I, like Paul Revere, am a silversmith by trade. I, like Paul Revere, lived in a city that was one of the most important ports of a colony of a great empire which would last for centuries. I, like Paul Revere, am an agitator, and, like him, can organize a rowdy demonstration when called upon. (Paul Revere was involved in the “Boston Tea Party.”) I tried to get rid of an influence that was destroying my trade. Gathering all of my fellow-tradesmen and craftsmen, we “rushed as one man into the theater” and shouted, “Great is Artemis (Diana KJV/ASV) of the Ephesians” for about two hours. I                 am the silversmith.

Hello, my name is “no glory.” That is not a pleasant name, but what would you expect for a name of a person born on one of the blackest days of Israel’s history? On that day the ark of God was captured by the uncircumcised the Philistines. On that day my grandfather, Eli, the priest, upon hearing that the ark had been captured and that his son and my uncle Hophni and his other son and my father, Phineas, had also died, fell over backward, broke his neck and died. My mother, hearing that her husband and father-in-law had died, just managed to give birth to me before she herself died. She had given up all hope, and therefore I am called, “no glory” or                     , for “the glory had departed from Israel, for the ark of God had been captured.”