The Role of Oracles in Ancient Religion - An Essay
- denismorine
- Oct 5, 2024
- 12 min read
This is an essay I wrote and submitted for the Robson History Prize essay competition last year hosted by Trinity College, Cambridge. I was proud to receive a commendation and be invited for a prize ceremony at the college for my piece analysing the role of oracles throughout the Greco-Roman timeline. Were they merely priestesses, or conduits of the gods and, therefore, a divine authority?
What role did oracles play in Ancient Greco-Roman religion? - By Denis Morine
‘Tell the emperor that the Daidalic hall has fallen.
No longer does Phoebus have his chamber, nor mantic laurel,
nor prophetic spring and the speaking water has been silenced’ (Philostorgius, cited in Photius).
The Delphic Pythia’s last prophecy appears the final applause for the, seemingly apocalyptic, Greco-Roman, pagan curtain-fall. Despite the enforced ‘silenc[ing]’, we continue to see the trickle-down effect of the once-revered ‘speaking water’, not only in modern practice of fortune-tellers, tarot readers, and psychics, but in the surrounding mythos. Pythia’s final divination becomes the perennial, alluring ‘sad and moving expression of the passing away of the old order of things’ (Bury, 1931, p.370). Yet the literary legacy of oracles is not all-encompassing: the religious, political, and social role of oracles demonstrates the wide net of authority that the oracle could cast on ancient religion, and, by extension, ancient society. The very singular role of oracle seems to have no functional equal, prompting an investigative voyage into the comparative role of the theological female in more recent religious history, and the ensuing masculinisation of religious dogma coinciding with the rise of Christianity.
The enduring appeal of Pythia’s final snapshot, brief yet bright, is intensified by the theologically-charged boiling pot of the 360s CE, between the fate of Greco-Roman paganism and Nicene Christianity. The Daidalic death of 362CE anticipates the death of Julian the Apostate’s attempt at Roman pagan revival; he would later die in June 363CE, with Jovian swiftly acceding to the emperorship and restoring Nicene Christianity to its privileged position in imperial society. The Pythia-Julian dialogue, therefore, marks the momentous passing of a long-standing religious status quo, one in which the prophetic oracle possessed a definitive role.
Within Greco-Roman religion, oracles were a preeminent authority, fundamentally because they interpreted and spoke the divine will; the word oracle being a derivation of Latin ‘ōrāre’: to speak. Such utterance involved pragmatic instruction and future precognition. The oracles acted as portals through which the gods conveyed messages to humanity. Oracles were unique; being, conceptually, the intermediary conduit between the human world and the gods—a function, and power, that only they, throughout most of the ancient timeline, could boast of. That is until the arrival of Jesus: a holy prophet not simply a conduit between god and man, but simultaneously a physical manifestation of fully man and fully divine.
Due to a lack of sacred, pagan text, unlike the Christian Bible, oracles took on a much greater cut of religious authority in comparison to other religious figures such as Greco-Roman augurs. The role of such priestly augurs, unlike their Abrahamic counterparts, was merely retained to performance, appeasement of gods through sacrifice and ritual, rather than offering actual praxis—a role, in fact, unique and integral to oracles before the rise of Christianity.
Thus, because of the oracles’ original, unique status as the sole mediums of divine praxis, it was considered the natural, requisite, and statutory practice of both individual and state to consult an oracle to seek practical advice and resolve dilemmas. The everyday dependence upon oracles is perhaps best signified in Athanassiadi’s words:
‘Oracles were the psychiatrists of the ancient world…’ (Athanassiadi, 1992, p.45).
The notion of oracles as ‘psychiatrists’ lends itself not only to the quotidian nature of oracular consultations but also their confessional, quasi-medical nature—not dissimilar to Christian absolution. Oracles, in similar fashion to Christian priests, therefore became a form of psychotherapy. The ‘χρησμοί’ (‘khrēsmoí’: oracular utterances) ‘usually gave comfort to believers seeking to know if the gods favoured their actions’ (Moulton, 1998 p.315). The divinely definite praxis provided cathartic resolution. The mental health quality of oracular consultation encourages its relationship with ancient drama. In Neoplatonic thought, tragedy imparts catharsis (κᾰ́θᾰρσῐς), a cognitive purging of emotion. Oracles provided a similar emotional cleansing through divine counsel. Thus, through assessing the presence of oracles in ancient drama, we can more clearly pinpoint their function and reception.
