Day 06 - Priene, Miletus, and Didyma

“A God Who Still Speaks: Priene, Miletus, and Didyma”

Today we journeyed through three cities etched into the western edge of ancient Ionia—Priene, Miletus, and Didyma—each one a silent testament to the power, pride, and eventual fading of imperial Rome. And in each place, we reflected on what it means to follow the One who does not fade: Jesus Christ, our Lord.

Perched on a terraced slope overlooking the Maeander River valley, the ruins of Priene are remarkably well-preserved—a city frozen in time. We walked along its gridded streets, stood before the elegant Temple of Athena, and gazed at the theater where civic life and imperial propaganda once merged.

Here we were reminded of a truth that would have shocked many in Priene’s heyday: Jesus is Lord. Not Caesar.

Priene is where archaeologists discovered an inscription celebrating the “gospel” (euangelion) of Caesar Augustus—using the same word the New Testament writers used to announce the reign of Jesus. In a world where the emperor demanded loyalty and declared himself “son of god,” the early Christians’ claim was revolutionary. Their allegiance wasn’t to Rome’s emperor or to its ever-changing gods, but to a crucified and risen carpenter from Nazareth.

As we stood amid the stones of empire, we thought about our own allegiances—how easily power, comfort, or success can demand our worship. Priene challenged us to re-pledge our loyalty: Jesus is Lord. Everything else is not.

Just down the coast lies Miletus, once a powerful port city and center of learning. But for us, it holds special significance because of what happened here in Acts 20. Paul, on his way to Jerusalem, summoned the elders of the church in Ephesus to meet him here. It was a tearful farewell—a final encouragement, a charge to shepherd the flock, and a witness to the hardships Paul endured for the sake of the gospel.

We gathered near the theater where Paul may have walked, sat on ancient stones, broke bread, and shared communion. Then we sang—softly at first, then louder—as if to echo Paul’s words: “I consider my life worth nothing to me, if only I may finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me.”

There was a solemn beauty to it. We weren’t just tourists—we were a church in the ruins, communing across time with Paul, with the Ephesian elders, and with all the saints who’ve gone before us.

Our last stop was the Temple of Apollo at Didyma, one of the grandest oracular shrines in the ancient world. The towering columns, though weathered, still speak of glory. Here, pilgrims once traveled from across the empire to ask questions of the gods, to receive cryptic answers from priests and priestesses in a veil of incense and mystery.

But something happened. The oracles fell silent.

By the fourth century, pagan temples like Didyma had lost their voice. Some ancient Christian writers, like Eusebius, saw it as no coincidence—that when Christ came, the powers of the old world were silenced. The light of the gospel drove out the shadowed whispers of the ancient deities.

Standing in that massive, empty sanctuary, we reflected on this silence—not as a loss, but as a transformation. The God of Scripture does not speak in riddles. He speaks plainly, powerfully, personally. Through His Word. Through His Spirit. Through the Church.

The oracle is silent. But our God still speaks.

These three cities told one story today: of human kingdoms that rise and fall, and of a divine kingdom that endures. In Priene, we declared that Caesar is not lord. In Miletus, we remembered the bond of Christian leadership and sacrifice. In Didyma, we marveled that while ancient voices have been silenced, the voice of our God still calls, still comforts, still commissions.

Let us have ears to hear.