Josephus on Jesus: What Did Josephus Say About Jesus?

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

I bet Josephus never imagined he would be this important in the history of Western civilization. A 1st-century Jewish historian writing under Roman patronage, Josephus had no intention of founding a religion or shaping the theological imagination of billions.

And yet, when it comes to the question of whether Jesus of Nazareth really existed, few ancient voices are invoked as often (or as passionately debated) as his. The topic of Josephus on Jesus has become a cornerstone in discussions of the historical reliability of non-Christian sources, and the conversation shows no signs of fading.

For many readers today, the New Testament provides all they need to know about Jesus. But historians are naturally more cautious. They want evidence that goes beyond the confessional. Sources that are external, independent, and, ideally, uninterested in promoting Christian faith.

Josephus is often celebrated for providing just that. The mere fact that a Jewish historian writing near the end of the 1st century mentions Jesus at all has generated both curiosity and intense scrutiny. Is the text authentic? Did later Christians alter it? What did Josephus actually say?

In what follows, I’ll explore these questions in depth. First, I’ll briefly introduce who Josephus was and why he matters. Then I’ll turn to the central focus of this article: the two brief, but historically significant, references to Jesus found in his writings.

Before we dive in, take a moment to check out Bart Ehrman’s outstanding course, “The Genius of Mark: Revealing the Mysteries of the Gospel of Mark.” In this eight-part series, Dr. Ehrman explores the earliest surviving account of Jesus’ life, uncovering surprising insights and overlooked features in the Gospel of Mark. This is a must-watch for anyone interested in the historical Jesus.

Josephus Flavius: Short Biography

Despite his importance for understanding 1st-century Judaism and early Christianity, there are surprisingly few external sources about Josephus’ life. In other words, nearly everything we know about him comes from his writings (more on those later).

According to his autobiographical account, Josephus was born in 36 or 37 C.E., just a few years after the crucifixion of Jesus in Jerusalem and around the same time that Paul experienced his conversion to Christianity.

Josephus claimed descent from an ancient and prestigious priestly lineage. He belonged to the first of the 24 priestly courses established in Jerusalem and, within that elite class, to one of its most distinguished families.

His upbringing and education were steeped in Jewish tradition, and he quickly rose through the ranks of Jewish society. During the Jewish revolt against Rome that erupted in 66 C.E., Josephus was appointed commander of Jewish forces in Galilee.

At first glance, it might seem that such a man (aristocratic, learned, and a military leader against the Roman occupation) would be celebrated within the Jewish tradition. Well, not so much. Why?

Per Bilde explains in his Biography of Josephus:

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That controversial decision (choosing survival over martyrdom) defined the rest of Josephus’ life. Well, who can blame him?! Anyway, while still in Roman custody, he predicted that his captor, General Vespasian, would become emperor.

Remarkably, the prophecy proved accurate: After Nero’s suicide in 68 C.E. and a year of civil war that saw three emperors rise and fall, Vespasian was declared emperor by his troops. Grateful for the prediction, the new ruler rewarded Josephus handsomely: He received Roman citizenship, a pension, and an apartment in Rome, where he would live out the rest of his life under Flavian patronage.

From that point on, Josephus became a Roman insider. He lived in the imperial capital, enjoying the protection and support of the very regime he had once opposed on the battlefield. While this arrangement secured his safety and enabled his writing career, it also ensured that Jewish tradition would remember him with suspicion, if not outright contempt.

He died sometime around the year 100 C.E., having spent nearly half his life chronicling the events that had shaped his world and his place within the Jewish tradition. 

Of course, there’s much more to the story, including a few colorful details that we didn’t have space for here. For those interested in the full picture of Josephus’ life, we have a whole article dedicated just to him.

For us, though, the more pressing question is this: when it comes to Josephus on Jesus, what did he actually say, and can we trust it?

Writings of Josephus: A Brief Glimpse

However, before we move into the Josephus on Jesus issue, let’s take a brief look at his literary legacy. After settling in Rome under imperial patronage, Josephus devoted the rest of his life to writing historical works that sought to explain Jewish history and culture to a Greco-Roman audience.

His two most significant contributions (The Jewish War and Antiquities of the Jews) are indispensable sources for anyone interested in the world of first-century Judaism and the historical backdrop of early Christianity.

His first major work, The Jewish War, was completed around 75-79 C.E. It offers a dramatic and detailed account of the Jewish revolt against Rome, beginning with the roots of the rebellion and culminating in the catastrophic destruction of Jerusalem and its temple.

Josephus writes as both a participant and a historian, blending his eyewitness testimony with rhetorical flourishes intended to appeal to his Roman patrons. (Here you can read this work in a scholarly English translation.)

Simone Claude Mimouni, in his book Le judaïsme ancien du VIe siècle avant notre ère au IIIe siècle de notre ère (Ancient Judaism from the 6th Century B.C.E. to the 3rd Century C.E.) highlights Josephus’ multifaceted approach:

Josephus’ later and even more ambitious project was Antiquities of the Jews, written around 93 C.E. Spanning 20 volumes, this massive history attempts to recount the story of the Jewish people from the creation of the world down to Josephus’ own time. Think of it as a kind of Jewish version of Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita, aimed at explaining Jewish tradition and scripture to a Roman readership.

It’s in this work, not The Jewish War, that Josephus famously refers to Jesus, and that’s what we’ll explore in the next section. (Here you can read Antiquities in a scholarly English translation.)

What Did Josephus Say About Jesus?

If I had a penny for every time someone asked me whether any non-biblical sources confirm Jesus’ existence, I’d be writing this from my private island. The question is a common (and perfectly reasonable) one. After all, outside the New Testament, what ancient evidence do we actually have?

This is where the Josephus on Jesus issue comes into the picture. In what follows, we’ll take a closer look at the two passages in his writings that mention Jesus.

Josephus on Jesus: The Death of Jesus’ Brother James

The shorter reference to Jesus in Josephus’ writings appears almost incidentally. While discussing events that took place in Jerusalem just before the outbreak of the Jewish War (in particular, the political maneuvering around the high priesthood), Josephus briefly notes that the high priest Ananus took advantage of a leadership vacuum to convene the Sanhedrin and have a man named James put to death.

To identify James more clearly, Josephus adds a phrase that has sparked centuries of scholarly interest:

Most critical scholars regard this passage as authentic, unlike the more complicated reference we’ll examine next.

As John P. Meier argues in his seminal work A Marginal Jew, there are compelling reasons to see this as a genuine statement from Josephus:

In other words, the description is too restrained (and too neutral) to have originated with a Christian scribe. Moreover, the passage is firmly embedded in the Greek manuscript tradition of Jewish Antiquities and already cited by Eusebius at the beginning of the 4th century, providing important external attestation.

While brief, this reference to “Jesus who was called Christ” is taken seriously by historians because it offers a non-Christian confirmation (however passing) that Jesus of Nazareth was known to have had a brother named James, who was publicly executed in Jerusalem.

Josephus on Jesus: Testimonium Flavianum

It’s one of the most read (and most debated) paragraphs from all of ancient literature. Hundreds of studies and posts have been written about it. Countless scholarly debates and polemical battles have been waged across centuries. When it comes to Josephus on Jesus, no passage has drawn more scrutiny, suspicion, and scholarly attention than the famous Testimonium Flavianum.

The paragraph is found in Antiquities of the Jews 18.3.3. It appears in the context of Josephus’ description of unrest under the Roman prefect Pontius Pilate. Seemingly out of nowhere, he inserts a report about a man named Jesus:

Before the rise of historical criticism in the 19th century, this passage was largely accepted at face value. Early Christian authors, such as Eusebius, quoted it approvingly, and few questioned its authenticity.

Today, scholars are, as Robert Louis Wilken explains, divided into three general camps.

#1 – Interpolation All the Way

At one end of the spectrum are those who argue that the entire passage is a later Christian interpolation, inserted wholesale by scribes who wanted to bolster the historical claims about Jesus. This view has been advocated by a minority of scholars, such as Richard Carrier.

In one of his posts, Carrier reiterates what he elaborated in the book On the Historicity of Jesus:

#2 – Authentic All the Way

On the opposite end are those who maintain that the entire paragraph comes from Josephus himself, unaltered. This is also a minority view, but some scholars, as Wolfgang A. Bienert noted, still argue for full authenticity.

#3 – Partial Interpolation Theory

The mainstream scholarly position is a middle ground, sometimes called the “partial interpolation theory.” According to this view, Josephus did originally mention Jesus in Antiquities 18, but later Christian copyists (perhaps as early as the 3rd century) modified the text to make it more theologically affirming.

When one strips away the later interpolation, this is what we get:

Why do most critical scholars accept this middle position? John P. Meier offers several compelling arguments:

#1 – The literary and stylistic flow of the paragraph is disrupted by three phrases that stand out as patently Christian: (1) “if indeed one should call him a man,” (2) “he was the Messiah,” and (3) “he appeared to them on the third day, living again.” 

Meier notes that the paragraph reads smoothly and coherently if these clauses are removed, leaving a neutral, concise report that sounds like something Josephus could have written.

#2 – The language and vocabulary of the “neutral core” differ markedly from the Greek of the New Testament but fit well with Josephus’ own style. By contrast, the three interpolated phrases contain terms closely aligned with early Christian creedal language.

#3 – The “low Christology” of the stripped-down text is entirely incompatible with what we know of early Christian theology. A crucified man remembered as a wise teacher and miracle worker (without resurrection or divine status) wouldn’t satisfy any early Christian interpolator. 

In other words, the result is too neutral, too minimalist, even too dismissive to be a Christian invention.

#4 – Testimonium Flavianum is found in all Greek manuscripts of Antiquities 18, as well as in all Latin translations made by Cassiodorus’ school in the 6th century. That suggests there was some reference to Jesus in Josephus’ original text, even if not all of it is authentic.

Additionally, Robert Louis Wilken, in his book Jesus Outside of the New Testament, provides another important insight:

Finally, it’s worth considering the existence of an alternative version of the Testimonium Flavianum, preserved in Agapius’ Universal History (a 10th-century Christian chronicle written in Arabic). 

This version closely resembles the neutral reconstruction favored by the majority of contemporary scholars, lacking the overtly Christian affirmations found in the standard Greek text.

Taken together, these considerations make the middle-ground theory not only the most academically defensible but also the most historically satisfying. It recognizes the real presence of Josephus on Jesus in this famous passage, while also acknowledging the hands of later Christian scribes who, with a few strokes of their pens, sought to make a neutral report sound like a confession of faith. 

Strip away the confessional layers, and what remains is a rare and valuable glimpse of Jesus from the pen of a Roman-era Jewish historian.

It doesn't come as a surprise that at the end of a meticulous study over the authenticity of the Testimonium Flavianum, French classicist Serge Bardet concluded that a full Christian fabrication is exceedingly unlikely. As he puts it, one would have to suppose “a talent for imitation that would scarcely have any equivalent in antiquity.” (my translation)

Conclusion

When all is said and done, the Josephus on Jesus debate invites both caution and appreciation. The writings of Josephus (especially the Antiquities of the Jews) offer a non-Christian witness that, while brief and contested, remains historically significant.

For historians, Josephus’ references provide important non-Christian evidence. Even though all of us would like more information! Wouldn’t it be great if the Jewish historian wrote more about the nascent Christian movement?! But we have what we have.

Beneath the layers of scribal enthusiasm lies a voice that neither followed Jesus nor denied his historical presence. In a field often clouded by ideological fog, such a voice is more than welcome. It’s, quite simply, invaluable.

The Second Coming of Christ: How the Bible Describes Jesus’ Return

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

What is the Second Coming of Christ? It is the belief that Jesus will one day return to earth — and one of the central tenets of Christian eschatology. For many believers, it represents not only the culmination of God’s plan for humanity but also a moment of ultimate justice and redemption. But how did this belief emerge, and what does the Bible actually say about it? Was the Second Coming of Christ a late addition to Christian doctrine, or was it a foundational part of the faith from the beginning?

In this article, I’ll trace the development of the idea of the Second Coming of Christ through key New Testament texts. Along the way, we’ll explore what early Christians believed about Jesus’ return, how those beliefs were shaped by Jewish apocalyptic traditions, and how different authors depicted what would happen when Jesus came again.

By examining the biblical sources themselves, we can better understand not only the origins of this enduring belief, but why it has remained so powerful throughout Christian history.

What Will Happen When Jesus Returns? Biblical Views

How early did the belief in the Second Coming of Christ become common among early Christians? One way to decide this is to look at biblical texts that clearly refer to it. While there are many verses referring to the return of Jesus, in this article I’ll look at them chronologically, to the extent that it’s possible. We know, for example, that Paul’s letters were written before the Gospels, so let’s start with Paul’s take on the Second Coming.

