However, the two works are very closely tied due to the content of the biographical portions of each: the story of a single man’s conversion from heathenism to enlightenment.

“Is it not a silly sort of argument to reckon by the same works that one man is a god whilst his rivals are mere ’sorcerers’?” (Celsus, pp. 66) This is a good argument because if one cannot see any differences between two miracle workers, and one worker is said to be holy while the other fueled by evil, why should one believe that either miracle is better than the other due to which person did it? A similar example would be this: say a man who is known for being upright and moral donates money to charity, and another man, one who is known for breaking the law and being particularly stingy, also donates to charity. Would it not make sense to laud the actions of the stingy man at least as much, if not more, than the actions of the upright man? Although the upright man is contributing as much as the normally stingy man, it is in the upright man’s nature to act in such a fashion. Thus, it is less an occasion when the upright man donates to charity as compared to when the stingy man does. Should it not be the same in the case of the alleged sorcerers? If they were truly gaining their power from the devil, should the Christians not have celebrated how this manifestation of the devil’s power took on a beneficial form? In other words, perhaps the Christians should have counted their blessings that Satan was not making these sorcerers harm others in place of healing them.

Making claims that one man’s powers were evil while another’s were good, when both powers were used to the same end, would only confuse a person who was already torn about the new ideas of Christianity. “Why should we conclude from your argument that the sorcerers are worse than your god—that is if we take the testimony of Jesus about their powers seriously?” (Celsus, pp. 66)

Doing good acts that evidence your beliefs as a Christian is highly regarded. If someone does something that is considered good, that person should gain the respect that any Christian would for doing the same act. Thus, it is not logical for the Christians to have argued that when sorcerers worked miracles, the miracles should have been frowned upon, but when Jesus worked miracles, those miracles should have been commended. Furthermore, it seems to be hubristic of the Christians to assume that God had not given those “sorcerers” the same abilities as the apostles, which would allow them to work such miracles with the power of God, and not of Satan. How did the Christians know that the sorcerers’ powers came from Satan? Simply because he or she was not a Christian, the Christians assumed that any special power a sorcerer had must have come from an evil source. In this, the Christians were acting at the height of hubris by claiming to know the mind and desires of God. Other evidence that supports Celsus here is the very lack of evidence produced by the Christians: never once do they prove true their claims regarding Christ’s great works versus the great works of others.

There was also the obvious crux of knowing which person was good and which evil. If the Christians still claimed that the worker of the miracle mattered as much, if not more, than the miracle itself, then how was one to know which miracle worker could be trusted? Certainly, the ready answer would be that Jesus and his followers were the trustworthy miracle workers while any non-Christian was not. However, how would one have known a true Christian? If a person were to announce that he or she was a worker of miracles, then restore sight to a blind woman, should one assume that this miracle worker was a Christian because of the good deed he or she just did, or that the person was a terrible non-believer? What vital clue would give away the difference between a deceptive non-believer and an honest Christian? If the Christians could not have answered this, perhaps they should have rethought their policy on miracle working, if only for the sake of their current followers.

Furthermore, if the idea of a character like Satan is new to somebody, how can one expect him or her to realize that the works of Satan are not to be applauded like the works of a savior? Such a person might argue that if something as terrible as Satan works such miracles as healing the blind and raising the dead (Celsus, pp. 66), perhaps that thing is not so terrible. The idea that Satan ought to be as celebrated as Christ would be anathema to Christian beliefs, but to a pagan with no concept of a supreme evil force, the devil might seem to be simply another god. Perhaps a more vengeful and angry god than the other god of whom the Christians spoke, but might that not provide even more reason to worship this particular god in place of the one that appears more benevolent? If, upon first suggesting to a Christian that Satan was only another god, a recently converted pagan found him or herself rebuked in a sharp, disbelieving manner, might not that individual decide to take matters more into his or her own hands, as it were? That recent convert might well leap to the conclusion that this other god was much more feared by the Christians than the god claimed to be the father of Christ, and so begin to pay homage to this easily angered god in hopes of avoiding punishment for lack of respect. Such a result would have appalled a more informed Christian but it might well have been possible due to the lack of logical support of the policy on the working of miracles and the workers of such miracles.

