Prompted by Rosie's post in the Purple Coo common room, I have wasted most of the morning trying to find out who this St Nicholas was.
It seems that he came from a wealthy family in southern Turkey (from which country, you will note, most European legends seem to arise. Perhaps the Turks manufacture them en masse in the same way as they do those ubiquitous Christmas wreaths, or packets of dried figs, for that matter or even Turkish Delight.
The legend of King Midas comes from Turkey, so too does that of Jason and the Argonauts; even the legend of Europa and the bull - the risqué story of Zeus having his wicked way which provides a warning to young innocent females everywhere to be wary of what they do with daisy chains - comes from Turkey. While, of course, dear old Noah and his gopher wood Ark, (or if you are a Julian Barnes fan) his remaining Ark, ended up in Turkey on Mount Arafat if you're entering a pub quiz.
So it is not surprising that St Nick hails from there, where it is hot and sunny and there are lots of interesting ruins to look at - even more interesting in his day (we are talking of the fourth century AD) because, of course, then they were not ruined but visible in all their ancient glory, Greek inscriptions included.
Well, as I was saying, St Nick (as he then wasn't) came - like the Buddha incidentally - you know it would really be very interesting indeed would be to examine the proportions of the saints that came from well-heeled families and those who had to live on their wits and make their way in the world.
I suppose you could argue that Jesus was one such, he being an apprentice carpenter - at least for a time. But his parents were at least respectable folk, why otherwise the fuss over the virgin birth? and able to afford a room in the inn, even if the inns of Bethlehem were full.
Besides Joseph came from the 'House of David' - something that I have never quite understood - but which the Bible suggests is something of a badge of honour. So not quite your downtrodden serf, then.
And besides again we haven't a clue what Jesus got up to in the twenty years or so between joining the family carpentry business and emerging on the scene as Prophet and Redeemer.
With half an ear on Radio 4 the other day I heard someone say that he could well have come to England - 'did those feet in ancient time' and all that. In fact, people connected with Glastonbury, seem to be putting it about that he almost had a second home here and that the Sermon on the Mount was first devised while wading through the weed beds of the Somerset levels and practiced as the Sermon on the Tor.
Not impossible, of course, but surely a little improbable. Far more likely that He ended up in Turkey, which was a lot nearer and didn't require transport by sea and which (unlike uncivilised Britain) was an already fully conquered part of the Roman Empire. Cives Romanus Sum and all that. A Roman not a Roaming Man - or at least not a Roaming all the way to Glastonbury Man.
I suppose the lesson from this is if you do roam, stay put and don't go back. Turkey seems to have been a tolerant enough sort of a spot in those times (whereas Britain was in an endless crisis - was it ever any different? - of competing kingdoms struggling with unwanted visits from Caesar) But then would we ever have known that'our Redeemer liveth?'
Again I suppose it all depends on whether you believe that blood sacrifice is necessary - but it always bothered me as a child the thought of God (and not just God, but Abraham for good measure, the secular father of Judaism, Christianity and Islam, should have been up for sacrificing their only sons). Life is terrifying enough as a child without being pawns in parental schemes to save the world. At least the kids should be given an opt-out.
Anyway, we have drifted far from our friend Santa Claus, he of the wealthy family, who inherited a fortune - probably from the family dried fig or Turkish Delight business - and then gave at least some of it away and at least some of it anonymously, leaving pennies (or denarii) in people's shoes and under their pillows. A kind of petty larceny in reverse, if you ask me. Breaking and entering to leave things behind, your honour!
However, this did make him seem holy, especially as no one else could be found to embrace Christ's injunction about giving to the poor with quite the same enthusiasm. So they made him Bishop of Myra at 'quite a young age.' Though, sadly, we are not told whether he wore purple, or even gaiters.