In the Jewish Annotated New Testament, David Fox Sandmel writes that 1 Thessalonians is the earliest of Paul’s letters. It was written around the year 50 CE, which also makes it the oldest book in the New Testament and, thus, a good place to start.

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It’s clear that this letter is at least partially a response by Paul to questions from members of the church that he started in the city of Thessaloniki. When this letter was written, it had already been about 20 years since Jesus’ death and resurrection. Paul was sure that Jesus would return imminently, reflecting his belief in the general resurrection of the righteous at the end of time which he believed had been initiated by Jesus’ resurrection. However, some members of the Thessalonian church had died in the years since the founding of their church. Would these deceased people be saved when Jesus’ came back?

In 1 Thessalonians 4:13-17, Paul reassures them that these dead members will also be saved:

These verses have long been used to justify belief in the Rapture, in which Jesus returns and all Christians go up with him to heaven, leaving non-Christians behind. However, that may not be what Paul is talking about here.

Bart Ehrman points out that Paul leaves a lot of questions unanswered in this passage. Among them is whether the believers would go up to heaven with Jesus or whether he would come down with them and establish his kingdom on earth. This and other questions are probably not answered because Paul had long been preaching about this to the Thessalonians, and they already knew his answers; there was no need for Paul to reiterate them.

Having said all that, it’s clear that well before 50 CE when 1 Thessalonians was written, Paul had told the churches he’d founded that Jesus would return. However, it’s also interesting to note that Paul says that no one knows when exactly Jesus will return. In 1 Thessalonians 5:2 he says the day will come unexpectedly “like a thief in the night,” and that they should, therefore, remain prepared at all times. Later, I’ll discuss predictions about when Jesus would return.

Next we have the Gospel of Mark, written in 70 CE, or 20 years after 1 Thessalonians. What do Mark’s early Jesus traditions say about the Second Coming of Christ? In Mark 14:61-62, we see Jesus being questioned before the Sanhedrin, the Jewish supreme council:

Jesus’ words in this passage are drawn from two Hebrew Bible passages, Psalms 110:1 and Daniel 7:13, in order to prove that Jesus is the fulfillment of prophecy. Notice that the juxtaposition of these two quotes means both that Jesus will ultimately be seated at God’s right hand and that he will return to earth in a glorious fashion.

Matthew’s Gospel has several quotations about the Second Coming of Christ, but two are especially relevant to our discussion. First, in Matthew 16:27-28, Jesus says

Not only will Jesus return, but some of the people around Jesus will still be alive when he returns. Like Paul, the author of Matthew thought the Second Coming was imminent. However, also like Paul, Jesus says “Keep awake, therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.” In other words, he is coming very soon, but you won’t be able to predict when. Implied in this statement is that one shouldn’t try to predict when he is coming.

Skipping forward in time again, we find the book of Hebrews, written sometime between 80-100 CE. Many early Christians originally thought this book was written by Paul, but the vast majority of scholars no longer believe this. For one thing, Paul died about 20 years before this book was written. However, it is clear that this anonymous author would have agreed with Paul about the Second Coming:

While the author of Hebrews certainly believes Christ will appear again, he doesn’t talk about how: there are no clouds of heaven or angels in this passage. That might mean that such a glorious arrival was already assumed and thus went without saying, but we can’t know for sure.

Finally, jumping forward to 96 CE, the book of Revelation was written. Its author, a Jewish Christian named John (sometimes called John of Patmos, referring to the island on which he wrote the book), had a lot to say about Jesus’ Second Coming. In Rev. 1:7, in fact, he refers to the image of Jesus coming on the clouds, just as Paul and the Gospels say:

Even at this early stage of the book, we see an important difference in John’s version of the Second Coming. John’s Jesus indeed comes with the clouds, but he seems to come not only in order to save Christians but also to enact revenge upon their enemies. Notice that “even those who pierced him” — that is, the Romans — will see him and all nations will cry because of his return, presumably because Jesus’ Second Coming signals the beginning of God’s ruthless wrath upon those who have oppressed his people.

John’s Jesus makes this revenge motif clear in Rev. 22:12 when he says “Behold, I am coming soon, bringing my recompense with me, to repay each one for what he has done.” This ruthless, warlike Jesus finds a culmination in Rev. 19:11-16:

Jewish apocalypticism has abundant images of war and violence like this, whether in the Dead Sea Scrolls or the Books of Enoch. But while Christ as judge is common in Second Coming references, this is the most violent depiction of Jesus in the entire NT.

So what can we conclude from these references? First, belief in Jesus’ return probably began fairly soon after his death and resurrection. Most scholars agree that Paul’s conversion experience happened within 4-7 years of Jesus’ death. Since Paul was so adamant that Jesus would return, this puts a very early date on this belief. It is possible that Jesus’ disciples believed it right after his death. Whatever the case, it is clear from the NT references that the belief in Jesus returning was widespread among early Christians.

In addition, many early Christians seem to have believed that Jesus’ Second Coming was a fulfillment of prophecy, that just like the “one like a son of man” in Daniel, Jesus would come on the clouds to rule the world on God’s behalf.

The only place we find a possible difference in opinion is when we look at the bloodthirsty Jesus of Revelation. While Paul and the other NT authors certainly refer to God’s wrath at the end of days, none of them go into as much bloody, militaristic detail as John of Patmos. That is, while most believed Jesus would come back, there might have been some disagreement on what he would do after his return.

When Is Jesus Coming Back?

It’s safe to say that if Paul were alive today, he’d be completely shocked that Jesus has not yet returned. It turns out that he and his whole generation of early Christians were wrong about how soon the Second Coming would happen.

When is Jesus coming back? Although Paul and the Jesus of the Gospels say that human beings cannot know the exact time when Jesus will come back, this hasn’t stopped many, many people from trying to fix a date for that return in advance. Let’s look at some of those.

In 1532, a German monk and mathematician named Michael Stifel published an unusual tome called A Book of Arithmetic about the Antichrist: A Revelation in the Revelation. In this book, Stifel claimed to have applied his mathematical knowledge to the book of Revelation, coming up with a date and time when the world would end and Jesus would come: October 19, 1533. When this forecast proved wrong, Stifel ended his career as a predictor of the Second Coming.

In his book Prophets of Doom, Daniel Cohen writes about Johann Jacob Zimmermann, a German theologian who, in the 17th century, predicted that Jesus would return and the world would end in the year 1694. Conveniently, he died in 1693, never knowing that he had been wrong.

In the Rough Guide to the Millennium, Nick Hanna writes that famed 20th-century psychic Edgar Cayce predicted the end of the world and the return of Christ in the year 2000. Cayce died in 1945, long before his prophecy would fail.

When is Jesus coming back? A number of people in the past predicted that Jesus would return at a date that has yet to happen. For example, mathematician and physicist Sir Isaac Newton used a series of convoluted calculations to conclude that the apocalypse detailed in the book of Revelation, including Jesus’ return, would occur in the year 2060. We will see.

Conclusion

Christians have long believed that Jesus’ time here in the 1st century CE was only the first of his visits. They believe he will return to earth and, although there is some disagreement about what will happen after that, this will, in some sense, end the current world.

Paul is our earliest reference to the Second Coming of Christ. Whatever else he believed, he thought that Jesus’ resurrection was only the beginning of a general resurrection predicted by prophecy and believed in by many pious Jews of his time, including the Pharisees. It seems clear from Paul’s references, and the fact that he converted so soon after Jesus’ death, that this belief in Jesus’ Second Coming began very early in the movement.

The Gospels mostly follow suit, saying that Jesus will return as judge of the living and the dead, subsequently ruling the world on God’s behalf. The book of Hebrews also espouses this belief, although its author is a bit more vague in describing the actual events coinciding with Jesus’ return. Then there’s the book of Revelation.

In Revelation, Jesus indeed comes back — with a vengeance! He is riding a war horse, has a vicious, double-edged sword, and a garment dipped in blood. He is furious and John says that he slaughters the enemies of God, including the Romans who crucified Jesus and any other nations who have oppressed God’s people.

Since humans are never good at dealing with uncertainty, many throughout history have tried in vain to predict when Jesus would return. They did this in spite of the fact that both Paul and the Jesus of the Gospels say that only God can know.

Despite all these failed predictions, perhaps at heart the idea of Jesus’ return is a message of hope: Things may look bad now, but they’re going to get better.

Yom Kippur: History & Meaning of the Day of Atonement (2025)

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

Yom Kippur stands as a sacred date on the Jewish calendar, a time of deep reflection, repentance, and renewal. While many today recognize it as a solemn day marked by fasting and prayer, the roots of Yom Kippur stretch back thousands of years to the rituals of the ancient Israelite priesthood, described in striking detail in the Hebrew Bible.

So what is Yom Kippur? In this article, I’ll explain its multifaceted history and the evolving Yom Kippur meaning — from its biblical origins and priestly rituals of purification to its reinterpretation in early Christianity and its modern observance focused on personal introspection and ethical living. By tracing the journey of this holy day through Scripture, tradition, and transformation, we uncover how a single day can carry both ancient weight and contemporary relevance.

When is Yom Kippur 2025? This year it will start on Oct 1 at sundown and end at nightfall on Oct 2.

Yom Kippur’s Meaning

The name Yom Kippur, designating the highest of the Jewish holy days and celebrated on the 10th day of the 7th month of the Jewish calendar (the month of Tishrei), comes from the Hebrew Bible, specifically Leviticus 23:27 and 25:9 where it is called Yom Hakippurim (the -im ending indicates pluralization, or “Day of Atonements”). Marc Zvi Brettler points out that our translation of the word “kippur” as atonement actually comes from the Septuagint, the ancient translation of the Hebrew Bible into Greek.

In the Septuagint, kippur is translated as ilasmou, which can mean atonement or seeking the favor of a god. The Latin version of the Hebrew Bible then translated the word as “expiationum,” or expiation, the process by which individuals take some action to have their sins forgiven. Brettler notes, however, that the original Hebrew word kippurim does not mean individual atonement or expiation.

The ritual and purpose of the Yom Kippur is described in detail in Leviticus 16. At the end of this description, God explains the reason the ritual must be performed annually:

Brettler explains that in this ritual, “the altar absorbs certain sins of the Israelites, and the main function of Yom Kippur is to cleanse these sins by using the blood of a purification offering (sometimes called a “sin offering”) as a type of ritual detergent.” For this reason, he says that the best translation of the Hebrew word kippur would be “purgation,” which “specifically refers to the purgation or cleansing of sins from the tabernacle or temple.”

Leviticus 16 explains other connected rituals too, including a scapegoat (a literal goat) that bears away the Israelites’ sins (more on this later). Brettler concludes that while Leviticus 16 certainly addresses the purging of sin, it is not related to individual repentance, as it would be later in Jewish history.

By the way, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are called the high holy days in Judaism. Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year and believed to take place on the date when God created the world, according to Samuel Boyd. As such, it’s a time for celebration. The ten days following Rosh Hashanah are called the Days of Awe, culminating in the highly solemn and sacred Day of Atonement.

Next, let’s discuss Yom Kippur’s relation to the New Testament.

The Day of Atonement in the New Testament

In The Impact of Yom Kippur on Early Christianity, Daniel Stokl Ben Ezra writes that since much of the New Testament was written after the destruction of the Second Temple by the Romans, and since the Yom Kippur sacrifices were only to be made in the Temple, many Jews were rethinking the importance of the original ritual. This included some of the NT’s authors, some of whom characterized Jesus’ death as a Yom Kippur sacrifice. However, other NT authors, such as Paul, who was writing before the destruction of the Temple, had already begun to make this connection.

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For example, in Romans 3:23-25, Paul writes that

Similarly, in Galatians 1:4, Paul talks about Jesus “who gave himself for our sins to set us free from the present evil age, according to the will of our God and Father.” Finally, in the most explicit reference to Jesus as the Yom Kippur sacrifice, in Hebrews 9:11-14, the anonymous author writes that Jesus was both the priest performing the sacrificial rite, and the sacrifice itself:

In addition, Hebrews 10:10 says that while the Yom Kippur sacrifices had to be made every year, those who believe in Jesus “have been sanctified through the offering of the body of Jesus Christ once for all.”

Having explored the history of Yom Kippur, both for Judaism and Christianity, let’s look at how the original ritual was performed and what is done today.

The Ancient Ritual of Yom Kippur

A week before the ancient rite of Yom Kippur in the Temple in Jerusalem, the High Priest would live in a special chamber in the Temple to spiritually prepare himself for the Day of Atonement. On the day of Yom Kippur, he would enter the Holy of Holies, a special chamber closed off with a curtain and containing an altar. This was the place where God’s presence was believed to dwell within the Temple. Only the High Priest could enter this chamber, and only on the Day of Atonement.