Celsus not only attacks the claim that Christ’s works must be differentiated from those of so-called sorcerers, but also the story of the resurrection. “Doubtless you will freely admit that these other stories are legends, even as they appear to me; but you will go on to say that your resurrection story, this climax to your tragedy, is believable and noble.” (Celsus, pp. 67) He argues that the story of Jesus’ resurrection cannot be believed because only two delirious women saw the risen Christ. This is sound as one cannot expect the masses which one wants to convert to believe a tale if the only evidence of that tale’s truth comes from the mouths of obviously hysterical people. One knows that people do not come back from the dead. Thus, if the Christians wanted this story to be believed, they should have backed it with more evidence than they did. The fact that they do not, however, leads to the next good argument that Celsus makes: following a doctrine based upon blind belief without looking for logic inherent in the doctrine is bad.

“Their favorite expressions are ‘Do not ask questions, just believe!’ and: ‘Your faith will save you!’ ‘The wisdom of this world,’ they say, ‘is evil; to be simple is to be good.’” (Celsus, pp. 54) To Celsus, this is a bad argument because it goes against how he thinks. To him, belief is the weakest form of argument; every claim should be backed up by solid facts that are indisputable. This manner of thinking is timeless as there are ways of breaking the idea that “belief conquers all,” which the Christians seemed to embrace. Believing in a thing does not make it real. Perhaps the Christians realized this and their mandate of “just believe, do not question,” was more of a public relations job than an order based upon a very idealistic way of looking at the universe. As a public relations attempt, it seems to be effective: capture the attention of the great many people who have no interest in analyzation and then order them to not do what they have no inclination to do anyway. That is, make it a wrong thing to question the rationality of one’s beliefs. This mandate might also be a self-preservation technique: if one realizes that the basis for one’s dogma cannot stand on facts alone, and one is in a society where philosophy and logic are held in high regard, to preserve one’s dogma, a possibility is to make analysis out to be a bad thing, at least among the dogma’s followers. Those who do not agree with the notion that belief is more solid than reason will not be persuaded into following a dogma that embraces such a concept.

So it is within writings from centuries ago that reasonable argumentation against Christianity is found. While others have surely attempted to dissect this religion since, Celsus’ points and his supporting evidence still have merit. It is startling that the Christians had left such issues unresolved as the ones which Celsus attacked, although coming up against such logical debate would certainly have helped the religion to grow. Since such holes in the fabric of the religion, at least in its logic, were pointed out by Celsus, those who argued for the sake of Christianity could then reason out how such issues might be explained. Not only would Christianity then attract the sort of people that it originally did, but it would also be more attractive to those with minds similar to Celsus in their analyticity. Thus, while Celsus’ goal may have been to destroy Christianity by illuminating its flaws, he indeed helped it by allowing its reasoning to be restructured.

In many traditional tales, St. Nicholas is said to deliver gifts to good little boys and girls. In France, Luxembourg, Switzerland, and Belgium, the stories say that he leads around a donkey carrying baskets full of presents and treats. In other traditions, he is said to ride a white horse which is sometimes known as Schimmel.

There are many different names for this beloved character besides the more well-known ones of Santa Claus and St. Nicholas. “Sinterklaas” is a common name in the Netherlands and sometimes in Belgium, Germany, and Poland. When the Dutch immigrated to America, they naturally brought their customs and beliefs with them. One of them that came along was that of Sinterklaas. In Germany, mostly in the Protestant northern and central parts, he is also known as “Der Weinachtsmann.”

In some places St. Nicholas is said to wear long red robes and carry a bishop’s hook. In other places, he wears robes of green. A velvet jacket and some type of cap is often involved.