Within Greek tragedy, prophecy, omens, and oracles possess undeniable frontline roles. Oracles, in almost all of their theatrical appearances, drive the tragic plot. One of the more famous and literised instances of this is Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus, where an unfortunate Oedipus is foretold of a dreadful future:
‘I was doomed to marry my own mother, and to shed with my own hands my father’s blood.’ (Soph. OT 995-1000) While Oedipus is appalled by such prophecy, he draws the ‘inverse inference… the reality implied… is too terrible to be faced… oracles are not to be trusted’ (Kamerbeek, 1965, p.38). Oedipus’ alleged hamartia is his pathological inability to accept an abhorred, too terrible to name, divine prophecy. In order to shield his sanity, Oedipus necessarily sheds doubt on all oracles:
‘που συ μάντης ει σαφές;’ – ‘Where have you proved yourself an [unerring] seer?’
(390-395)
While Teiresias is reluctant to divulge the actualisation of Oedipus’ prophecy, Oedipus is unable to perceive such reluctance as indicative of his own guilt. Instead, Oedipus surmises a conspiracy at the hand of Creon and Teiresias; he cannot rationally tolerate the alternative. He, by relentlessly goading Teiresias to reveal Laius’ killer, expedites the unravelling of his unwitting crime. It is this determined, yet misplaced, denial from human Oedipus against Apollonian prophecy, that spells his consignment to unwelcome predestiny.
Through the Oedipean example, prophecies thus become ‘σαφές’ (‘saphḗs’: unerring) independent of contrary desire. Although Oedipus desires to be moral, he inextricably commits the prophecy. Oedipus ostensibly fails a certain underlying divine law (Kane, 1975, pp.189-195) by not trusting the absurd prophecy to which he is condemned. Oracles and Apollo appear as arbitrary moral judges—their prophetic recipients can be condemned to an unwilling and, crucially, unreasonable fate (the supposed just deserts are perceivably not just). Perhaps Oedipus is therefore right to detest the oracles and blame Apollo, on the basis that his moral failing, the cause of his divine damnation, is one that he does not willingly commit—he is necessarily forced to. He is blameless in a senseless determinist world puppeteered by gods and their oracles.
It is the determinist, yet absurd, nature of prophetic law that may aptly explain the decline of oracles. The attraction of Christianity that spelt pagan depopulation, may well be its liberty from Apollonian determinism. Christianity embodied a more inviting moral doctrine upholding independence and free will, as opposed to the seemingly unfeeling, unjust, blatantly discriminate predestinies that the oracles prophesied. The Christian attraction was simply its capacity for moral choice, a fact absent from the religion of pagan oracles and the theological world inhabited by the likes of Oedipus.
Drama is, however, not the only discipline in which the oracle thrives. The oracles’ literised significance and plot-driving might just stem from their truer historical importance. In Greco-Roman chronicle, oracles possessed a tangible, powerful, and consequential role. Within Herodotus’ Histories, one of the more momentous historical examples of an oracle’s prophecy: the advice issued to Croesus, King of Lydia in the 6th Century BCE. According to Herodotus, upon asking the Delphic Oracle whether he should make war on the Persians, Croesus was told ‘he should destroy a great empire’ (Hdt. 1.53). Croesus, assuming this meant a successful conquest of the Achaemenid Empire, invaded, resulting in the unintended destruction of his own Lydian Empire. Pythia’s prophecy was tautological; a war would, by definition, result in the demise of one combatant—demonstrably, Croesus was too proud to notice this self-evidential precognition. There was no true deception.
The example of Croesus was used as a cautionary tale of hubris and miscomprehension, bolstering the god-fearing disposition of Greco-Roman pagans. By propagating the idea that oracular statements should be internalised before pragmatic response, oracular authority was augmented. It is clear from Herodotus that ‘consequences from oracles are meant to come true’ (Zhang, 2021, p.388). It was held almost unanimously that the prophecy of the oracle would come true unerringly and indiscriminately, even if at the expense of its recipient—just like with Oedipus. Herodotus’ chronicled account demonstrates the sheer reverence bestowed on oracles within the ancient sphere. They were, what could be called, historical promoters. The fall of the Lydian Empire can be ascribed to the, admittedly indirect, agency of the Delphic Oracle. Ancient sources similarly agree that oracles encouraged certain action, as demonstrated by Cicero in his treatise, On Divination:
‘What colony did Greece ever send… what war did she ever undertake…
without consulting the Pythian…?’ (1.1)
As per Cicero’s account, we can see that it was taken for granted that essentially all ancient wars and the Mediterranean colonisation effort by the Greek city-states were a by-product of oracular divination. Centuries after Cicero, at the advent of imperial Christianisation in the 4th Century CE, Emperor Julian corroborates Cicero’s depiction of oracular significance. In his apology for Greco-Roman paganism, written in defence of Hellenic doctrine against encroaching Christian backlash, Julian attributes oracles with the historical advancement of colonial efforts and Apollonian order:
‘And has not Apollo… set up oracles in every part of the earth…
and regulated their cities by means of religious and political ordinances?