On Yom Kippur, three different types of sacrificial services were performed. First, the regular daily offering which was offered every day of the year. Numbers 28:3-8 describes what was offered to God in this ritual:

Next came the Mussaf, or additional sacrifice for special days, described in Numbers 29:7-11:

Finally, the official Yom Kippur service, described in Leviticus 16, was performed. First, the high priest would donate one young bull for a sin-offering, and one ram for a burnt-offering. Then the people would give the priest two goats for a sin-offering, and one ram for a burnt-offering. One of the goats would be sacrificed as atonement for the collective sins of the people while the other would be designated the scapegoat. Leviticus 16:21-22, describing Moses’ brother Aaron as the first high priest, explains what is to be done with the scapegoat:

With the sins of the people symbolically carried away by the scapegoat, the people and the Temple were purified for another year. However, once the Temple was destroyed, the Yom Kippur ritual necessarily changed, both in significance and in practice. How is the day celebrated by modern Jewish people and what does it mean now?

Modern Day of Atonement: What Do You Say on Yom Kippur?

While the Day of Atonement in the ancient world focused on purifying the collective Jewish people and their Temple of sins, modern Jewish denominations focus more on individual repentance for sins and trying to live more ethically in the future.

The website ReformJudaism.org notes that the modern practices of Yom Kippur focus on three principles. The first is t’shuvah or repentance, the recognition of what one has done wrong and the intention to do better. The second is t’filah or prayer, bringing one closer to God. The third is tzedakah, which means justice or righteousness and refers specifically to charitable giving. With these three combined, Jews believe they can atone for past wrongs and strive to be better in the future.

Leviticus 16 states that before the rituals of Yom Kippur, people must practice self-denial. For modern Jews, this means abstaining for 24 hours from eating or drinking, from wearing leather, from showering or shaving, from putting on perfumes or lotions, and from sexual relations. Keep in mind that this 24 hours is counted from sundown the day before the holiday until sundown the next day, in accordance with ancient Jewish timekeeping practices.

Additionally, many Jews wear white on Yom Kippur. ReformJudaism.org notes that for some this symbolizes purity, while for others it represents the shroud in which the dead are buried, a reminder to remain humble and repent.

At home, a final meal is eaten before sundown followed by a candle lighting to initiate the Yom Kippur fast. Many also make sure to do some form of charitable giving before going to the synagogue.

At the synagogue, there is a long series of services. Not everyone attends them all, but most religious Jews go to at least some. The first service happens the evening before the Day of Atonement and is called Kol Nidre, meaning “all vows.” It is a special liturgy only performed on Yom Kippur in a mix of Aramaic and Hebrew. Its purpose is to annul any unintended vows made to God and is repeated three times.

The services also include multiple readings from the Torah, and even a memorial service for deceased loved ones, vowing to let their memory inspire the living to be the best people they can be in the coming year.

Additionally, the congregation recites a prayer called Al Cheit, a prayer of confession that recounts the sins of the past year. Implied in this is repentance and the intention not to repeat these mistakes in the coming year.

Finally, at the end of Yom Kippur, the shofar, a ritual horn made from a ram’s horn, is blown to signal the end of the Day of Atonement and the fast is broken.

Conclusion

For Jews, past and present, Yom Kippur is the holiest day of the year. It is celebrated on the 10th day of the month of Tishrei in the Jewish calendar and signifies purification from the sins that would displease God.

The original Day of Atonement can be found in the Hebrew Bible, especially Leviticus 16. It included burnt offerings and a ritual in which a goat, the scapegoat, was symbolically loaded with the sins of the people and sent away, signifying that the sins no longer existed.

Some early Christians, such as the author of the book of Hebrews, saw Jesus as the new form of the Yom Kippur sacrifice, a sacrifice which he saw not as an annual necessity but as a one-time offering that wiped away sin forever for those who believed.

While the original rituals with burnt offerings were performed in the Temple, new traditions arose after its destruction. Modern Jews fast and abstain from luxuries like bathing and the wearing of leather on the day of Yom Kippur. They also spend a long time in prayer and liturgy at the synagogue. At the end of the day, the shofar is blown, signifying both the end of the holiday and the successful completion of the required repentance.

How Many Prophecies Did Jesus Fulfill? (LIST)

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

How many prophecies did Jesus fulfill? This question reminds me of an evening about a year ago, at a friend’s book promotion event in downtown Zagreb. After it ended, a group of us (writers, academics, and a few students) wandered off to a local bar to celebrate over beer and conversation. 

At some point in the evening, one of my friend’s colleagues, who also happened to be a former student of mine, asked about my recent work with Bart Ehrman and his team. That one question opened the floodgates to a full-blown discussion about the historical-critical method and the academic study of the Bible.

What struck me most was how quickly the conversation turned toward prophecy. My former student was eager to demonstrate — beyond any doubt — that Jesus is the resurrected Son of God. His primary piece of evidence? The Old Testament prophecies that Jesus allegedly fulfilled. For him, “allegedly” didn’t apply.

He spoke with full conviction: Jesus had, in fact, fulfilled dozens of predictions laid down centuries before his birth. Our discussion lasted more than an hour and reminded me just how deeply rooted this idea of fulfilled prophecy is in the Christian imagination. 

For countless believers, prophecy isn’t only a theological affirmation but also proof, almost mathematical in its force, that Jesus must be who the Gospels claim he is.

And yet, from a historian’s point of view, the matter is far more complex. What do we mean by “prophecy”? Are we speaking of direct predictions and their literal fulfillment? Or are we dealing with more symbolic, typological, or retrospective interpretations?

In this article, we’ll take a close look at 12 specific prophecies that Christians traditionally believe Jesus fulfilled. We’ll begin by asking what ancient Jews during the Second Temple period expected from a messiah in the first place. 

Then we’ll walk through 12 passages often cited as predictions of Jesus’ birth, life, and death, including a couple of alleged prophecy fulfillments found within the New Testament narrative itself.

Throughout, we’ll explore not just what Christians have long believed, but also how modern historical-critical scholars interpret some of these texts, offering a clearer sense of how early followers of Jesus read (and sometimes re-read) their scriptures in light of what they had come to believe about him.

Jewish Expectations of the Messiah in the Second Temple Period

To understand how many prophecies Jesus fulfilled, we first need to step back and explore the historical and religious landscape in which those prophecies took shape. Specifically, we need to ask what Jewish expectations of the Messiah actually looked like before Jesus began his public ministry.

Contrary to popular assumptions, there was no uniform or universally held concept of the Messiah in ancient Judaism. Instead, messianic hopes evolved, shaped by shifting political conditions, theological developments, and scriptural interpretations.

The term “Messiah” comes from the Hebrew mashiach, meaning “anointed one.” It was originally used for kings, priests, and sometimes prophets: Those consecrated for divine service by ritual anointing.

In the earliest biblical texts, the word didn’t necessarily denote a future deliverer or eschatological figure. In fact, for much of the Second Temple period (ca. 516 B.C.E.-70 C.E.), messianism didn’t occupy a central role in Jewish religious life. 

It was only with the emergence of Jewish apocalypticism in the 2nd century B.C.E. (a worldview marked by cosmic dualism, divine judgment, and expectation of imminent intervention and resurrection) that messianic hopes crystallized in new and urgent ways.

The Jewish experience of foreign domination, especially under the Seleucid and later Roman empires, further intensified longings for deliverance. 

As Gershom Scholem insightfully observed, when the Messianic idea gains force within Judaism, it does so “in the closest connection with apocalypticism.” In such moments, messianism becomes more than just a theological category. Rather, it becomes a fervent, even existential, hope.

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Yet even within this apocalyptic framework, there was no consensus about the Messiah’s identity or function. Jewish texts from the period offer a wide range of messianic portraits, often reflecting the diverse needs and imaginations of their communities.

Bart D. Ehrman and Hugo Mendez note:

These messianic expectations weren’t always mutually exclusive, but neither were they harmonized into a single, coherent doctrine. Instead, they coexisted in tension, offering a kind of open scriptural canvas onto which future hopes could be projected.

Understanding this diversity is important when evaluating how many prophecies Jesus fulfilled. If Jewish expectations were themselves varied and fluid, then any claim about Jesus fulfilling “the” messianic prophecies presumes a singular framework that didn’t exist at the time.

After briefly considering Jewish expectations of the Messiah during the Second Temple period, we can now turn to the next stage of our investigation: The specific prophecies Jesus fulfilled, at least according to traditional Christian belief.

How Many Prophecies Did Jesus Fulfill? A List of Notable Ones

How many prophecies did Jesus fulfill? For many Christian apologists, the answer is emphatic: A great many. In their book Evidence That Demands a Verdict, Josh and Sean McDowell summarize this view with a vivid metaphor:

Of course, the sheer number of proposed prophetic fulfillments varies widely depending on the interpreter: some count dozens, others claim hundreds. Given the constraints of space and the purpose of this article, we’ll not attempt to catalog every example.

What prophecies did Jesus fulfill? Here, we’ll focus on some of the most frequently cited examples, at least according to traditional Christian belief. Just as the early Christians did, we’ll start with the Old Testament prophecies.

But before we dive into the weeds, here’s a neat little cheat sheet: 12 of the most frequently mentioned prophecies Jesus is said to have fulfilled, served up in a tidy table (because who doesn’t love a good prophecy roundup?).

Old Testament Prophecies of Jesus

#1 – Isaiah 7:14

This Isaiah prophecy allegedly declared: “Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.”

In the Gospel of Matthew (1:22-23), this verse is explicitly quoted in connection with the birth of Jesus. After narrating the angel’s announcement to Joseph that Mary has conceived by the Holy Spirit, Matthew writes, “All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet,” followed by a direct citation of Isaiah’s words. For Matthew, Jesus’ miraculous conception is the fulfillment of this ancient prophecy.

#2 – Micah 5:2

Micah 5:2 reads, “But you, O Bethlehem Ephratah… from you shall come forth for me one who is to be ruler in Israel.” This prophecy is cited directly in Matthew 2:5-6, when the magi arrive in Jerusalem asking where the Messiah is to be born.

The chief priests and scribes respond by quoting Micah to indicate that the Messiah must come from Bethlehem. Matthew presents this as a clear fulfillment: Jesus, born in Bethlehem of Judea, is the promised ruler anticipated in Micah’s words.

#3 – Hosea 11:1

Hosea 11:1 states, “Out of Egypt I called my son.” In Matthew 2:14-15, this verse is applied to Jesus after Joseph takes Mary and the child to Egypt to escape King Herod’s massacre. When they later return, Matthew writes, “This was to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet, ‘Out of Egypt I called my son.’”

Though Hosea originally refers to Israel’s exodus, Matthew interprets the verse typologically, presenting Jesus as reliving and fulfilling the story of Israel.

#4 – Zechariah 9:9

Zechariah 9:9 proclaims: “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion… Behold, your king is coming to you… humble and mounted on a donkey.” This prophecy is directly linked to Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem in Matthew 21:4-5, where the evangelist quotes the verse as Jesus rides a donkey into the city.

This event, now celebrated as Palm Sunday, is presented by Matthew as a deliberate fulfillment of Zechariah’s words.

#5 – Isaiah 53: The Suffering Servant

This is probably the most famous prophecy that Jesus, according to the traditional Christian view, fulfilled. Isaiah 53 contains a vivid description of a servant who suffers on behalf of others: “He was despised and rejected by men… pierced for our transgressions… and with his wounds we are healed.”

Though Isaiah 53 is never quoted in full in one location, its language is woven throughout the New Testament to portray Jesus’ passion and crucifixion. Also, early Christians consistently viewed Jesus’ suffering and death as a realization of this servant’s fate.

#6 – Psalm 22: Pierced Hands and Feet

Psalm 22 is a lament that begins with the haunting cry, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” This is a line that Jesus utters from the cross in Matthew 27:46 and Mark 15:34. The psalm continues with striking imagery: “They have pierced my hands and feet,” and “They divide my garments among them, and for my clothing they cast lots.”

These verses are echoed in the crucifixion narratives of John 19:23-24 and John 19:37, where the Gospel writer presents them as direct fulfillments of prophecy.

#7 – Malachi 3:1/Isaiah 40:3: John the Baptist as Forerunner

As we move into the New Testament, prophecy language doesn’t subside. We find the prophetic typology even before Jesus’ birth in none other than John the Baptist!

Malachi 3:1 declares, “Behold, I send my messenger, and he will prepare the way before me,” while Isaiah 40:3 speaks of “a voice crying in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord.’” These two texts are merged in Matthew 3:3, Mark 1:2-3, and Luke 3:4-6 to identify John the Baptist as the prophetic forerunner who prepares the way for Jesus.

#8 – Psalm 41:9: Betrayal by a Friend

Psalm 41:9 laments, “Even my close friend in whom I trusted, who ate my bread, has lifted his heel against me.” This verse is quoted in John 13:18 during the Last Supper, as Jesus predicts that one of his disciples will betray him.