St. Nicholas is often described as traveling with assistants, some of whom are less than desirable. During the Middle Ages, Hollanders sometimes referred to the devil as “Black Peter,” or “Zwarte Piet.” St. Nicholas is said to have enslaved Black Peter and put him in chains. On St. Nicholas’ Eve, December 4, St. Nicholas makes his assistant listen down the chimneys of houses to check the behavior of the children within. If they have been good, candies and toys are dropped down into the children’s shoes below. There is another interpretation of Black Peter that describes him as a Moor and not the devil.

There are other folk tales that have the devil as an assistant to St. Nicholas. Many Czech and Slovac stories, as well as those from Austria and other Eastern European areas, describe a furred devil with horns and a long, red tongue being doomed to serve St. Nicholas.

Even if the assistant is not specifically said to be the devil, he can still be a frightening creature. Schmutzli of Switzerland is described as being a bearded, brown-haired figure whose skin is so covered in lard and grime that even it appears brown. He carries a sack and a bundle of switches. Children were told that if they were naughty, Schmutzli would first switch them and then carry them off in his sack to eat them.

Père Fouettard, also known as Housécker, is a legend of France and Luxembourg. He is said to be an evil butcher that once lured children into his shop. Because of such trespasses, he is doomed to follow St. Nicholas and help him deliver presents.

Perhaps the American equivalent of St. Nicholas’ helpers could be the elves, who are usually seen as benign and cheerful creatures. Certainly it is not a tradition in the United States to tell your children of devils and other scary figures that help out one of their most beloved childhood figures. The idea of Santa Claus traveling with the aid of animals still remains, although the animal of choice has changed from a horse or a donkey to reindeer.

Newspapers and other forms of media started the idea that Santa Claus lives at the North Pole when he’s in his off season. In 1925, the media also said that since grazing reindeer would not be possible at the North Pole, Santa Claus actually lived in the Finnish Lapland in Korvatunturi, or “Ear Fell.” The fell is shaped somewhat like the ears of a rabbit. These are said to be the ears of Santa with which he listens to the children of the world to make sure they are behaving.

Despite the changes in dress and accompaniment, the legend of Santa Claus and his cohorts remains a big part of the holiday traditions of many countries to this day. It seems that such a nice idea that corresponds to the cheerful spirit and generosity of the season will continue to have a place in the world for some time to come.

A great deal of what is said about virtue by Aristotle seems reasonable. It is first mentioned in Book II that virtue is something that must be acquired by habit and not by study. Aristotle makes it a point that one cannot become virtuous by merely reading about the nature of virtue; one may only become virtuous by doing virtuous acts and thinking virtuously. This seems to make perfect sense for, while virtue is of great import, it is still just another skill that one can acquire. However, Aristotle notes that one cannot go against one’s nature. That implies that even though one may do virtuous acts, one is not virtuous unless virtue is innate in one’s character. How might virtue be acquired, then, if it is something that must already be part of a person? Perhaps “refined” is a more appropriate term, or even “discovered,” since when one is living life, one’s actions, thoughts, and words can be said to reflect the virtue inherent in oneself. Upon personal analysis of why one did, thought, or said something, one might discover something about the virtue that one has.

Upon such analysis, a personal dilemma might be reached: was the right thing done? How can one be sure? While Aristotle does not provide many absolutes for what “the right thing” is beyond saying that murder and adultery are never such, he does give a guideline for one to determine for oneself, relative to oneself, what is the right and virtuous choice: the mean of what is excess and what is deficiency. He offers several examples of specific cases, such as the one of courage being the mean between rashness and cowardice. Since moderation and sense seem to be essential in a balanced and happy life, the mean of two extremes seems to be the logical choice for the right course of action.