But then came the Roman Emperor Diocletian who threw all the priests in jail, including Nick who nevertheless kept everyone spirits up and made a point of intervening in executions, sometimes successfully. Being a generous soul (no doubt he secretly put oranges and dried figs in the guards' hosiery in the middle of the night) he was let off with an exile and when Diocletian eventually went to meet his maker, Nicholas went back to being a bishop again and practicising facial hair growth.
He died - quite peacefully - in 343 AD and after a life really only very moderately inconvenienced compared with what other saints (and sinners) had to put up with - was beatified and has been with us ever since. We are all, I suppose in a manner of speaking his elves. A constantly and never ending army of children, parents and grandparents all putting out the dried figs and oranges and Turkish Delight, dressing up in a costume well suited I daresay to an unheated church in winter in the cold Turkish mountains, where it does snow unconscionably.
But why then Lapland? I mean of all places? Why not Arafat? I mean aren't the figs, the oranges, the Turkish Delight, the dried dates, the wreaths for our front doors a clue? If Father Christmas really did hail from Lapland we'd be lucky to get pine cones for Christmas.
10 comments:
According to the legend I was told as a child, Saint Nicholas was the bishop of Myra (formerly Greece now Turkey) who, one day heard about an impoverished father who was going to sell his daughters to a brothel, because he could not feed his family. At night the bishop went to this family and placed a piece of gold into each girls shoe, so that their father did not have to sell them and they could marry respectable men when they were old enough. Hence the custom to put your boots outside the door on the evening of Dec 5th
Surely Ararat, and not Arafat?!
What an interesting post, Fennie. We're such a mongrel,gypsy family -we fill shoes every Dec 6th - always a book and a chocolate, although when we lived in Germany it might have been a little bread mouse or man, as well. I've always preferred Sinter Klas to Santa Clause.
Pondside: a bread mouse? Lebkuchenmännle yes abut I never heard of a bread mouse!
My St Nikolaus came laden with gifts in one hand and a switch with which to beat naughty children in the other. Well, actually, he had a servant to do that for him. And tonight is the big night; have a look at my story.
Trust people who don't look things up to get them wrong! Of course Ararat!
What solecisms one commits when speed blogging. Six penalty points deducted and extra washing up for me.
I suspect it's probably a case of a game of Chinese whisphers spanning several centuries. I rather like the Dutch version Sinterklaas, who has a black accomplice, Zwarte Piet, who would have looked a bit out of place in fourth-century (or whenever it was) Lapland. Very interesting blog, Fennie (Arafat or not).
Well I had never picked up the ubiquity of Turkey but now I am convinced. How did the reindeer slip in too?
This is a very interesting story. But you know, in those days, Mount Ararat was not in Turkey, it was in Armenia. This is what Wikipedia says: “Ararat dominates the skyline of Armenia's capital, Ararat dominates the skyline of Armenia's capital, Yerevan. Mount Ararat has been revered by the Armenians as symbolizing their national identity. Ararat is the national symbol of the 1991 Republic of Armenia, being featured in the center of its coat of arms. In Armenian mythology Mt. Ararat is the home of the Gods, much like Mt. Olympus is in Greek Mythology.” And from the Columbia Encyclopedia: “Ararat (ăr'ərăt), Turkish Ağri Daği, name of two mountains, Little Ararat (12,877 ft/3,925 m) and Great Ararat (16,945 ft/5,165 m), E Turkey, near the Iranian and Armenian borders. The tradition that Mt. Ararat is the resting place of Noah's ark is based on a misreading of Gen. 8.4, which properly reads "upon the mountains of Ararat," indicating a country or region. The land or the kingdom of Ararat, called in Assyrian Urartu, was situated between the river Aras (Araks) and the lakes Van and Urmia. It included all the land later called Armenia.”.
Thank you, Vagabonde. I tend to think of Ararat as a mythical place. Mythical in the same way as the Ark itself is mythical. So forgive me if I place my Arafat in Turkey. All I now about Armenia is that people there (according to Herodotus - it was the first Greek they taught us at school) lived underground and in houses with small entrances. I also know a very little about the tragic events of 1915. But next to nothing of before or since.
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