By citing this psalm, the Gospel of John frames Judas Iscariot’s betrayal not merely as a tragic turn of events but as the fulfillment of Scripture.

#9 – Zechariah 11:12-13: Thirty Pieces of Silver

Zechariah 11:12-13 describes a shepherd being paid thirty pieces of silver, which he then throws into the house of the Lord. This passage is alluded to in Matthew 27:3-10, where Judas returns the silver he received for betraying Jesus and throws it into the temple.

Matthew presents this as a fulfillment of prophecy (though he attributes it mistakenly to Jeremiah rather than Zechariah), linking Judas’s remorse, the temple, and the purchase of the potter’s field to Zechariah’s imagery.

#10 – Isaiah 50:6/Micah 5:1: Spitting and Striking

Isaiah 50:6 says, “I gave my back to those who strike, and my cheeks to those who pull out the beard; I hid not my face from disgrace and spitting.” Similarly, Micah 5:1 includes the phrase, “With a rod they strike the judge of Israel on the cheek.”

These images of humiliation and violence are echoed in the Passion narratives, particularly in Matthew 26:67 and Mark 14:65, where Jesus is spit upon, beaten, and struck by the religious authorities. The Gospel writers implicitly connect these actions to the suffering servant mentioned in the Old Testament books.

#11 – Psalm 34:20/Exodus 12:46: Bones Not Broken

Psalm 34:20 declares, “He keeps all his bones; not one of them is broken,” and Exodus 12:46 instructs that the bones of the Passover lamb must not be broken. These verses converge in John 19:33-36, where the soldiers, finding Jesus already dead, refrain from breaking his legs.

John interprets this detail as a fulfillment of Scripture, linking Jesus both to the righteous sufferer of the Psalms and to the imagery of the Passover lamb, whose integrity was to be preserved in sacrifice.

#12 – Zechariah 12:10: “They Will Look on Him Whom They Have Pierced”

Zechariah 12:10 states, “They will look on me, on him whom they have pierced, and they shall mourn for him.” This verse is quoted in John 19:37, immediately following the account of Jesus being pierced by a soldier’s spear while on the cross.

The Gospel writer presents this moment as a direct fulfillment of Zechariah’s prophecy, emphasizing the physical piercing of Jesus and the emotional response it elicits.

How Many Prophecies Did Jesus Fulfill? Scholarly Answer

What do we make of these examples? Is it really possible to determine how many prophecies Jesus fulfilled? How many prophecies did Jesus not fulfill? For scholars like me, the answer to the second question is far less straightforward than many conservative apologists would suggest.

While traditional interpretations often present these connections as clear-cut fulfillments, the historical and literary contexts of the original texts paint a different picture.

Since we’re limited in space, we won’t examine each example in depth. Instead, we’ll focus on two of the most prominent and frequently cited cases: the virgin birth and the suffering servant from the Book of Isaiah.

Isaiah's Prophecy and the Virgin Birth

Before we begin our analysis, it’s important to clarify a common misunderstanding found in many conservative Christian readings of prophecy. Apologists often assume that the Old Testament prophets were predicting future events in a straightforward, predictive sense, anticipating specific details about Jesus centuries in advance.

In this view, Isaiah, for instance, knowingly foresaw and described the virgin birth of Christ. But this assumption runs counter to how Old Testament prophecies were understood and interpreted in the Second Temple Period and how modern scholars understand the historical contexts in which these texts were written.

As Peter Enns explains in his excellent book, Inspiration and Incarnation:

A prime example of this interpretive tension appears in Isaiah 7:14, one of the most famous so-called “messianic prophecies.” The verse is quoted in Matthew 1:23 to support the claim that Jesus’ birth fulfilled Scripture.

But here lies the crux of the problem. The Hebrew text of Isaiah doesn’t use the word for “virgin” (betulah), but instead uses ‘almah, a term that more generally means “young woman” and carries no necessary implication of virginity.

When the author of Matthew’s Gospel cited this passage, he relied not on the Hebrew Bible but on the Septuagint, the Greek translation of the Hebrew Scriptures, in which the word parthenos (a term that can mean “virgin”) was used.

Thus, the idea of a miraculous virgin birth wasn’t present in Isaiah’s original Hebrew but rather emerged later through translation and retrospective theological interpretation.

The original context of Isaiah 7 is far removed from anything resembling a messianic prophecy. The historical setting involves a political crisis in the 8th century B.C.E.: The kings of Syria and Israel (also called Ephraim) have joined forces to invade Judah, causing panic in the court of King Ahaz.

The prophet Isaiah addresses Ahaz directly, urging him not to fear and assuring him that the alliance will fail. 

As a sign of divine reassurance, Isaiah points to a young woman (likely known to both Isaiah and Ahaz) who has already conceived a child. That child, he says, will be named Immanuel (“God with us”), and before the child is old enough to distinguish right from wrong, the immediate political threat will have passed.

Notably, there is no mention of the Messiah in this passage, no expectation of a future redeemer, and certainly no reference to a miraculous conception.

As the renowned scholar Raymond E. Brown explains in The Birth of the Messiah:

Isaiah 53 and the Suffering Servant

Another prominent example frequently cited as a prophecy Jesus fulfilled is Isaiah 53, a passage that has profoundly shaped Christian theology. This chapter belongs to a larger literary section known as Deutero-Isaiah (Isaiah 40-55), which scholars distinguish from the earlier chapters of the book. Deutero-Isaiah was likely composed during the Babylonian exile in the 6th century B.C.E. by a prophet whose name has not been preserved. 

This section is known for its emphasis on comfort, restoration, and divine deliverance, as well as for the so-called Servant Songs (poetic passages describing the mission and suffering of a mysterious “servant of the Lord”). 

Isaiah 53 is the fourth and most famous of these songs, presenting a vivid image of a servant who suffers unjustly and bears the consequences of others’ wrongdoing.

Early Christians found in this chapter a striking parallel to the life and death of Jesus. The themes of rejection, affliction, silence in the face of suffering, and being “pierced for our transgressions” seemed to resonate perfectly with the Passion narratives.

Thus, writing in the middle of the 2nd century, Justin Martyr notes:

As a result, Isaiah 53 became a cornerstone for the Christian understanding of atonement: That Jesus, though innocent, suffered and died for the sins of humanity. However, this interpretation relies heavily on retrospective reading: Reading the life of Jesus back into a text that, in its original historical and literary setting, had nothing to do with a future messiah.

In Second Temple Judaism before Christianity, there is no evidence of a belief in a messiah who would suffer and die for the sins of others. That concept simply didn’t exist in Jewish messianic expectation at the time.

Furthermore, a close reading reveals that the text isn’t about the future suffering at all. The suffering has already happened, and the author of Deutero-Isaiah predicts that the “person” who had suffered will eventually be vindicated by God! 

So who, then, was the “suffering servant” originally meant to be? One popular view among modern scholars of the Hebrew Bible is that the servant in Isaiah 53 was a symbolic or collective representation of Israel, the exiled nation that had endured humiliation, violence, and displacement at the hands of foreign powers.

Others argue that the servant may refer to a specific, historical individual. Joseph Blenkinsopp, in his Commentary on Isaiah, notes:

But in either case, the key point is that the servant’s suffering is understood within the framework of Israel’s national trauma and redemptive restoration. The servant suffers not as a substitutionary atonement in a future salvific drama, but as part of God's plan to vindicate and renew His people after exile.

Conclusion

How many messianic prophecies are there? The question always brings me back to that lively discussion I had a year ago in a crowded bar in downtown Zagreb. As I recall, my former student left that evening more convinced than ever that Jesus had fulfilled dozens (if not hundreds) of Old Testament prophecies in precise, predictive fashion:

OT prophecy predictions → Several hundred years pass → Prophecies are fulfilled by Jesus’ life, public ministry, and death

I didn’t begrudge him that conviction. I remember him saying repeatedly: “But Isaiah must have thought about Jesus!”

After all, when beliefs are deeply tied to one's religious identity, no amount of historical nuance or literary context can easily shift them. And that’s okay. Faith often operates on a different wavelength than historical analysis.

Still, as a historian of early Christianity, I approach this topic from a different angle. I don’t believe that Jesus fulfilled the most famous Old Testament prophecies in the predictive sense that many conservative interpreters assume. 

The original authors of these texts weren’t envisioning Jesus of Nazareth or any future messianic figure like him. What did happen, however, is far more fascinating: Convinced that Jesus had been raised from the dead and exalted by God, his earliest followers began re-reading their Scriptures through the lens of that belief. 

They searched their sacred texts not to see what would happen, but to make sense of what had already happened. In doing so, they participated in a long-standing Jewish tradition of interpretive reappropriation — a tradition shared by other Jewish groups, including later rabbinic communities, who likewise found fresh and often contradictory meaning in Biblical words.

So, how many prophecies did Jesus fulfill? If you're looking for mathematical precision or airtight predictions, the scholarly answer won’t satisfy you. But if you’re interested in the rich and complex ways that Scripture was interpreted, repurposed, and brought to life by ancient believers, then the story becomes far more compelling.

If you’d like to explore this topic in more depth, I highly recommend Peter Enns’ online course “Jesus and the Old Testament,” available through our Biblical Studies Academy platform. It’s a fascinating deep dive into how early Christians used the Old Testament stories and verses, often finding new meanings and ways of understanding.

Did the Jews Kill (or Hate) Jesus? Learn the Truth!

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

Did the Jews kill Jesus? Few questions in Christian history have been as fraught with misunderstanding — and as devastating in their consequences — as that accusation. For centuries, this claim has fueled antisemitism, violence, and deep divisions between Christianity and Judaism. But does the New Testament discuss a Jewish deicide? If so, was it the murder of God? Who were “the Jews” in the Gospel narratives, and how should we understand that term today? The answer lies not just in theology or tradition, but in language, context, and history.

In this article, I’ll explore what the Gospels really meant when they referred to the Jews, how these texts have been interpreted (and misinterpreted), and, ultimately, who was truly responsible for Jesus’ death.

The deicide definition from Merriam-Webster is an event that kills a divine being or symbolic substitute of that being. However, even that descriptor is complicated since individuals and groups attribute different characteristics to Jesus depending on if they view him as a divine being, merely a historical figure, or neither.

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Etymology: Who Are “the Jews” in the Gospels?

The Greek word translated into English as “Jews” in the New Testament is Ioudaioi. The problem with translating this word properly is that there are two distinct possibilities. For example, while “Jews” is one overarching option, the word technically meant “a person who resides in or is from the region of Judea,” the region in Palestine where Jerusalem was located. This would mean, of course, that Jesus — who came from the region of Galilee — might not have been classified as one of the Ioudaioi, but rather as a Galilean (Greek: Galilaios).

However, Adele Reinhartz points out that the issue of whether to translate Ioudaioi as “Jews” or “Judeans” is quite complicated. She notes that some scholars prefer “Judeans” because translating the word as “Jews” can fuel anti-Jewish biases. On the other hand, we have ancient references to some people called Ioudaioi who had no direct association with Judea, thus signaling a group identity outside of regionalism. Reinhartz finally concludes that

For this reason, most scholars and Bible translations still translate the word as “Jews.”

While there are certainly some positive references to the Ioudaioi  in the New Testament — see John 4:22, for instance, where Jesus says salvation originates with them — there are an overwhelming number of negative allusions to them as well. Let’s look at some of these examples.

References to the Jews in the New Testament

In the Gospel of Mark, there is really only one explicit reference to “the Jews” (if we leave out the multiple times Jesus is accused of saying he was “King of the Jews”). It appears in Mark 7:3, in which the Pharisees reproach Jesus’ disciples for eating without washing their hands for the purpose of ritual purity. The author then explains that “the Pharisees, and all the Jews, do not eat unless they wash their hands, thus observing the tradition of the elders…”

This is a mildly negative reference, since Jesus’ next words scold the Pharisees for caring more about outward purity than inward purification. Finally in Mark 15, we see that Jesus, having been arrested by the Jewish leaders known as the Sanhedrin, is handed over to Pilate to be killed.

However, it’s in Matthew’s Gospel that we begin to see the most damaging portraits of “the Jews.” This is odd, in a way, since Matthew is generally considered the most Jewish of the four Gospels.

Like Mark, Matthew’s explicit use of the word Ioudaioi is basically limited to the charge “King of the Jews” which accusers say Jesus has claimed for himself. However, in a scene just before his crucifixion, the Roman governor Pontius Pilate, about to hand Jesus over to be crucified, washes his hands, symbolically claiming to be innocent of Jesus’ blood. The crowd, who in Jerusalem must have been mostly Jews, says “His blood be on us and on our children!” This line has been used for centuries to justify all forms of antisemitism. Not only do the Jewish leaders hand Jesus over in Matthew, but even the Jewish laypeople demand his blood.