Happiness is another thing that Aristotle touches upon, stating that it is the ultimate goal because all other things lead to it. When asking someone why they did something, if one continuously repeats this question, ultimately, the answer of the person will be that it makes him or her happy. At least this is Aristotle’s belief, but given the plausibility of the previous case, it seems that this belief is sound. When Aristotle discusses happiness as the end goal, it is not meant that such happiness is to be fleeting or transient; he is not referring to the simple results of pleasures that come and go, but of an overall, lasting sense of happiness. He eventually ties this in with virtue in that only a truly virtuous person can lead a happy life and, oppositely, a person with a truly happy life must indeed be virtuous.

Perhaps one of the things that seems most logical about Aristotle is that he is very cautious about declaring absolutes. He gives a guideline for finding virtue and states that virtue is relative to each individual person. The very idea that a virtuous act is relative to what is excessive and what is deficient is something that shies away from being an absolute. Beyond stating that murder and adultery are absolutes in that they are never in the right, Aristotle for the most part avoids declaring absolute forms of anything. This is very unlike his former teacher, Plato, who seems to enjoy throwing absolutes around almost as much as Aristotle likes to emphasize moderation.

Plato speaks of a world of Forms, distant absolutes that represent true goodness. There is a corresponding Form for everything on this planet: a perfect form of a chair, a perfect form of a blade of grass, a perfect form of a bottle opener. When a carpenter builds a chair, that chair can never be as perfect as its Form, although the carpenter is modelling it after his own perception of said Form. In this way, the carpenter is removed a step from creating the perfect chair in its entirety since he does not know what the perfect chair is; his perception is inaccurate. Since he is only a carpenter and not one of Plato’s highly toted philosopher kings, he cannot possibly conceive of what true Goodness is for he has not received the proper education. Why has he not received the proper education in order to comprehend great things? Because he has a less valuable metal making up his soul than that in the soul of a philosopher king, or at least this is the myth that the Platonic society would have told him.

Being only once-removed from the Form seems to be an acceptable distance (which is quite a good thing, for if only philosopher kings were allowed to create goods, which they are not allowed to do because they are too busy ruling the society, it would seem that the Platonic society would be very non-materialistic indeed), whereas when a painter paints an image of that carpenter’s chair, the painter is basing his simulacrum on another simulacrum and so his painting is twice removed from the Form of the chair. Since poets, painters, and their ilk are not depicting things that are only a step away from their corresponding Forms, Plato does not see the worth in these jobs or their results.

This idea seems ludicrous and would especially not hold up in today’s world. To say to most anyone that art has no purpose in life is to define yourself as an imbecile. Aristotle claimed that the end goal of all endeavors is happiness; if this is true, then naturally art has a place in society because art makes nearly all people happy in some way or another. (One would hope that Plato would agree that a society of happy people is superior to a society of discontent people but, given his previous judgements that seem so irrational, perhaps this cannot be assumed about him.) Music, literature, paintings, sculptures; all these things would be the products of wasted effort to Plato. Even to someone who does not appreciate artistic ventures, if that person can appreciate money, he or she should be able to agree that art has a place in this world because, through the production of art, one can make money which overall improves society.

Something that goes against a democratic government of today is that the producer in Platonic society has no voice in government. The producers make up the largest class and yet are unable to speak their minds about how they are ruled. This is antithesis to a democratic society in which everyone has a voice in their government and every voice is equal. Considering that many countries that have democratic governments are doing quite well today, it would seem that Plato’s distaste concerning democracies is somewhat misplaced. Granted, he is from a much older era and everything was quite different then, but to completely write off democratic governments as merely being a step above tyrannical governments seems ill-advised.

