Creation of History, Second Edition: The Transformation of Barnabas from Peacemaker to Warrior Saint

By Michael R. Cosby

In this groundbreaking study, Michael Cosby uncovers the unknown history of the transformation of the Apostle Barnabas from a peacemaker to a warrior saint. Modern Cypriot beliefs about Barnabas diverge significantly from the New Testament depiction of the man as a leader involved in creative solutions to ethnic conflicts in the early church. Over the centuries, he morphed into a symbol of Greek Cypriot nationalism, bequeathing his power to the archbishop in Nicosia. This modern mythical St. Barnabas resulted from a complicated blend of religious and political maneuvering at key points in the history of Cyprus. Orthodox clergy made a consensus builder complicit in the ongoing strife between Greek Cypriots and Turkish Cypriots. Cosby's thought-provoking book challenges readers to ponder their own beliefs to sort through what is history and what is legend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cascade Books
• Release date: Sep 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781725269040

Michael R. Cosby

Michael R. Cosby is Distinguished Professor of New Testament at Messiah College in Grantham, Pennsylvania.

Book preview

chapter one

Discovering Created History

I did not mean to cause trouble. I really didn’t. But digging up the past can uncover upsetting information. What if the past is not as we were taught? What if historical investigation brings to light details that challenge our beliefs about events in our cultural heritage? Such discoveries can be particularly painful when they reveal legendary elements in our national, ethnic, or religious beliefs. I confess I am guilty of contributing to such truth-induced turmoil.

Trouble arose because of my intense curiosity about Joseph, an early church leader from Cyprus whom Jesus’ Twelve apostles called Barnabas. The New Testament portrays Barnabas as a peacemaker, as a leader adept at facilitating compromise solutions to ethnic conflict in the early Christian movement. However, Greek Cypriots today revere him as a warrior saint, asking him in prayer to expel the Turks from their island. How did such a radical transformation occur? How, many centuries after his death, did Barnabas the negotiator become a symbol of Greek Cypriot nationalism and a combatant in the intractable conflict between ethnic Greeks and Turks in Cyprus? I simply had to know.

So in 2011, I journeyed to Cyprus as a Senior Fulbright Fellow to conduct research on how, through the centuries, legends about Barnabas changed the image of the apostle. I wanted to learn as much as I could about Barnabas from those who reverence him most. Orthodox Cypriots consider him to be their apostle, the one who ensured the independence of their church.

As I plodded through the historical evidence, the story of Barnabas and the role he came to play in the political divide in Cyprus slowly unfolded like a cold case mystery. Details long buried slowly came to light, connections between events became clear, and finally the entire set of circumstances began to emerge from the shadows. Unfortunately, my research into the development of beliefs about Barnabas exposed serious flaws with what modern Cypriots affirm about him. The implications for their faith and politics are immense.

When, toward the end of my time on the island, I explained the results of my research on Barnabas to members of the Cyprus Fulbright Commission, one member told me, I am a secular man. I only go to church to attend weddings and funerals. But somehow I always thought I could trust Barnabas. I feel like I have been kicked in the stomach.

The implications of my research, however, extend beyond Cyprus. All of us believe stories that have little or no basis in fact—we are simply unaware of the origins of our beliefs. Facing our collective past can be troubling. What if historical investigation demonstrates that some of our dearest religious or cultural beliefs resulted from a chain of suspicious events we knew nothing about? Do we believe the truth will set us free, or would we rather just leave things buried?

I know from personal experience that this question is not merely rhetorical. Some of what I learned as a child about my cultural and religious heritage turns out to be fabricated—created history. Graduate school proved to be disconcerting as I learned to look for evidence and not just accept as true the stories I heard from authority figures. My worldview was shaken when I began to realize that some of what I thought was history is actually based on legendary events that were accepted as fact after people told and retold these stories.

Modern scholars probing into American history routinely discover new examples of the fabrication of events to bolster particular narratives told to make a group of people look better or worse. I regularly hear interviews where historians recount finding that yet another historical event never actually happened. Of course, we need to be cautious and realize that historians are not exempt from inventing their own narratives to bolster whatever ideology they promote. I used to share the following wisdom with my students: You need to be open minded. But do not be so open minded that your brains fall out. I don’t even remember where I first heard this maxim, but I adopted it as my own.

The point is that, when I recount what I discovered about how Orthodox Christians in Cyprus came to believe what they do about Bar-nabas, I do not stand aloof from the implications. They affect me. They affect you. Reading about the created history of others might pose no personal challenge if we keep a certain distance; but when we connect with their story, life gets more complicated. We might groan and ask, When does it stop?