Even worse are the references to the Jews in the Gospel of John. We see them persecuting Jesus in 5:16 and plotting to kill him in 5:18. In 8:44, Jesus describes them as the children of the devil, while in John 7:12-14, we see that the people (who, again, are predominantly Jewish themselves) are afraid of the Jews:

As in the other Gospels, Pilate is reluctant to kill Jesus in John, but when the Jews insist on his execution, Pilate acquiesces. I’ve written before about how unlikely this scenario is, based on our knowledge of the ruthlessness of Pilate and how little he cared about Jewish opinions, despite what the Gospel of John says.

Since the authors of Matthew and John (and possibly the author of Mark) were Jews themselves, what is going on here?

The Intended Meaning of Ioudaioi

In The Jews and the World in the Fourth Gospel: Parallelism, Function, and Context, Lars Kierspel notes that the scholarly consensus is that all the references to “the Jews” in the Gospels refer only to the Jewish religious leaders. Furthermore, in The Gospel and Letters of John, Alan Culpepper notes that in some cases, translating Ioudaioi merely as “the Jews,” indicating all Jews, doesn’t entirely make sense:

As for the disturbing line in Matthew attributing guilt collectively to the Jews for Jesus’ death, there was something else going on there (this is not to deny the horrible effects of the misinterpretation of that line throughout history). In the Jewish Annotated New Testament, Aaron Gale writes that since the author of Matthew was writing years after the destruction of the Temple and the devastation of Jerusalem by the Romans in 70 CE, he was likely indicating that this destruction was a punishment for the Jewish people’s later refusal to accept that Jesus was the Messiah.

Now that we’ve looked at the literary aspects of whether the Jews killed Jesus, let’s look at the historical aspect. Was Jesus hated by the Jews, and if so, were they responsible for his death?

Did the Jews Hate Jesus?

Having clarified the meanings of Ioudaioi (Jews, residents of Judea, or Jewish religious leaders) in the Gospels, can we answer the question of whether the Jews hated Jesus during his lifetime? If we follow the Gospel narratives here, it seems there was a mixed reaction.

When it comes to the Pharisees and other religious leaders, we definitely see examples of hatred for Jesus in the Gospels, to the point of wanting to kill him (see John 11:53, for example). However, crowds of Jewish people seem to have loved Jesus. When he entered Jerusalem, for instance, Matthew 21:9  says he received a king’s reception:

Moreover, in Mark 2:1-12, it’s clear that huge crowds followed him adoringly, both to be healed and to hear his message. The question of whether ALL Jews hated Jesus is overly broad, and the answer is clearly no. So, did the Jews kill Jesus?

Who Killed Jesus and Why?

Why was Jesus killed? Many people throughout Christian history have tried to answer this question. Was he executed because he committed blasphemy, offending the Jewish leaders? Was he killed because he created a ruckus in the Temple? What was the real reason he was hung on a cross?

First, who, in Jesus’ time, regularly used crucifixion as a method of capital punishment? John Granger Cook notes that while the Persians and Carthaginians did, the people best known for it in the ancient world were the Romans. For this reason, Kaufman Kohler and Emil Hirsch write that  “The mode and manner of Jesus' death undoubtedly point to Roman customs and laws as the directive power.” So did the Romans kill Jesus?

Furthermore, Kohler and Hirsch note that “Among the modes of capital punishment known to the Jewish penal law, crucifixion is not found.” In other words, the only possible answer for who crucified Jesus was the Romans, not the Jews.

However, this leaves us the question of why the Romans would have executed Jesus. Why would they have considered him dangerous enough to kill?

In all four Gospels, the charge put on the cross over Jesus’ head to indicate his crime says one thing: “King of the Jews.” What this likely means is that Jesus had indeed claimed to be the true King of the Jews. As Bart Ehrman writes, “Anyone else who claimed to be king was usurping Roman prerogatives and was seen as a threat, or if not a threat, at least a public nuisance.  Romans had ways of dealing with lower-class peasants who were troublemakers and public nuisances.” This claim was a political crime, a form of sedition against Rome, for which the punishment would always be crucifixion.

Rome didn’t care about Jewish conceptions of blasphemy or conflicts between different Jewish groups. They only cared about threats to Roman rule.

The Jews, however defined, didn’t kill Jesus. The Romans did.

Conclusion

For millennia, Jews have been mistreated by Christians who believed they were justified in their behavior since “the Bible said that the Jews killed Jesus.” Despite the obvious horrors this interpretation caused, accurate readings of biblical texts rule that possibility out.

Ioudaioi, the Greek term usually translated as “Jews,” could also mean residents or natives of the region of Judea in southern Palestine. However, it’s clear that, in the Gospels, there are plenty of negative references to Ioudaioi that need explanation.

The Gospel of Mark characterizes the Jews as those who care more about the outward purity while Jesus and his followers prioritize inward, moral purity. In Matthew, a crowd of Jews scream for Jesus’ death while voluntarily taking responsibility for it. This line has caused more antisemitic reactions than any other in the Bible. In John, meanwhile, the Jews persecute Jesus and plot to kill him. But there is more here than meets the eye.

It's clear to most scholars that most of the references to “the Jews” in these writings refer only to the Jewish religious leaders. Translating every reference as “the Jews” is also nonsensical in some passages, such as when a crowd of Jews is afraid of “the Jews.” This is not to negate the centuries of suffering perpetrated upon Jews by misinterpretations of the texts.

Finally, it’s clear, both from the method of execution and the political charge, that Jesus was killed by the Romans. Although he never says it explicitly in the Gospels, he probably did call himself “King of the Jews,” a title which smacked of sedition to Rome, and likely brought the force of the occupying Roman powers down on his head.

Did the Jews kill Jesus? No. Jesus was definitely killed by the Romans.

How Many Apostles Did Jesus Have? (HINT: More Than 12!)

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

How many apostles did Jesus have? This question reminds me of one of the most important lessons I learned during my graduate studies: Terms and concepts aren’t fixed entities; they are deeply tied to context and can shift in meaning over time and across cultures. 

Consider, for example, the swastika. In the context of Nazi Germany, it has become an enduring symbol of death, evil, and destruction. Yet in Hinduism, where it originated thousands of years earlier, the swastika signifies auspiciousness, good fortune, and the cosmic order.

Similarly, when we explore the names of the apostles, we’ll find that the concept of apostleship in early Christianity is far broader and more complex than many assume today.

Most people, when they hear the term “apostles,” immediately think of the disciples (Peter, James, John, and the others) who famously accompanied Jesus during his ministry. That association is understandable. The group of the Twelve held tremendous importance in the historical memory of Jesus' earliest followers and remains central to Christian tradition today.

However, if we approach the historical evidence carefully, we discover that apostleship in the 1st century wasn’t confined to this familiar group. The names of the apostles extend well beyond the Twelve, encompassing figures who never set foot among Jesus' original group, and whose roles and significance were shaped by evolving needs and perspectives within the early church.

Several excellent articles on this blog have already examined Jesus’ apostles and their crucial place in the development of early Christianity. These studies have offered valuable insights into the names of the apostles, their place within Jesus’ movement, and the stories and legends about their deaths. 

In this article, however, I want to highlight another key dimension: How the historical context of early Christianity allowed a broader application of the “apostle” category to men and women who were neither among the original Twelve nor necessarily part of Jesus’ earthly ministry.

As we’ll see, understanding how early Christians used the term "apostle" sheds light not only on the diversity of the movement but also on the fluid and dynamic ways in which authority and leadership were negotiated in its formative years.

How Many Apostles Did Jesus Have? Starting With the Etymology

The term “apostle” has its roots in the Greek language, where it originally functioned not as a noun but as an adjective. It derives from the verb apostellō (ἀποστέλλω), meaning “to send off” or “to dispatch.” From this verb came the adjective apostolos (ἀπόστολος), signifying someone who was “sent” or “dispatched” for a particular purpose.

Only later did apostolos come to be used as a substantive noun, designating a “messenger,” “emissary,” or “delegate.” In its core meaning, an apostle was someone entrusted with a mission on behalf of another, carrying authority as a representative of the one who had sent them.

Before the emergence of Christianity, the term apostolos was attested only sparingly in Greek literature. According to the Liddell-Scott-Jones Lexicon (LSJ), apostolos appears rarely and is typically used in secular contexts to denote an envoy or a bearer of a message.

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A notable example occurs in Herodotus (Histories 1.21), where the term describes emissaries dispatched by Cyrus the Great. In such pre-Christian usage, apostolos carried no specific religious connotations. Rather, it simply referred to individuals commissioned for diplomatic or communicative tasks.

However, as Ceslas Spicq has emphasized in Notes de lexicographie néo-testamentaire (Notes on New Testament Lexicography), none of these Greco-Roman meanings (whether casual or juridical) can account for the profound theological depth that apostolos acquires in the New Testament. 

Christian usage, particularly in Paul, presupposes a Semitic background, rooted in the Jewish institution of the shaliaḥ (שליח), an authorized representative whose acts legally bound the sender. It was within this Jewish conceptual framework that the early followers of Jesus reinterpreted and deepened the meaning of apostleship.

So, with the rise of the Jesus movement, apostolos acquired a distinctive theological weight. As New Testament scholar Francis Agnew notes:

In other words, far from being confined to a single generation or group, the notion of apostleship was pervasive across early Christian writings. It was a central term used by authors in diverse settings to describe those who had been commissioned to carry the message of Christ.

Understanding this background helps frame the larger question that drives our investigation: How many apostles did Jesus have?

As we’ll see in the next section, the New Testament’s application of the term extends beyond the familiar circle of the Twelve, reflecting the fluid and expanding nature of early Christian leadership and identity.

Beyond the Twelve: Other Early Apostles

During Jesus' public ministry, the term “apostle” (apostolos) likely didn’t carry the precise, formal meaning it would later acquire. As John P. Meier, in his book A Marginal Jew, has argued, "apostle" wasn’t a fixed title but rather a functional designation for individuals temporarily commissioned for a task.

The Gospels occasionally describe the Twelve being “sent out” (apostellein) by Jesus (e.g., Mark 6:30), but the focus is on their immediate mission: Preaching repentance, healing, and casting out demons, rather than establishing a permanent office.

The Twelve were primarily called “disciples” (mathētai), meaning learners or followers. The use of "apostle" to designate a stable office emerged only after Easter, when the early Jesus followers became convinced of his resurrection and the need to spread the message of the coming of the Kingdom of God.

In the post-resurrection period, the meaning of “apostle” broadened significantly. It no longer referred simply to the original Twelve but extended to a wider circle of individuals who had, in various ways, been entrusted with proclaiming the risen Christ.

Paul of Tarsus, though not one of the Twelve and indeed a former persecutor of the Church, famously insists on his apostolic status: “Paul, an apostle, not from men nor through man, but through Jesus Christ and God the Father” (Galatians 1:1).

Paul's letters contain the highest concentration of the term apostolos in the New Testament, demonstrating his commitment to defending his calling. Likewise, in Romans 16:7, Paul refers to Andronicus and Junia, “who are prominent among the apostles” (more on that in the Appendix).

Barnabas, too, is called an apostle alongside Paul in Acts 14:14, after their missionary efforts in the cities of Lystra and Derbe. Even the group of seventy (or seventy-two) disciples mentioned in Luke 10 and the 120 followers gathered in Acts 1:15 hint at a broader reservoir of commissioned witnesses.

Although not all were explicitly termed “apostles,” they formed part of a dynamic movement that understood mission and testimony as central to Christian identity.

But what precisely qualified someone to be considered an apostle? The early Jesus movement, particularly in its Pauline expressions, seemed to require two key credentials:

#1 – A commissioning by Jesus, often understood to involve some revelatory encounter
#2 – A mandate to proclaim the gospel publicly

Paul appeals to his vision of the risen Lord (Galatians 1:11-12) as the basis of his apostleship, while emphasizing that his mission was divinely authorized rather than institutionally granted.

Similarly, Acts 1:21-22 specifies that Judas’ replacement (Matthias) among the Twelve had to be someone who had accompanied Jesus from the beginning and could bear witness to the resurrection. 

In short, apostleship entailed being sent by Jesus with a public, authoritative mission to proclaim his message.

As Ceslas Spicq explains, reflecting on the famous list in 1 Corinthians 15:5-8:

This observation highlights Paul’s early observation that apostleship extended beyond the rigid circle of the Twelve and included a broader, Spirit-endowed ministry validated by encounter with the risen Lord and missionary service. 

However, the concept of apostleship in the early Church was far from uniform. Different authors and communities held varying understandings of what it meant to be an apostle, leading at times to conflict and sharp polemics. Later Gospel writers provide clear examples of this diversity.