What might be viewed as one of the best perceptions that Plato has is that of justice as being an end in itself, that justice is worthwhile on its own. Plato’s arguments through Socrates against Thrasymachus and others are well thought and well put, even after centuries. Although Plato eventually justifies his argument that justice is worthwhile in and of itself by claiming that justice leads to awareness of the Forms, which not everyone could agree exist, he also states enough logical arguments that work to prove the worth of justice without requiring the audience to believe in specific absolutes. Plato gives the example of an evil man, a tyrant, who is quite unhappy because of the state his mind is in due to his unjust lifestyle. Such a man perpetually lives in fear that his enemies will rise up against him, whereas the just man has far fewer worries about such things because being just does not make as many enemies as being unjust. It is also stated that there are three character types: money-loving, honor-loving, and truth-loving. Though all three have perceptions of pleasure, only the truth-loving person can be truly happy because the truth-loving person is the most just, as justice can be very much related to truth.

So it is that both Aristotle and Plato have contributed greatly to the foundations of present-day philosophy. In spite of the fact that some of their conceptions now ring strangely, the core concepts upon which they based their specific arguments still have merit. Details that sound strange to many today, such as a world of forms that are perfect versions of imperfect items found in life, may once have made perfect sense to more than just a few people in the times that these pieces were written. Based upon that assumption, one might say that both The Nicomachean Ethics and The Republic are magnificent pieces of profound insights. One might conclude, then, that since the world has changed greatly since the times of these philosophers and even small bits, let alone large sections, of their works contain truth centuries later, that their works remain magnificent pieces of profound insights.

This leads one to wonder if always following one’s moral values and convictions is necessarily a good thing. If following them leads to the betterment of society or oneself, then naturally it is a good thing. However, if, like in the case of Antigone, the only result is the death and suffering of many, then following one’s beliefs blindly and without carefully considering the repercussions seems to be a ludicrous undertaking.

Consideration of consequences should go into everything a person does, every action he or she makes, every word he or she utters. This need not be the arduous task that it may seem: simple use of common sense can solve many problems. Had Antigone stopped to contemplate what the outcome of her suicide would be, perhaps she would have come to the conclusion that her death would wreak more havoc than teach any moral lesson to her rather senseless uncle.

Following one’s convictions no matter what is a very naïve way to go about life for one is following their own structure of morals in spite of how these correspond to the real world. Not taking into account that other people frequently do not care and will not be educated in the way that one is hoping is a short road to disaster. Antigone illustrates this beautifully by following her own values to destruction and the destruction of many she held dear.

Instead of making Creon see the error of his ways, Antigone only triggers events that, were she still alive, she would have found horrifying. The deaths of her future husband and her mother were complete wastes and this leads one to consider the origins of such waste: the original battle between Polynices and Eteocles, perhaps. Had the two brothers not been at war with each other, then Polynices would not have died. If Polynices had not died, Antigone would not be waging her private war against her uncle. If this war had not been going on, Creon would never have locked Antigone up in a cave. If he had not done as such, Antigone would not have died and so Eurydice and Haemon would also not have died. In this we can postulate that death begets more death and that if the two brothers had not been bent on killing one another, further thought could have gone into their decision to wage war and, conceivably, said war could have been avoided, thus stopping the chain reaction of suffering that it caused.

The subject of considering one’s actions in relation to the direct and indirect results that they cause leads into discussion of the machinations of Medea from the play of the same name. Medea acts with the same rashness as Antigone when she commits infanticide for the dual purpose of punishing her husband and saving the children from the shame and torture that she perceives they will experience when they have to live with their father and a new mother. That Medea could think killing her children and her husband’s future wife was the only option that she had makes one question her sanity. Perhaps the knowledge that her husband, for whom she had given everything up, was leaving her for another woman drove Medea mad.

Medea’s history makes her slightly more pitiable as well as slightly less pitiable in that she goes through hoops to be with the man she loves but, at the same time, she commits great atrocities to get through those hoops, such as chopping up her brother. In the end, Medea seems more detestable than someone with whom one might sympathize.