The Difference between History and Legend

When I arrived in the eastern Mediterranean island of Cyprus in August 2011, I knew I had much to learn. I went to solve a puzzling mystery, and I did not know what I would find. My wife and I set out on an adventure that would involve not just examining ancient documents but also interacting with modern Cypriots to learn about their beliefs—and how their viewpoints are connected with the history of the island.

Every culture has its heroes, and sorting fact from fiction is a delicate task. Many people in the United States know more about the legendary George Washington than they do about the historical George Washington. Unfortunately, beliefs based on legends sometimes exert more influence on society than beliefs based on careful analysis of primary sources. Scholars studying George Washington analyze documents from Washington’s time, sort through the discrepancies they discover, and seek to reconstruct what probably happened. They also try to pinpoint when legends about Washington appeared and worked their way into America’s national heritage.

Research in this area abounds and is readily available in books and on the web.

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The story of Washington chopping down the cherry tree is a long-lasting legend created as a means of glorifying Washington and making him an example of virtuous living. Mason L. Weems, who published The Life of Washington in 1800, invented the story, and it first appeared in 1806 in the fifth edition of his biography of Washington. William H. McGuffey adopted the story and further embellished it in 1836 for his series of children’s books, called McGuffey Readers—which remained in print for nearly a hundred years and sold over 120 million copies.

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Because of Weems and McGuffey, the cherry tree legend became part of America’s cultural heritage, accepted as true by millions until pesky historians tracked down the origins of the story.

Writing history involves a complicated dance, with the past and the present as awkward partners. We all perceive the past through the lens of our own experience, so there is no such thing as a completely objective history. However, we can clean much of the grime off our cultural-heritage lens if we approach analysis openly and honestly. And sometimes outsiders notice details insiders miss, simply because outsiders do not share all of the same cultural assumptions.

Crossing Cultural Divides

My wife, Lynne, and I tried not to filter what we heard from people in Cyprus through our Western cultural lenses, but we were not completely successful. Neophytos, the Metropolitan of Morphou, told me that, until I quit thinking like a Westerner, I would never understand Eastern Orthodox beliefs.

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In part, I had to learn that, when conducting research on Barnabas, I was not just studying a figure from the past. For Cypriots, St. Barnabas is a living and active presence on the island today. I also learned that the more mystically oriented Orthodox leaders cared little about what I sought to find. The influential Metropolitan of Limassol, after listening patiently as I explained my research project, wished me well but added that the results of my study were of little concern to him. He said he was not much interested in history but in the mystical experience of faith—the divine transformation that comes through spiritual disciplines. I asked him if he thought my research was a waste of time. No, he replied, but whatever you discover will not affect my faith in the least.

In my October 9 journal entry, I wrote, Living in Cyprus is for me a bit like standing with one foot in 2011 and the other in the earlier centuries of the church . . . I regularly hear stories from my new Orthodox friends about miraculous events. Today, after church, I heard about a saintly Cypriot woman who, when she was fourteen, was taken by the Virgin Mary to a sacred mountain—as in picked up and physically flown there. I also heard stories about Jesus appearing to people while they sat at table—after they prayed that Jesus would be their guest at table. My perspectives, so dominated by Western, rational thought, constantly kept me in the position of a respectful but skeptical outsider.

An important aspect of Orthodox faith is veneration of the remains of saints. In that same, October 9 journal entry, I wrote, At the tombs of saints, people report smelling sweet aromas that signal the presence of the saint. Some smell it; some don’t. The saint decides which people receive the ability to smell the fragrance. Yesterday, my friend Marios told me that people must not judge the strength of their faith by whether or not Barnabas allows them to smell the fragrance. Barnabas decides who receives the sensation.

I do not pretend to understand all that happens in the world, but I have difficulty believing such stories. I have not experienced anything resembling the accounts I heard about holy men and women physically seeing Jesus or talking all night with a long-dead saint in a hermitage, or teleporting their bodies to appear to someone in another country. But as I listened to my gracious hosts describe such events, I noticed no hesitance or insincerity in their voices. Listening to these descriptions was part of my education as a scholar conducting research in a culture where people’s assumptions are foreign to me.

Early in our time in Cyprus, we met a young priest who hails from Texas, is a convert to Orthodoxy, spent six months on Mt. Athos, and married a Cypriot woman. He conducted the only English-based liturgy on the island—which we attended with some frequency. He took us to the nearby Agios Iraklidios Monastery (Monastery of St. Iraklidios), where Orthodox nuns live and work together.