And he has civilised the greater part of the world by means of Greek colonies’ (pp.418-420)
As with Cicero, Julian, although ruling amidst heated theological contention, the aforementioned boiling pot, highlights a certain enduring veneration for oracular ‘ordinance’ within Greco-Roman culture. The oracular role in the Greco-Roman civilising process helped to resolve disputes, provide moral guidance, and reinforce cultural norms and values (Zhang, 2021, pp.386-387). The historical, theological, and colonial force of the oracles is corroborated by the earlier Callimachus:
‘Phoebus it is that men follow when they map out cities.
For Phoebus himself doth weave their foundations’ (Hymn II. to Apollo. 55-60)
Callimachus’ statement for an oracular ‘weav[ing of] foundations’ illustrates the oracle as a coloniser, a civiliser, and a founder—a resounding ideology.
Despite the fact that these three authors—the Hellenistic Callimachus, the Late Roman Republic Cicero, and the Later Roman Empire Julian—lived in varying periods of antiquity, they understood a similar oracular function: oracles possessed a role equally religious and necessarily political. Much like a church-and-state complex, the oracles presided over all bureaucratic areas—not as passive clerical advisers, but as active civic executives.
The oracles’ religious and political authority is evidenced by the very socio-political climate of the Greek Classical Age. From Greece’s Archaic Age (c.800-480BCE) into the Classical Age (c.480–330BCE), Delphi rose to prestige; held by the combative poleis as a realm that would offer substantial religious dominance. The social hyperfocus upon Delphi’s religious aura led to an extensive series of Sacred Wars concerning territorial conflicts over ownership. Such obsession with Delphic sovereignty shows the ultimate significance of Delphi’s geo-political centrality, but more so Pythia’s perceived religious influence.
The Delphic centrality mirrors Delphi’s cosmological reputation as the ‘ὀμφᾰλός’ (‘omphalos’: navel) of the world—as attested in Pausanias’ Description of Greece (10.16). In ancient belief, Delphi was denominated by Zeus as the primordial centre of the world and demonstrably actualised as the Greek world’s religio-political focal-point. The Grecian socio-political landscape, and by extension the narrative of their Roman afterbears, was gardened by the influence of Pythia. The socio-political dimension of ancient oracles is highlighted by Wilde (cited in Wright, 2012, p.37):
‘the habit of listening respectfully to the advice of an Oracle
often produced unanimity of aims amongst men not accustomed
to obey the same political superior’.
The ‘superior’ sanctity of oracles superseded political allegiance. Oracles, and notably Pythia, were held as a unanimous ‘superior’: their influence a ubiquitous gravitational pull–just as if Delphi was truly the centre, the navel, of the world. As supposed founders and civilisers, the ancient period credited oracles as indispensable assets for a moral, functional society. Before the rise of Christianity under Late Imperial Rome, oracles were truly theocratic entities.
It is perhaps this idea of religious success, eclipsing political boundaries, that partially contributed to the oracles’ downfall. It was perceived by the fatigued people of the imperial provinces in the 4th Century CE that ‘states began to monopolise oracles’ (Kennedy, 2003, p.16), with officials manipulating them for the sake of diplomatic manoeuvre. The oracles had visibly been reduced to mere political tools, losing their former lustre. Therefore, the desperate, disillusioned, and destitute social climate forged a division between state and individual, and manifested:
‘a sort of vacuum… in which… the holy man of antiquity
quietly stepped, offering a spiritual patron for the majority
of people, and over time making the oracle more and more obsolete’ (p.16)
To a cosmopolitan population drained by constant politico-economic instability, the ‘holy man’ represented an enticing higher authority sorely missed. The desire for a ‘spiritual patron’ that could attend to appeals for divine advice was found in evangelical priests more ‘consonant with… a new, more intensely personal style of society’ (Brown, 1971, pp.99-100). The fall of the oracles, and consequent rise of Christianity, can thus be attributed to a shift in attitude throughout Roman society: one whereby the general populace sought for a religious authority severed from the body politic. The Christian ‘holy man’ was ‘just better at not being caught up in the political machinery than… the hierarchical oracle establishment’ (Kennedy, 2003, p.21). While oracles undeniably dominated religio-political affairs, their role waned. Oracles failed to cater to individuals rather than to the state; no longer appeared reliable divine communicators; and became incompatible with Abrahamic monotheism.