Why would Medea risk doing such horrible things? She may not have viewed her murders as horrible acts at all, but certainly she realized that others, particularly those in authority, would think of them as unreasoned and unforgivable. Perhaps she felt that she was justified and found it acceptable that she might be punished for her actions because she would know that what she had done was right. This does not seem to be the case, however, because Medea knows that she can have sanctuary in the home of Aegeus no matter what she does because he has already promised this to her. She knows that she can commit whatever crime she pleases because she will end up safe and sound in Athens, far away from those who would seek revenge upon her.

Despite the fact that neither Antigone nor Medea demonstrate very commendable actions, they are both notable women for they show great strength of will. One might not always agree with the values that these women have or the choices they make, but one most concede that they did stick to their morals and decisions even to the point of senseless ruin.

The theme of murder as a solution to problems runs rampant in these four plays. This theme does not stop with Agamemnon, either, as the lead female Clytemnestra so incontestably proves.

This woman acts very deceptively and eventually kills her husband Agamemnon in order to avenge their daughter that he killed. It is doubtful that Agamemnon knew what his wife had in store for him for, when he first returns home after the Trojan War, Clytemnestra appears pleased to see him. She persuades him to walk on purple carpeting, an act which Agamemnon views as hubristic but does anyway eventually. This further emphasizes the position of Clytemnestra as a powerful female for she changes her husband’s mind about something that clearly unsettles him.

The main act that makes Clytemnestra appear so powerful, however, is her murder of Agamemnon and his concubine, the prophetess Cassandra. That Clytemnestra would do such a thing, even if it was for the purpose of avenging her daughter Iphigenia, speaks of great courage for she must have known that such an action could get her exiled, imprisoned, or executed. Although she is courageous, this in no way excuses her actions although forgiving Clytemnestra would certainly be easier than forgiving Medea because Clytemnestra had a slightly more valid reason for the murders that she committed.

The only play that does not exemplify death at the hands of females is Trojan Women but this does not imply that the play does not contain grief or suffering; quite the contrary, Trojan Women is perhaps the most grievous play, if not for the situations and predicaments of the characters but for the exasperating lack of plot.

Hecuba is both the main character and the main female in Trojan Women and her hopeless view of life, which only becomes more hopeless as the play wears on, accurately sums up the feeling of the entire play. The only woman that shows any real hope is Cassandra but this is not really notable as Cassandra is quite insane.

This is not to say that the women of this play do not have reason to feel hopeless. Hecuba, once the queen of the great city of Troy, is left looking at the smoking ruins of her once glorious city and will eventually be shipped off to act as a servant. Andromache laments the death of her husband and then ends up losing her only son, a mere child, at the hands of the Greeks. The chorus of women moans about the fall of Troy and the individual fates of the women that remain there.

Hecuba proves that the intellectual capacity of women is no less than men through her arguments with Helen and Menelaus over what the fate of Helen should be. She brings up several valid points about the actions and nature of Helen that make Helen quite condemnable. She brings these points across in a level-headed fashion, her comments succinct and logical in nature.

Some very apparent themes in these plays are death and seemingly thoughtless actions. “Seemingly” thoughtless because, although their actions were not always the best ones, a great deal of intelligence must have gone into the trickery that Medea enacted, for example, and Clytemnestra was remarkably devious in the treatment of her husband right before she killed him, pointing at a slyness that one might overlook in her time because she was a woman.

If one knows the way that women were viewed at the times that each of these plays were set, one cannot deny that the women in these plays embody great courage for acting as they did and great independence for thinking and believing as they did when such thoughts and beliefs would most definitely have gone against the wills of their husbands and families. When Antigone went against Creon, when Medea went against Jason, when Clytemnestra went against Agamemnon, when Hecuba argued with Menelaus, they were rebelling against the males in their lives.

Such actions show that these women would not let their principles or ideals be altered by masculine influences. The women in these plays do not represent the average women of their times; that is, they are not easily cowed or manipulated by others, namely men. Obedience is not one of their main traits, subservience even less so. Although the view of women as being inferior to men is much less prevalent today, this was certainly not the case in these plays. That the playwrights should choose to portray women that do not embody the common submissive personalities and views speaks volumes about what the playwrights must have thought about the influence of headstrong women and, truly, women in general.