Having a priest as our guide opened doors. A delightfully hospitable nun led us into their chapel. She also unlocked the door at the entrance of a cave purported to have contained the remains of Iraklidios—a saint with a reputation for healing peoples’ backs. As a matter of fact, one of the parishioners at the Church of St. Nicholas told Lynne and me about how he lay down in front of the tomb of St. Iraklidios and had an out-of-body experience. He explained that, afterward, his back was healed—which got our attention, because I had recently suffered a back injury.

During a kayaking accident in November 2010, I severely herniated a disc in my lower back. So, as the nun was leading us out of the tomb of St. Iraklidios, Lynne whispered to me, What can it hurt? Go lie down on the rug in front of the tomb and pray for healing. I admit I felt awkward, but my injury plagued me. I lay down on the rug, confessed my situation and tried to quiet my thoughts and be open to supernatural intervention. Nothing happened.

My injured back provided motivation to pray to a saint, something I had never before considered. Pain is a strong motivator. In my defense, however, I honestly tried to grasp Orthodox beliefs regarding veneration of saints. My questions about St. Barnabas often confused those I asked, because their understanding of Christian faith and experience differs fundamentally from mine. Different Orthodox churches are dedicated to different saints, but because members of a congregation feel a special affinity to one saint does not mean they do not venerate others. For example, St. Andrew is known for helping women safely deliver their babies. Consequently, many women pray to this saint while pregnant—and many name their sons Andreas (Andrew) to honor St. Andrew. Of course, we wanted to know why we were not meeting men named Barnabas.

Lynne and I are curious individuals. We listened eagerly, and Cypriots responded warmly, accepting us and telling us their stories. Being genuinely interested in others brings many rewards. The first person we met in Cyprus, the driver who took us from the airport to Nicosia where we were to live, told us about leaving Cyprus as a boy to live in Great Britain and then returning to Cyprus years later to raise his children. He talked non-stop about his family, about politics in Cyprus and about his cultural heritage. All we did was listen and ask questions. It was the first of many such conversations.

To maintain the privacy of individuals in this book, I have not used their actual names, except in the case of Father Gabriel, who is now deceased, and some well-known people on the island.

In addition to these impromptu chats, we arranged formal interviews of monks and priests in order to ask about oral traditions regarding Barnabas. Our goal was to learn from people in all walks of life—to listen to their stories and try to grasp the larger, historical and social context of my investigation. Our experiences exceeded our expectations. At times our encounters with people amazed us.

Barnabas: Founder and Protector of the Church of Cyprus

During the first weeks in Cyprus, I labored in the library, translating ancient Greek texts and making progress on this aspect of my research. But other aspects of our research lagged, because we were not yet part of the social network. We were making little headway in arranging for a visit to the Monastery of Apostle Barnabas in the Turkish-occupied northern part of Cyprus. When the day finally arrived for us to go to the monastery, we had been on the island two months. Chrystalla, a devoted follower of a prominent monk named Father Gabriel, picked us up at 3:30 pm, drove us across the island, through the Turkish checkpoint into occupied territory, and to the monastery that held a growing fascination for us. She escorted us around the site, and we took photos of the monastery in silhouette as the sun sank low in the sky. On the trip back into the city, Chrystalla gazed at me and said, Father Gabriel believes the Apostle Barnabas called you here from America. The pronouncement totally took me off guard. I am seldom so shocked that I am completely speechless, but on this occasion I sat in stunned silence.

Chrystalla continued with total sincerity. Barnabas brought you to Cyprus to learn about him. He will equip you to complete your work. Then he will send you back home to teach Christians in the West to venerate him properly.

Barnabas, missionary coworker with the apostle Paul, died nearly 2,000 years ago. The idea that Barnabas journeyed to America to recruit me was a foreign concept. From my perspective, I had come to Cyprus to conduct research on an important, early Christian leader. I made no supernatural connection with my historical investigation, and my belief system did not include venerating saints and praying to them as intermediaries.

Sorry, I finally replied, but I simply do not have the skills necessary to accomplish all you expect. With complete conviction she responded, Barnabas would not have brought you here unless he knew you could complete this task.

Just then Chrystalla’s cell phone rang, and she spoke briefly in Greek with the caller. When finished, she turned to me and announced, That was Father Anastasios. He said Father Gabriel wishes you to join them for dinner tonight. They await our arrival. They want to hear all about our trip.

While gliding through rural Cyprus in her comfortable Mercedes, I chafed at my newly discovered identity as ambassador of a first-century saint. In less than one hour, we would arrive at Metochi tou Kykkou, a monastery in Nicosia. In this monastic complex lived the Very Reverend Archimandrite Gabriel, the Abbot of the Holy Monastery of Apostle Barnabas. What would I say while having dinner with one of the most famous monks on the island?