In a politically-divided world of instability, conflict, and change, a unitary God provided a foundation for solace, and holy men a way to receive clear counsel. Greco-Roman polytheism had suited an aggregate society, but not an individualistic one. The fractured, impoverished populace did not want a contingent oracle, but a truly divine prophet. The prophet thus arose as a ubiquitously-coveted superpolitical construct, like Pythia in the misty-eyed Classical past, resulting in the gradual extinction of the oracles.
The centrality, then, of the female theological figure under Greco-Roman paganism, and their consequent fall under the Christian shift—with oracles, once venerated, now bastardised—seems to necessitate the question of the role of women within ancient religion. Under the more familiar Christianity, the prophetic feminine – the prophetess, the sibyl, the oracle – has historically been stigmatised; a knock-on effect of the primordial sin of Eve and wider vilification of false prophets, soothsayers, and occultists. It seems therefore pertinent to compare the role of Pythia, a once supremely influential prophetess, and the starkly less-respected prophetesses under Middle Age Christendom.
Under Greco-Roman paganism, exclusively female oracles were primarily treated as professors of divine will, acting as theocratic entities which founded civilisation and determined both cultural, moral order and historical enterprise. It comes as a shock that this conception was so drastically inverted. An already definitively patriarchal society needlessly aggravated the negative perception of the theologically-authoritative woman. The tragic example of Cassandra is not a far cry from figures, many centuries later, such as Julian of Norwich or Joan of Arc. As a pagan oracle, Cassandra was necessarily female since it was believed that there was prophetic ‘divine intercourse between girl and god’ (Mason, 1914, p.86); an ‘intercourse’ both academic and sexual, like the oft-seen colloquialism: ‘pregnant with knowledge’. Cassandra embodies the dissonance of the prophetic female in that she ends up powerless despite truth-telling: her revelations are consigned to disregard.
Cassandra’s dilemma is strikingly analogous to figures such as Julian of Norwich and Joan of Arc, similarly revelatory figures, equally fated to neglect. Their destiny, however, was not a result of divinely-binding prophecy, like Cassandra, but due to the nature of the contemporary, patriarchal culture. While in more recent British history, the disparity between male and female theological authorities has been moderately mitigated, with the canonisation of Joan of Arc in 1920 and denomination of Julian of Norwich as beata (beatified, not canonised), there still remains a sentiment determining such prophetesses as ‘unworthy of… exegesis’ (Maurizio, 1997, p.308). Perhaps, in our modern day, where an interest in the Delphic Pythia has received major resurgence, acting as a potent voice for the ancient female, we ought to envoice similar silenced female figures. Just as Julian’s reign was a momentary return from Christianity to paganism, we ought to—in a manner of speaking—return to a Pythian perception of the prophetess.
Returning to Julian’s attempt at pagan resurgence and Pythia’s final refrain, we see the climactic swan-songs of Greco-Roman paganism: a last stand against the Christian tidal wave. Yet, the wide-reaching grip of prophecy was not solely literary: affecting society in socio-political and religious fashion. Oracles were thus not simply tragic motors, but historical promoters. In much the same way that modern theology and science try to predict humanity’s future—be it a Judgement Day, or other apocalypse—ancient society relied on oracles. The fall of the oracle becomes an unexpected, rich tragedy per se; the role of the revered, theological female inexorably reversed. Just as Eve is said to have bitten the apple from the tree of knowledge, the Roman world simultaneously took a bite out of the appealing Christianity. To continue the metaphor, I would reason as to why the Christian God allowed that brief, but bright, revival of old paganism: the Christian fruit could have only been borne from a tree watered with prophetic, pagan, Castalian water.
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