That passage is a very interesting one and can be interpreted in various ways. Does it imply that there are indeed other deities? If so, then why is the god of Moses the only deity worthy of worship? Will the other deities not become angry that they are forgotten? Following this path leads one to wonder if that line suggests that the god of Moses is the most powerful and persuasive of all the gods that may exist within the scope of the Bible.

Further exploring Exod. 20.3 but from a different viewpoint, it can be hypothesized that “other gods” may well be a reference to tangible objects and not intangible godheads. Is this commandment instructing its followers not to become distracted with worldly things, such as money and possessions? Viewed in this light, the segment appears much more applicable to society today, a trait that cannot be frequently associated with divinity found in The Odyssey.

The believers in the books of the Bible view God as being omnipotent and omniscient. This seems to be in contradiction with the view of the gods in The Odyssey where no one deity is all-powerful or all-knowing; each god or goddess may be almighty within the breadth of their domain but, outside of that domain, another god or goddess takes over. It may be said that the gods of The Odyssey each fulfill a role of the god of the Bible; that is to say that God in the Bible is merely broken down into individualized personalities in The Odyssey.

With that notion in mind, is it possible to conclude that the people in The Odyssey were fundamentally worshiping the same god as the people in the Bible, only on a more localized level? Considering the vast differences between the two literary works and their histories, this is an intriguing proposition.

Although the god of the Bible is oftentimes vengeful, he frequently proves that he can be equally forgiving. “And the Lord said, I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the earth; both man, and beast, and the creeping thing, and the fowls of the air; for it repenteth me that I have made them,” (Gen. 6.7). That passage gives a very early example of God’s formidable vengeance. The corresponding illustration of forgiveness is in Gen. 6.8 and 6.19: “But Noah found grace in the eyes of the Lord,” and “And of every living thing of all flesh, two of every sort shalt thou bring into the ark, to keep them alive with thee.”

Some occurrences seem to suggest that God is fallible. The story in Genesis in which Eve and Adam eat of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil and then are subsequently cast out of the Garden of Eden is one such occurrence. If He is omniscient, why would God make the Tree of Knowledge if He already knew that Adam and Eve would be cast out of paradise because of it? Does this suggest that God did not care that all of His human children, from the generation of Eve and Adam onward, would be banished forever from the only true paradise that exists while we are still alive? Does this case merely imply that God gives humankind free will to do either the wrong or the right? And if so, then can it really be called free will at all if God knows exactly what we will choose to do?

Another example that implicates the notion of the fallibility of God is the sinfulness of people. In several places throughout Genesis, God laments creating humankind because everyone has become so wicked. “And God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every imagination… was only evil continually,” (Gen. 6.5) and “And, behold, I, even I, do bring a flood of waters upon the earth, to destroy all flesh… and every thing that is in the earth shall die,” (Gen. 6.17). Why would God make people at all if He knew, before He even created them, that they would become sinful and that He would have to destroy them? This seems to be wasted effort. From nearly the beginning, God regrets that He made mankind and wishes to wipe them out. As early on as Genesis 6.7, God is having thoughts of destruction. Why could He not create a perfect species that would never do wrong? If He knows how we will choose each time we are given a choice, how is the creation of a species of sinful, wicked creatures beneficial, entertaining, or enlightening to God in the least?

Yet another case against the idea that God is infallible is the creation of false idols, as in Exodus 32.4: “And he received them at their hand, and fashioned it with a graving tool, after he had made it a molten calf: and they said, These be thy gods, O Israel, which brought thee up out of the land of Egypt.” The first of the Ten Commandments of God is, “Thou shalt have no other gods before me.” It seems that Moses takes this literally for he destroys the calf upon finding it and punishes the people for their sin. If taken literally, this commandment directly requires that there should be no false idols which the people worship. If God is omnipotent, why can’t He cause the people to worship only Him? Supposing that He is omniscient, then God already knows which people will worship false idols, how He will punish them, and how this punishment will affect the sinners.