The author of Luke’s Gospel, for instance, closely identified the disciples of Jesus during his earthly ministry with the Twelve, effectively creating the category of the “Twelve Apostles.” In Luke’s conception, apostleship was restricted to those who had accompanied Jesus from the beginning and witnessed his resurrection.

This framework had significant implications: It excluded figures such as Paul from being recognized as apostles in the full sense. 

For Luke, the Twelve Apostles emerged as the foundational leaders of the Jerusalem church, while missionaries and later emissaries, even if crucial to the movement’s expansion, were generally not called apostles.

However, Paul, as already noted, had a different notion in mind. Hans D. Betz explains:

Thus, when asking “How many apostles did Jesus have?” it becomes clear that any simple numerical answer is insufficient. While the number twelve (probably going back to the historical Jesus) was symbolically crucial (representing the twelve tribes of Israel and the renewed people of God), the category of apostle soon expanded beyond this foundational group.

As the early Christian movement spread and adapted to new contexts, the meaning of apostleship evolved to include a wide range of figures: Not only the institutional Twelve but also charismatic leaders, missionaries, church founders, and witnesses to the resurrection.

However, it would be a mistake to imagine that all early Christians agreed on a single definition of what it meant to be an apostle. On the contrary, sharp differences emerged, crafting the future of the nascent movement.

In the end, the question “How many apostles did Jesus have” invites us to look beyond static lists toward the living and often contested tradition of the early Church. Apostleship was not simply a matter of formal membership in an exclusive group; it was a vibrant, evolving response to the experience of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection.

Appendix: A Female as an Apostle: Resistance and Rejections in the Early Church

Instead of a formal conclusion you might be expecting, I decided to switch things up a little bit here. In this final section, I want to briefly highlight one of the more intriguing developments in the history of biblical interpretation, what might best be called the Curious Case of Junia.

It offers a striking example of how cultural (patriarchal) assumptions, rather than neutral analysis, sometimes shaped how early Christian figures were remembered, or forgotten.

In Romans 16:7, Paul sends greetings to Andronicus and Junia (probably a married couple), praising them as “prominent among the apostles.” For nearly a thousand years, no one in the Church seems to have doubted that Junia was a woman and an apostle.

Early commentators such as Origen, John Chrysostom, and others all assumed she was female. Chrysostom even marveled at her achievement, writing, “Oh, how great is the devotion of this woman, that she should be counted worthy of the title of apostle!”

However, the story takes a surprising turn much later in history. As Eldon Epp shows in his book Junia: The First Woman Apostle, it was only in the later medieval period, especially with the influence of Martin Luther’s translation and later critical editions, that Junia was transformed into a man.

Motivated by the belief that a woman could not possibly have held the title of apostle, scholars and translators began to subtly alter the tradition. Some introduced the idea of a male “Junias,” even though such a name is unattested in any Greek or Latin texts of the period. 

Critical Greek editions of the New Testament, starting with Eberhard Nestle’s 1927 edition (an influential scholarly reconstruction of the Greek text used for Bible translations), began to favor the masculine reading without substantial manuscript evidence, and some English translations followed suit.

Today, careful examination of the textual and historical evidence has largely reversed this error. As Epp and many others have demonstrated, the objective data (early manuscripts, early Church commentary, and Roman naming practices) consistently point toward Junia being a woman, recognized as an apostle by Paul himself.

In recovering her rightful place, scholars remind us of an important lesson: Our interpretations of the past are often shaped by the assumptions of our own time. But when we return honestly to the sources, voices once muted can speak again.

Was Jesus (Really) a Carpenter? Maybe Not!

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

Was Jesus a carpenter? The image of Jesus as a humble carpenter has become deeply ingrained in Christian tradition, exemplifying his connection to everyday working people and his unassuming origins. But how solid is the biblical foundation for this familiar portrayal? What did the term “carpenter” mean in the ancient world? Could it just as easily refer to another kind of manual labor if we explore Greek translations? And what does Jesus’ possible trade tell us about his social status and the world he inhabited?

In this article I’ll examine the evidence — biblical, linguistic, and archaeological — to explore what it really means to say Jesus was a carpenter, and whether that title is supported by the historical record.

Where in the Bible Does It Say Jesus was a Carpenter?

Unfortunately, our evidence for Jesus being a carpenter is extremely scanty, comprised of only two terse references, in fact. Mark, our earliest written Gospel, gives us the clearest evidence, in 6:2-3. In these verses, Jesus and his disciples visit Jesus’ hometown of Nazareth. On the Sabbath, Jesus goes into the synagogue and teaches, prompting amazement and resentment from the locals among whom he had been raised:

The shock and indignance of Jesus’ hometown crowd seems to indicate two things. First, they did not remember him as being particularly wise or impressive when he lived there as a child and young man. They even name his family members as if to say, “He was just a normal local boy. What happened to him?”

Second, they remember him as having a particular profession, a carpenter in most English translations (more on that later). The fact the locals are surprised that a carpenter can be so extraordinary seems to indicate people in that profession were not expected to be sages or religious teachers. In other words, carpentry was not considered a high-status job.

Scholars know that the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, written at least a decade after Mark, used Mark as a principal source, changing some details and often adding new ones. In this case, Matthew 13:54-56 tells the same story of Jesus being rejected by the people of his hometown, but changes slightly how they remember him:

How do we account for the difference between “carpenter” in Mark and “the carpenter’s son” in Matthew? One possibility is that while Mark felt comfortable saying that Jesus had been a carpenter, traditions about Jesus tended to exalt him more and more over the years. So, by the time Matthew was written, it seemed impossible for Jesus, the Messiah and Son of God, to have such a humble profession himself. Either way, in Jesus: A Revolutionary Biography, John Dominic Crossan notes that, in some ways, the two assertions amount to the same thing, since in the ancient world, sons almost always did the same work as their fathers.

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These verses in Mark and Matthew are all the biblical evidence there is for Jesus as a carpenter. Luke and John don’t talk about it, nor does Paul or any other NT author. For this reason, in order to determine the likelihood that Jesus really was a carpenter before beginning his ministry, we’ll need to do some historical work, first on the etymology of the original Greek word translated as carpenter and then on the economy of ancient Roman Palestine.

Was Jesus a Carpenter or Something Else?

The biblical Greek word usually translated as carpenter is tektōn. While “carpenter” is certainly one possible translation, there are others, opening up possibilities for what Jesus’ early profession might have been. A look into the Cambridge Greek Lexicon shows us that while tektōn can mean “a builder in wood, or a joiner,” it can also mean “a skilled worker in other materials, a craftsman.” This could include being a stonemason or even a sculptor. While it’s unlikely (as we will see) that someone raised in Nazareth would be a professional sculptor, it is entirely possible he was a stonemason.

However, whether we translate the word as carpenter or stonemason, we should be wary of importing modern ideas about those professions onto their ancient counterparts. In the modern world, a carpenter is a skilled, lucrative, and respected middle-class profession. But Crossan says this wasn’t the case in Jesus’ time and place. He notes that in Roman-controlled Palestine, economic inequality was brutal, and that the social distinction between rich and poor often meant distinguishing between those who had to work with their hands (the poor) and those who didn’t (the elite).

It's not that carpenters and stonemasons were not skilled. It’s just that in the ancient hierarchy of skills, manual labor was always less valued by the elite, those in control, than mental labor. In other words, carpenters and stonemasons generally lived in poverty, a hand-to-mouth existence. To understand this further, let’s look at the economy of ancient Palestine and, specifically, that of a tiny hamlet like Nazareth.

It’s About the Economy!

In The New Testament World, Bruce J. Malina writes that Palestine and other Roman provinces were “a nearly perfect example of what anthropologists call classic peasant society: a set of villages socially bound up with administrative preindustrial cities.” In his book Jesus and the Peasants, Douglas Oakman defines what this meant:

So peasants were those who labored constantly but could never get ahead because so much of the fruits of their labor were given, usually through taxation, to wealthy landowners who typically lived in large cities such as Jerusalem. And as we’ll see, Nazareth was most definitely a small village, not a city.

First-century Palestine was a typical agrarian society. In Christian Origins: A People's History Of Christianity, Steven Friesen explains that this means wealth was almost completely based on land ownership and that most of the land was controlled by a tiny number of elite families. The wealth of these families also meant they had undue influence on the politics of the region, allowing them to profit from taxation of the peasantry as well.

Friesen estimates that 40% of people in the Roman provinces, including Palestine, lived “at subsistence level and often below minimum level to sustain life.” Among those in this situation, Friesen places small families of farmers, laborers (skilled and unskilled), artisans (such as carpenters or stonemasons), and fishermen. If indeed Jesus was a carpenter or stonemason, he and his family were barely able to keep their heads above water.

In a rural village like Nazareth, were carpentry or masonry common professions? In Archaeology, the Rabbis, & Early Christianity, Eric Meyers and James Strange note that Nazareth in Jesus’ time was a village of only 400-500 people. It was so small, in fact, that it’s not even mentioned in Jewish sources until the 3rd century CE, according to an article by James Strange in the Anchor Bible Dictionary.

While many people in small villages worked as fishermen, Nazareth was 23 miles from the Mediterranean Sea and 19 miles from the Sea of Galilee, making it all but impossible to commute daily on foot. Instead, people from Nazareth would probably have been either artisans or workers on surrounding farms.

While people have speculated for years that Jesus did his early carpentry in the nearby city of Sepphoris, a significantly larger and more Roman-influenced town than Nazareth, recent archeology puts that conclusion in doubt. Archeologist Ken Dark writes that the Galilean region which included Nazareth “was unusual for the strength of its anti-Roman sentiment and/or the strength of its Jewish identity.” Furthermore, he notes that the archeological evidence shows that it’s likely that “there was no close connection between Nazareth and Sepphoris in the Early Roman period.”

If Jesus was indeed a carpenter, what kind of work would he have done in and around Nazareth? In her book Papyri and the Social World of the New Testament, Sabine R. Heubner writes that ancient carpenters made many items for local people, including wagons, yokes for oxen, oil mills, and boats. These would have been useful for the Galilean peasantry and did not require any contact with Roman forces or culture.

Heubner also says that while it’s difficult to know how much a carpenter was generally paid, since elite writers paid little attention to the lower classes, an ancient lease agreement for an oil mill shows that the carpenter that worked on it received 50 denarii a month working for an elite owner. When working for poor farmers or tradespeople, though, carpenters might have merely traded their services for goods or services they needed.

In other words, in a village as small as Nazareth, it is plausible that Jesus could have grown up to be a carpenter. In addition, since carpentry was not a high-status profession in the ancient world, it seems difficult to imagine that the author of Mark would invent this detail for Jesus. Instead, it’s likely that memories of Jesus’ humble origins had long circulated and thus, his early life as a tradesman was common knowledge.

Some common misconceptions are that Jesus was a fisherman or shepherd. We already established earlier that it was unlikely he was a fisherman due to  geographic reasons. Although the New Testament calls him “the Good Shepherd (John 10:11),” this is a metaphorical title and there is no evidence that Jesus himself was a shepherd.

Conclusion

Was Jesus a carpenter? Our analysis began with the unfortunate fact that there are only two references in the entire New Testament indicating this possibility. In Mark, he is called “the carpenter” by the people among whom he grew up. In Matthew, this is changed to “the carpenter’s son.” However, that is an almost meaningless distinction since the son of a carpenter would, in normal circumstances, have been a carpenter as well. What other evidence is there, then, that Jesus could have been a carpenter?

Etymologically, the Greek word translated as carpenter — tektōn — denoted a skilled builder who could have worked with wood, but also possibly with stone or other materials. Both carpenters and stonemasons were ubiquitous in the ancient world, so either is possible as a correct translation.

While we may think of carpenters as skilled, highly-respectable professionals, in the ancient world they would have been consigned by the elite to that massive lower echelon of the economy reserved for those who worked with their hands. If Jesus was a carpenter, he was not a member of the elite. Instead, he and his family would have lived at a subsistence level.

Finally, having seen that Nazareth, Jesus’ hometown, was a tiny village located far from large bodies of water, it is likely that a young man would have been involved in a trade such as carpentry or masonry in order to make a living. We can never be entirely certain, but there is no reason not to believe Jesus was a carpenter before his ministry began.

Shroud of Turin: Real or Fake? (A Scholar’s Take)

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

More than six years ago, my brother gave me a book he thought would pique my curiosity: The Sign by Polish art historian Thomas de Wesselow. The book was enormous, and yet I read it in just two days. I was completely absorbed by the mystery it explored: The Shroud of Turin, perhaps the most famous Christian relic in the world.

De Wesselow’s argument was as bold as it was controversial. I didn’t agree with his conclusions, but I was fascinated by the idea that a simple piece of cloth could carry such enormous historical, theological, and cultural weight.