I glanced over my shoulder at my wife in the back seat of the car. She smiled. We had expected adventures during our four months in Cyprus, but how does one prepare for situations like this one? Barnabas called me here from America? I thought. What have I gotten myself into? How do I respond to such expectations?

Our trip to the monastery and dinner with the abbot culminated an uncanny series of events. A few weeks earlier, in September, a scholar at the Archbishopric had told me over the phone about Father Gabriel: He knows more about Barnabas than anyone else on the island. He is a national treasure. You must see him. I wondered how I could possibly arrange such an audience. I soon learned. And it all began when the battery in my wife’s MacBook died.

As fortune (or was it Providence?) would have it, only a few blocks from the archaeological center where we lived was a store that sold and repaired Macintosh computers. As we waited in the lobby for the technician to replace the battery, we conversed with the owner, who asked why we were in Cyprus. I explained I had come on a Fulbright grant to conduct research on the island’s patron saint, Barnabas. The man beamed. You must meet my friend at the Chevy dealership two blocks down the street. He is a spiritual child of Father Gabriel, the abbot of the Monastery of Apostle Barnabas. My friend can get for you a copy of a book on Barnabas written by Cypriot scholars. It is in Greek, of course, but you can translate it. He wrote the man’s name and phone number on a business card.

A few days later, we met the owner of the Chevy dealership, a busy man who took a few minutes to talk about the island’s beloved Barnabas. Then he handed me a 2009 publication on Barnabas: Η ΙΕΡΑ ΒΑΣΙΛΙΚΗ ΚΑΙ ΣΤΟΥΡΟΠΗΓΙΑΚΗ ΜΟΝΗ ΑΠΟΣΤΟΛΟΥ ΒΑΡΝΑΒΑ: Ο ΒΙΟΣ ΤΟΥ ΑΠΟΣΤΟΛΟΥ ΒΑΡΝΑΒΑ—ΟΙ ΠΗΤΕΣ Η ΙΣΤΟΡΙΑ—ΤΗΣ ΜΟΝΗΣ—Η ΑΡΧΙΤΕΚΤΟΝΙΚΗ. For decades, I had taught Koine Greek, the language of the New Testament, but modern Greek differs substantially from ancient Greek. I inwardly cringed as I thumbed through this collection of essays, and I thought, How will I find the time to translate all these pages?

Meeting a National Treasure

A month after purchasing the book on Barnabas, Lynne and I attended a concert of traditional, eastern Mediterranean music in Peristerona, a village west of Nicosia. We had met one of the musicians on a daytrip to the Troodos Mountains, when we stopped in Peristerona to see the Church of Saints Barnabas and Hilarion (to our chagrin, we discovered this saint was a different Barnabas). The musician had been very helpful in getting us into the locked church and had invited us to the concert. At the open-air venue, we were obviously outsiders; and a friendly man came up and asked if we were from the American Embassy. When he learned the nature of my research, he said that during the intermission he would introduce me to Neophytos, Metropolitan of the Morphou region, who was attending the concert. The man also told me that he would have a lawyer friend named Andreas call me. Andreas was a spiritual child of Father Gabriel, and he could arrange to introduce me to the Father. In Cyprus, personal connections make things happen.

We had a great time at the concert, and we did indeed meet Neophytos. People were welcoming; and during the intermission, one very jolly man insisted that I drink some Zivania. It was my first experience with the clear, potent, Cypriot alcoholic drink. And the young lawyer, Andreas, did call us and give us directions on where and when to meet Father Gabriel. No need to come early, he explained. Just come right before the liturgy is over.

So it happened that, on a Sunday morning in late October, we drove to the monastery in Nicosia called Metochi tou Kykkou and waited in the courtyard. When liturgy concluded, Orthodox Christians streamed from the church building and began engaging each other in cordial conversations. My wife and I were obviously outsiders, seated on a bench at the edge of the activities. A young man, who turned out to be Andreas, approached and said, You must be Dr. Cosby.

Yes, I replied, and introduced him to Lynne. I felt hot in my sport coat—and apprehensive.

Father Gabriel is still in the sanctuary, he explained. He will soon go to his apartment. Please wait outside his door. He pointed to our left and said, There, where the people are standing. I will tell you when he is ready to receive you.

Watching the man walk away, I wondered how one should behave in the presence of a national treasure. Time moved slowly as Lynne and I stood near the designated door, trying not to look too uncomfortable. Soon the lawyer ushered us into the sitting room of the monk’s modest apartment, which swarmed with activity.