The idea of deity being fallible is not unique only to the Bible. The most striking case of the fallibility of a god in The Odyssey is that of Circe falling to a kneeling position to clutch at the knees, a position displaying subservience and inferiority, of Odysseus. The closest God gets to acting like Circe toward a human is when He listens to Moses and allows Moses to change His mind. Although God of the Bible never displays subservience to a human, Circe’s action implies that she was wrong and, therefore, fallible.

The notion of divine power in The Odyssey is different than that of the Bible. In The Odyssey, there are many different customs associated with divinity than in the Bible. Sacrifice of animals is a requirement for one’s good health and well-being. There were countless cases of Odysseus and his men, not to mention other characters, sacrificing their fattest goats and cattle to appease a particular god. While sacrifice is not unheard of in the Bible, it is certainly not as prevalent as in the books of The Odyssey.

The dividing line between social custom and religious obligation in The Odyssey is sometimes very thin. Being hospitable to guests, for example, could be considered merely polite within the social norm of the time and area, but it is also a custom enforced by the gods. The people fear that if they mistreat their guests, the gods will punish them, the hosts. The Biblical concept most similar to this is that of the ninth commandment: “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour,” (Exod. 20.16).

In the Bible, if one has a problem that one is going to consult divinity about, it is a simple matter to know which divinity to go to, for there is only one. This is not the case in The Odyssey where there are as many gods and goddesses as there are heifers to sacrifice. One would pray to a particular god based upon the subject of your prayer; one would not pray to Poseidon, for example, if one wanted financial gain. Likewise, one does not sacrifice a goat in Hades’ name if a new child is the desired outcome. Specific gods rule over specific areas of life. Although there is a “head” god, Zeus, in The Odyssey, unlike in the Bible, he is not the source of everything. Zeus’ domain may be broad and cover many areas but it is not all-encompassing like that of God in the Bible.

Like the god in the Bible, the gods and goddesses in The Odyssey are very jealous and frequently appear petty. Should the nature of one person appeal to a god more than the nature of others, that god will favor his or her chosen person in nearly all things, sacrificing numerous human lives, if the need arises, in the process of fulfilling dreams of the chosen one.

This is best exemplified by the somewhat uncanny devotion of Athena to Odysseus throughout the epic. Athena impersonates men, women, and children alike to bend the wills of others to cause them to aid Odysseus, she defends him from other gods, and she ruthlessly murders the suitors, all in the name of her chosen one, Odysseus. This kind of favor is similarly shown by God to Noah in the Bible when God chooses to let Noah, his family, and the majority of the world’s animals survive while the rest of the creatures of the world perish in the flood.

Another instance of the favor shown by a god to Odysseus is that of Circe. When Odysseus manages to resist the potion that Circe slips him, she immediately stops her efforts to control and manipulate him and, instead, freely offers her assistance and her bed. This sort of occurrence has not happened before and, furthermore, Circe does not seem the type of goddess to bow down to a mere mortal considering her past endeavors include transforming humans into animals and afterward keeping them in a pen. However, like Athena, Circe shows her partiality to Odysseus throughout the rest of their interactions and dealings.

While a few concepts of divinity differ between the Bible and The Odyssey, a great many similarities exist. The gods from both works can be both vengeful and forgiving, petty and jealous, wise and powerful. It is sufficient to say that, in both cases, the essence of the work is in the divine. Where would Odysseus be in The Odyssey without the continuous influence and interference of the gods? Quite possibly, living peacefully on a farm somewhere without having experienced any of the adventures that make the epic what it is. And would there even be a Bible without its God? Clearly, despite the difference in concepts and beliefs associated with the divine, the fact of the existence of divinity in both of these works is far more significant because of all the implications and circumstances that result from the presence of divinity.