Over the years, my perspective on the Shroud has evolved, shaped by scholarly research, scientific inquiry, and a broader understanding of relics in Christian history. What makes the Shroud of Turin so compelling isn’t merely the faint image of a crucified man that appears to mark its surface, but the convergence of faith, science, skepticism, and art that surrounds it.

For some, it’s Jesus’ shroud — proof of his suffering, death, and perhaps even resurrection. For others, it’s a masterfully crafted medieval forgery, a product of its time. 

In this article, I’ll approach the Shroud of Turin not as a believer or a cynic, but as a historian committed to critical examination and evidence. We’ll first look at what the Shroud actually is and trace its known history.

Then, we’ll delve into the strongest arguments presented in support of its authenticity before turning to the counter-evidence that points to a medieval origin. My aim isn’t to mock faith or dismiss mystery, but to ask: Can the Shroud of Turin truly be what some claim it is? Let’s take a look!

However, before we begin our journey into the mystery of the Shroud, why not explore the broader question at the heart of it all? Watch the compelling online debate between Bart D. Ehrman and Mike Licona: “Did the Resurrection of Jesus Really Happen?” It’s a fascinating exchange of ideas and arguments! You won't be disappointed.

What is the Shroud of Turin: A Brief Overview

The Shroud of Turin is a long linen cloth bearing the faint, front-and-back image of a man who appears to have suffered physical trauma consistent with crucifixion. Measuring approximately 4.4 meters long and 1.1 meters wide (about 14.3 by 3.7 feet), the cloth has been kept for centuries in the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist in Turin, Italy.

Its most distinctive feature is the sepia-toned imprint of a naked man, his hands crossed over his pelvis, with visible marks that many interpret as wounds from scourging, crucifixion, and a spear thrust to the side. The cloth is woven in a herringbone twill pattern, and its fibers have been the subject of intense scientific scrutiny.

The Shroud first entered the historical record in the 14th century in the small town of Lirey, France. Over time, it has been venerated by many as the actual burial shroud of Jesus Christ.

Although the Shroud had been venerated for centuries, it wasn’t until the late 19th century that a discovery dramatically heightened its mystery. In 1898, an Italian amateur photographer and lawyer named Secondo Pia was granted permission to photograph the Shroud during a public exhibition in Turin.

Jean-Christian Petitfils, in his book Le Saint Suaire de Turin (The Holy Shroud of Turin), recounts the way an Italian photographer took the photos:

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When Pia developed his photographic plates, he was stunned to discover that the negative image appeared as a photographic positive, revealing startling details of the figure on the cloth with far greater clarity than the naked eye could see.

Pilgrims and scholars alike have been drawn to its mysterious image, and it has been the focus of numerous scientific tests, theological debates, and public exhibitions. The French zoologist Yves Delage noted:

His insight captures the heart of the problem. Precisely because the Shroud is associated with the central figure of Christianity, our deeply Christianized world, despite the rise of secularism in Western societies, has infused it with profound religious significance, as if its authenticity could somehow validate Christianity itself.

As a result, critical voices are often dismissed as merely anti-religious or hostile to faith. Yet if we are to do justice to this extraordinary artifact, we must approach it with the same skeptical and critical mindset we would apply to any other historical object, following the evidence where it leads, whether from history or science.

The Shroud of Turin: Evidence for the Authenticity

Over the past century, the mystery of the Shroud of Turin has given rise to a distinct field of study known as sindonology. This strange term is derived from the Greek word sindon, meaning a linen cloth. 

From the early 1900s onward, passionate individuals, often self-styled scholars rather than academic historians or scientists, dedicated themselves to defending the Shroud’s authenticity. They believe this mysterious item is Jesus’ shroud.

As Joe Nickell aptly observed, “from the turn of the century, self-styled 'sindonologists' have been crusading for acceptance of the ‘relic’ as authentic,” even though the Catholic Church itself has historically avoided making any definitive pronouncement about the Shroud’s authenticity.

These researchers formed a community with a clear mission: To gather evidence, scientific or otherwise, that would establish the Shroud as the true burial cloth of Jesus Christ. Similarly, Andrea Nicolotti, in his book The Shroud of Turin, notes:

With that context in mind, let’s begin by examining the common argumenta pro regarding the Shroud’s authenticity.

Wounds on the Wrist, Not the Palms

This is probably my favorite argument to which syndonologists consistently return. According to this line of thinking, and in contrast to most medieval portrayals of Jesus, a close look at the Shroud of Turin hands reveals a man whose piercing wounds are located not in the palms but the wrists.

Syndonologists claim that experimental research, particularly by forensic experts, such as Pierre Barbet, showed that the weight of a crucified body would cause the hands to tear completely free if nails were driven through the palms. Instead, they argue that the nails pierced the wrists, specifically at a region anatomists call the “Space of Destot.”

As Thomas de Wesselow summarizes:

On the surface, this seems like a persuasive piece of evidence for the Shroud’s authenticity. But what should we make of this argument upon closer examination?

Even if we concede that the Shroud of Turin indeed depicts a person whose wrists were pierced — and that point, as Wesselow himself admits, remains uncertain — this would hardly serve as definitive proof of authenticity.

First and foremost, it’s incorrect to assume that all medieval representations of Jesus' crucifixion depict nails driven through the palms. As Joe Nickell points out, researchers Donald and Joan Janney “found ‘several’ crucifixes dating from the Middle Ages in which the nails distinctly penetrate the wrist, not the palm.”

Furthermore, medieval religious imagination was often fueled by visionary experiences. Notably, Saint Bridget of Sweden (14th century) described Christ’s crucifixion wounds as being located “where the bone was hardest” (manum ipsam ex ea parte perforabant, qua os solidius erat), a description that fits the wrist area.

Visions like hers could easily have inspired artistic renditions and relics reflecting a wrist-wounded Christ. In other words, the notion of crucifixion through the wrist was neither unprecedented nor unknown to medieval people. Rather, it was part of the religious and cultural imagination well before the Shroud of Turin surfaced in historical records.

But what about the scientific claim that a nail must pierce the wrist to sustain the weight of a crucified body? Here, again, the evidence is less conclusive than syndonologists suggest.

Studies have shown that a nail driven through the Space of Destot wouldn’t necessarily provide more reliable support than one driven through the palm. As Dr. Anthony Sava noted:

Similarly, Dr. Frederick T. Zugibe, a well-respected forensic pathologist, conducted experiments showing that when a nail is driven through the thenar fissure of the palm, it exits between the base of the metacarpal bones of the index and second fingers and the two corresponding carpal bones, precisely at a structurally sound point corresponding to the imprint seen on the Shroud.

At this point, he emphasized, the body would remain firmly suspended, a conclusion he verified through experiments involving cadavers.

Moreover, syndonologists often overlook another crucial detail: The victim’s arms didn’t have to bear the full weight of the body. Historical and archaeological evidence suggests that Roman crosses often featured a small footrest (suppedaneum) or a seat (sedile), intended to prolong the agony of the crucified.

This detail is depicted, for example, in the famous Palatine Graffito, an ancient image mocking a Christian named Alexamenos, which shows a crucified figure supported in part by a small ledge. With this support, the strain on the arms would have been significantly reduced, making palm crucifixion not only possible but historically plausible.

In short, while the wrist wound argument remains a favored point among defenders of the Shroud’s authenticity, critical examination reveals it to be far less decisive than it first appears. Neither historical art, religious visions, nor scientific experiments exclude the possibility of palm-wounded crucifixion.

The 3D Properties From the VP-8 Image Analyzer

One of the most frequently cited arguments by proponents of the Shroud of Turin’s authenticity is that it exhibits three-dimensional properties when analyzed using a VP-8 Image Analyzer. 

This claim gained particular traction in the late 1970s, when a group of American scientists formed the Shroud of Turin Research Project (STURP) to conduct an in-depth scientific analysis of the cloth. Among their most publicized findings was the assertion that the Shroud’s image produced an anatomically consistent 3D relief, unlike typical photographs.

This device, developed by NASA to create depth maps from photographs of planetary surfaces, interprets brightness levels as spatial information, converting 2D images into 3D reliefs. 

In 1976, researchers John Jackson and Eric Jumper used the VP-8 on a photograph of the Shroud and claimed that, unlike ordinary photographs, the Shroud’s image yielded a coherent three-dimensional representation of a human form.

As they claim in a later article:

This finding fueled excitement among Shroud enthusiasts, as it was thought to suggest that the image was not merely a medieval painting or forgery.

Before proceeding further, I need to clarify that I am by no means an expert in computer vision or 3D modeling. Nevertheless, I rely here on scholarly analyses such as the study by Nicola Chinellato, who examined the claim critically using modern computational techniques.

He employed a three-dimensional morphable model (a sophisticated tool from computer vision) to assess whether the Shroud's face image truly contains three-dimensional information indicative of a real human face. His findings were cautious but revealing. 

Chinellato showed that while it’s indeed possible to generate a three-dimensional surface from the Shroud’s image, this ability isn’t unique to the Shroud. In fact, he demonstrated that similar three-dimensional effects can be obtained from random images or textured surfaces, especially when the brightness of an image is loosely interpreted as representing spatial depth.

Moreover, Chinellato critically points out the methodological problems underlying the VP-8 experiment. There is little publicly available information about exactly how the VP-8 operated, but it seems likely that it processed brightness levels directly into depth information — an assumption that modern computer vision would treat with extreme caution.

Chinellato’s experiments further showed that when the Shroud image is processed without preserving superficial texture or color cues, the resulting three-dimensional model becomes far less convincing. In short, the “3D effect” observed by STURP researchers may owe more to the quirks of image processing and human pattern recognition than to any inherent physical property of the Shroud.

In his conclusion, Chinellato writes:

However, he is also cautious, noting:

In sum, I would advise caution rather than certainty regarding the claim of the Shroud’s three-dimensional portrayal. After all, the question of the Shroud’s authenticity cannot hinge on a single, and at best disputed, piece of evidence.

Instead, it must be approached by considering all relevant data (historical sources, archaeological findings, and scientific analyses together) to reach a truly informed and balanced conclusion.

Pollen Grains from Middle Eastern Plants

Some parties have proposed using microscopic traces of pollen to determine the origin (and perhaps even the authenticity) of the Shroud of Turin. That option seemed both elegant and scientifically persuasive when I first heard it and found it quite impressive (not knowing anything about palynology, the study of microorganisms)

If the cloth truly originated in 1st-century Palestine, wouldn’t it make sense that pollens from that region might have been trapped in its fibers?

This argument gained traction in the 1970s, thanks to Max Frei, a Swiss criminologist who had previously worked in forensic police analysis. Frei obtained adhesive tape samples from the Shroud’s surface and later claimed that he had isolated 34 varieties of pollen from plants that grow exclusively in Palestine and/or southeastern Turkey.

Over time, and through repeated citations in popular books and documentaries, Frei’s claim became “common knowledge.” Thomas de Wesselow asserts (incorrectly) that “others have broadly endorsed” Frei’s report, which illustrates that the argument has taken on an almost mythic status in Shroud apologetics.

However, when examined critically, this theory is far shakier than its public reputation suggests.

First, and most fundamentally, even if Frei’s analysis were accurate (a big “if,” as we’ll see), it wouldn’t necessarily prove the Shroud’s authenticity or antiquity. As Joe Nickell aptly notes:

In other words, pollens could have arrived on the Shroud through any number of channels (e.g., travel, trade, or later contact) and don’t require a 1st-century Palestinian origin. But the problems go deeper.

Max Frei wasn’t a botanist, biologist, or palynologist. He was a criminologist (a forensic microscopist). To my knowledge, he had no formal training in identifying ancient pollen. Worse still, his scientific integrity had already been called into question before his involvement with the Shroud.

Frei had previously resigned from his role as founder and director of the Zurich scientific police after producing a flawed forensic report that contributed to the wrongful life imprisonment of an innocent man.

From a methodological standpoint, Frei’s study suffers from glaring deficiencies. Most notably, he didn’t use control samples, a basic requirement in any legitimate scientific analysis. This alone should raise red flags.

Furthermore, more rigorous studies have demonstrated just how easily pollen samples become contaminated. In laboratory settings, over 80% of slides exposed to air for only a few hours were contaminated by foreign pollens.

The Shroud, which has been displayed, touched, kissed, and even had objects laid upon it to create contact relics, is hardly a controlled environment. As the respected Italian palynologist M. Mariotti Lippi concluded:

There’s also a striking inconsistency here, one that Nicolotti has rightly flagged:

This selective skepticism reveals a troubling confirmation bias among the proponents of authenticity: Evidence is welcomed if it supports authenticity and dismissed if it challenges it.

In the end, behind the story of the alleged 1st-century pollen on the Shroud lies more smoke than substance, and, frankly, the trail leads back to a highly questionable source.