After we were introduced, Father Gabriel indicated I was to sit in a chair placed beside him on his right—which I took to be a place of honor. The room resonated with animated chatter. Of course, people were speaking Greek, so I only understood snatches of sentences. Lynne was seated on a sofa nearby, surrounded by women; and she had an advantage: these ladies were speaking to her in English. An elderly woman who had spent much of her adult life in Canada soon sat by Lynne and began telling her life story. Little did we know at this time that she and her husband would become some of our best friends in Cyprus.

Father Gabriel surveyed the happy interaction of his followers. Everything revolved around this frail, nearly ninety-year-old patriarch. Because of where I was seated, people had to lean over me to kiss his hand and receive his blessing. I felt conspicuous and out of place. People were friendly, but they kept looking at me quizzically. Finally, activities began to subside, and the room became progressively less populated.

You may sit by your wife now, said the lawyer. So I joined Lynne on the couch, where we listened to the waning conversation. A woman across the room scrutinized us and asked, Why are you here? The room grew quiet. I gave her the brief version. She nodded approvingly. The low buzz of conversation resumed.

Father Gabriel gestured for one of his followers, Chrystalla, to translate for us, and the old monk studied my face with penetrating but kind eyes. I explained that, as a New Testament scholar, I had great respect for Barnabas and I had come from the United States to learn all I could about this important leader of the early church. Father Gabriel glowed with pleasure and pointed to the icon of Barnabas on the wall behind him—an icon he personally had painted.

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When he discovered I had not yet been to the Monastery of Apostle Barnabas, he told Chrystalla, one of his closest disciples, to take me. With no hesitation she nodded Yes. One does not question Father Gabriel.

figure 1

Icon of Barnabas painted by Father Gabriel.

At the end of our meeting, Father Gabriel got out a copy of Apostle Varnavas: the Founder and Protector of the Church of Cyprus, by Marios T. Stylianou. Modern Greeks pronounce beta (β) with a v sound, so they say Varnávas instead of Barnabas (accenting the second syllable) and Gavriel instead of Gabriel. So, when I quote snatches of conversations with Cypriots in this book, I am taking a bit of liberty and modifying the way they actually pronounce certain words in order to avoid confusion for readers in the West. Also, because I did not record most of these conversations, I have used what I wrote soon afterward in my journal as the basis of my quotations of what people said. Memory is not infallible, so I do not claim tape-recorder accuracy; but I provide a close approximation of the actual words spoken. I have not intentionally misrepresented anyone.

Marios Stylianou dedicated Apostle Varnavas: the Founder and Protector of the Church of Cyprus to my spiritual father, Reverend father Gavriel Siokouros. The venerable Father Gabriel now took the copy of this book he was giving to me and wrote in Greek on the title page With love and warm wishes and signed his name. As I received the gift and read the title, I thought, "Founder and Protector. Interesting! I wonder what they mean by Protector?" I soon learned.

Into Turkish Occupied Northern Cyprus

Three days after we met Father Gabriel at his monastery apartment in Nicosia, Chrystalla picked us up after she got off work and drove us into Turkish-occupied northern Cyprus to visit the tomb of St. Barnabas. We were well aware of the hostilities between the Greek Cypriots in the South and Turk Cypriots in the North. So were not surprised when Chrystalla took the longer, southern route to the tomb, so she could drive the fewest kilometers possible through the Turkish controlled north. She became visibly agitated when she stopped at the checkpoint and showed our passports to the serious looking Turkish guards. Her animosity lessened as we drove through the countryside and approached our destination. But she remained tense and alert.

Chrystalla explained that Greek Orthodox Christians cannot celebrate sacred liturgy in the Monastery of Apostle Barnabas, a situation that weighs heavily on them. Decades ago Turkish thieves stole most of the icons originally adorning this monastery church and sold them on the black market. Turkish authorities later converted the church into a museum and tourist destination, and they brought icons from other plundered Orthodox churches and crudely attached these works of art to the walls of the monastery church.

Father Gabriel worked for years to get approval to take his followers to the burial site of his beloved Barnabas. Turkish officials finally granted permission for him to come once a month to celebrate the liturgy, but only at the tiny chapel built over the tomb of the saint. The monastery church remains off limits for them to gather as a place for worship. Understandably, Father Gabriel and his followers deeply resent being denied the right to assemble in what they consider their church and spiritual home. They hate the fact that their cherished church is merely a museum, and they despise the way Turkish tourists walk around the sanctuary showing disdain instead of reverence. But they are politically powerless to change the situation.

When we arrived at the monastery grounds, Chrystalla first took us to the underground tomb