Dr. Steven Schafersman, a micropaleontologist and petrologist, went so far as to accuse Frei of scientific deception. He noted:

Given Frei’s track record, one might be forgiven for wondering if he simply borrowed some plants from a Jerusalem florist and “let nature take its course” over his tape samples.

Before we move on, it’s worth pausing to highlight the sheer scale of Max Frei’s scientific shortcomings, as summarized by Gaetano Ciccone. Ciccone presents a concise but damning list of failures that point not only to Frei’s incompetence but also to his fundamental misunderstanding of basic palynological principles.

#1 – “Frei is mistaken in claiming that pollen grains remain indefinitely intact in a dry environment, when in fact they are attacked and destroyed by oxygen, bacteria, and fungi. He seems unaware of the conditions under which pollens are preserved and fossilized (anaerobic environments, without oxygen) versus those in which they are more or less rapidly altered and destroyed (aerobic environments, with oxygen).”

#2 – “He appears not to understand what a 'pollen spectrum' is, confusing a table listing the quantities or percentages of different types of grains (a true pollen spectrum) with one that merely lists the names of various plant species.”

#3 – “He errs in his species identifications, which, according to other experts, are not possible under an optical microscope and often not even under a scanning electron microscope (SEM). He seems unaware that to credibly identify species, one must also be able to rule out all other plant species with similar or indistinguishable pollen.”

#4 – “He seems unaware of the ease with which objects left in the open air are quickly contaminated by pollen.” (Translation courtesy of Petar Uskovic)

Bloodstain Patterns and Their Supposed Consistency

Another frequently cited argument in favor of the authenticity of the Shroud concerns the distinctive pattern of bloodstains and scourge marks that cover the figure depicted on it.

Proponents argue that these bloodstains match precisely what one might expect from a victim of Roman crucifixion and scourging. Thomas de Wesselow articulates this viewpoint clearly, asserting:

This reasoning, on the surface, sounds impressive and historically precise. The supposed match between the Shroud's bloodstains and the historical Roman scourge (the so-called “flagrum taxillatum”) seems persuasive. However, upon closer scholarly scrutiny, this argument quickly begins to unravel.

In his meticulous article “The Scourge of Jesus and the Roman Scourge,” Andrea Nicolotti provides a comprehensive reassessment of our knowledge regarding Roman scourging instruments. 

He demonstrates that there is a complete absence of reliable archaeological or literary evidence confirming the existence of a scourge with the specific features often attributed to it by Shroud proponents, namely leather thongs tipped with lead balls or bone fragments (taxilli).

Nicolotti shows that what is often called the flagrum taxillatum isn’t an ancient term or attested Roman weapon, but rather a modern scholarly fiction, largely born out of 19th- and 20th-century misinterpretations.

This imagined scourge gained traction through a convergence of three factors:

#1 – Misidentified artifacts, such as Etruscan or decorative items, mistaken for whips

#2 – Misleading dictionary illustrations (especially in works like Anthony Rich’s “Dictionnaire”)

#3 – An apologetic desire to make sense of the marks on the Shroud

These elements were then reinforced by devotional medieval imagery of Christ’s scourging, feeding back into scholarly and popular belief. As Nicolotti compellingly argues, no ancient Roman artifact or unambiguous literary source confirms the use of such a scourge.

Furthermore, the Shroud's bloodstains themselves do not unequivocally indicate ancient Roman scourging.

Basing his arguments both on the scientific evidence (the issue of the blood’s flow) and historical evidence (the signs of the scourging), Nicolotti writes:

Flagellantism was, as art historian Gary Vikan explains, "part of a broader 'blood frenzy' that characterized European church ritual and art from the 13th to the 15th centuries and that stood in stark contrast with the first twelve centuries of Christianity, when references to the shedding of blood are extremely rare.”

Specifically, he notes, there was increasing emphasis in Gothic art, just as the shroud appeared in Lirey, on intense suffering, especially as revealed in images of Christ beaten and crucified.

Consequently, nothing inherently Roman or 1st-century emerges distinctly from the bloodstains or the alleged scourging pattern. In other words, the notion of distinctive “Roman” scourge marks on the Shroud is little more than speculation dressed as forensic proof.

Having critically assessed the common arguments offered in favor of the Shroud's authenticity, it's time now to explore the compelling historical, archaeological, and scientific evidence that points decisively toward a medieval origin.

The Shroud of Turin: Evidence of Medieval Forgery

When I first encountered arguments supporting the medieval origin of the Shroud of Turin, I was admittedly quite resistant. It took me some time (and honest reflection) to realize it was my own confirmation bias keeping me from fully acknowledging these insights.

However, upon careful reconsideration, I came to appreciate that these arguments, when evaluated collectively and impartially, form a robust case that strongly favors the Shroud’s medieval creation.

The Carbon Dating Results

One of the most important scientific examinations of the Shroud of Turin took place in 1988 when three prestigious laboratories (the University of Oxford, the University of Arizona, and ETH Zürich) conducted radiocarbon dating (C-14) of the fabric.

These institutions were specifically chosen because of their extensive expertise in dating ancient artifacts. To ensure maximum scientific integrity, the entire procedure was meticulously documented, filmed, and supervised at every step, with a control sample also tested alongside the Shroud sample.

Moreover, textile experts were carefully consulted to select the optimal location from which to extract the cloth samples, guaranteeing that the test would be performed on fabric representative of the Shroud itself.

When the results were finally announced, they were clear and consistent across all three laboratories: The linen fabric dated from between 1260 and 1390 C.E., firmly placing the Shroud within the medieval period. This finding appeared to decisively end the debate regarding the Shroud’s authenticity.

However, almost immediately after these results became public knowledge, the reaction from syndonologists was swift, vocal, and vehement.

Initially, it was the syndonologists themselves who eagerly advocated the use of radiocarbon dating, confident it would affirm their beliefs. Ironically, once faced with results that contradicted their cherished narrative, they promptly changed course and sought to discredit the very method they had enthusiastically promoted.

Accusations of conspiracy, incompetence, and even deliberate fraud proliferated rapidly among the disappointed believers, though no credible evidence emerged to substantiate these dramatic claims.

Among the more persistent hypotheses was the “sindonological pollution hypothesis,” as Nicolotti calls it. This theory proposes that over centuries, various contaminants (such as candle smoke, sweat, pollen, smog from Turin's skies, oil from hands, and even water from extinguishing the fire of Chambéry in 1532) heavily polluted the linen, artificially skewing the radiocarbon dating results toward a later date.

However, scrutiny quickly undermines this idea. The truth is, the radiocarbon dating method simply isn't significantly sensitive to such surface contamination. 

To produce a dating discrepancy of roughly 1300 years, contamination would need to introduce an astonishing proportion of recent carbon. Specifically, for every 100 original carbon atoms in the fabric, 500 more from the contaminating agents of around 1532 would need to be added — an impossible scenario.

Additionally, all samples underwent rigorous cleaning procedures specifically designed to remove surface contaminants. Indeed, each of the three laboratories employed different, yet equally thorough, cleaning methods to ensure accurate results.

Another creative hypothesis was popularized by former Benedictine monk Joseph Marino and his wife, Sue Benford, who famously claimed divine revelations from the apostle John and Jesus Christ. They argued that the samples used for carbon dating weren’t original fabric but medieval patches skillfully added later to repair the Shroud.

Despite its sensational appeal, this theory is equally untenable. Before cutting, textile experts carefully examined the Shroud, ensuring they selected a representative, original area. 

Accepting Marino and Benford’s theory would mean imagining that these highly respected specialists spent hours closely inspecting the cloth, yet completely overlooked extensive medieval patching. 

Furthermore, to shift the dating results by 13 centuries, the quantity of medieval threads would have to drastically outnumber the original ones, which is an absurd suggestion given the fabric’s structure.

It was no surprise, therefore, when in 2010 the University of Arizona officially reaffirmed its findings, stating clearly:

Ironically, many of these syndonologists passionately embraced Max Frei’s questionable pollen analysis, confidently extracting detailed historical knowledge from a handful of pollen grains, yet became ferocious critics of radiocarbon dating when the results didn't fit their expectations.

Apparently, the credibility of science for syndonologists depends entirely upon whether or not it confirms their preconceived conclusions.

The Shroud of Turin and Its Missing History

One of the strongest pieces of historical evidence pointing toward the medieval origin of the Shroud of Turin is its suspiciously late emergence into historical records. The earliest unambiguous references date to the 14th century. 

More specifically, the Shroud of Turin emerged around the year 1355, when a knight named Geoffroy de Charny began publicly displaying the cloth in the small French town of Lirey. This chronology fits remarkably well with the radiocarbon dating results mentioned above.

More tellingly, the local ecclesiastical authorities immediately expressed skepticism. In a revealing letter addressed to Pope Clement VII, Pierre d’Arcis, the Bishop of Troyes at the time, explicitly stated that the Shroud was a forgery. 

His words leave no ambiguity: “After diligent inquiry and examination, he [an earlier Bishop of Troyes, Henri of Poitiers] discovered the fraud and how the said cloth had been cunningly painted, the truth being attested by the artist who had painted it.”

This documented statement by Bishop d'Arcis is historically significant. According to him, his predecessor Henri of Poitiers had uncovered the deception firsthand, confronting and identifying the very artist who had produced this clever forgery.

Thus, as soon as the Shroud appeared, local church authorities promptly recognized it as a fabricated relic. This episode, meticulously recorded, makes it difficult to deny the medieval origins of the Shroud.

About a year ago, I attended a lecture delivered in a local church by a young theologian who had written his master's thesis on the Shroud. The church was full, predominantly with believers deeply committed to the Shroud’s authenticity.

Unsurprisingly, the young lecturer passionately articulated exactly what the audience wanted to hear. Yet what struck me most profoundly was his attempt to establish a direct historical link between the Shroud of Turin and an earlier Christian relic known as the Mandylion of Edessa.

The Mandylion of Edessa, historically speaking, is an ancient Christian relic that first “appeared” in a text from the 6th century. However, in his book From the Mandylion of Edessa to the Shroud of Turin, Nicolotti notes:

It all started with an apocryphal account of Jesus’ correspondence with the Syrian king Abgar, first mentioned in the 4th century by Church historian Eusebius. 

The emergence of the relic, however, is closely tied to the 6th-century Syrian source called Acts of Mar Mari. According to the legend, there was a miraculous portrait of Jesus’ face imprinted on a piece of cloth sent to King Abgar to heal him.

Over time, this modest tale of ancient pen pals and portraiture took on a life of its own. What began as a simple exchange of letters gradually morphed into a miraculous cloth with divine powers, and some serious image upgrades along the way.

Take a look at the timeline below to see how this transformation unfolded. Just remember: All of these sources were composed centuries after Jesus’ death, with no reliable information about the alleged contacts between the historical Jesus and the Syrian king

Syndonologists frequently assert that the Mandylion (Jesus’ face cloth) and the Shroud of Turin are actually the same object, arguing that the former was secretly a folded burial cloth, displaying only Jesus’ face but concealing a full-body image. 

They insist that the Mandylion thus provides the missing historical link, suggesting the Shroud of Turin existed well before its 14th-century emergence.

During the mentioned lecture, the young theologian made some deeply troubling claims. For instance, he confidently asserted that the Mandylion was explicitly mentioned at the Second Council of Nicaea in 787, which is simply incorrect. As it turns out, no primary sources from this council confirm such a statement.

He also presented legendary accounts, including the mythical correspondence between Abgar and Jesus, as solid historical evidence. 

What was most unsettling was his complete disregard for historical method: Legends, written centuries after the events they described, were treated as if they were trustworthy historical documents. No historian would ever claim that the Syrian king really wrote to Jesus!

To fully analyse all the shortcomings of this theory, I would need to write a separate article. In this case, Nicolotti’s conclusion should suffice:

In sum, historical evidence firmly places the Shroud’s first appearance in 14th-century France, where it immediately faced accusations of forgery by contemporary religious authorities.

The attempt by syndonologists to retroactively anchor the Shroud’s existence in earlier relics like the Mandylion reveals not only a profound misunderstanding of historical sources, but also a disregard for the critical methods essential to studying Christian history.

A Time of Relic Forgery: The Medieval Context

A powerful supporting argument in favor of the medieval origin of the Shroud of Turin is the broader historical context of relic production during the Middle Ages. It was a period when Christian relics proliferated widely throughout Europe.

These objects (supposedly physical remnants connected directly to Christ, his apostles, or prominent saints) quickly became central to medieval spirituality. More pragmatically, however, relics were significant sources of revenue, prestige, and economic prosperity. 

Churches, monasteries, and towns competed fiercely to attract pilgrims by presenting extraordinary relics, often without concern for historical authenticity.

This phenomenon sometimes reached absurd extremes. It was commonly joked that if one counted all the “genuine” relics from the Middle Ages, John the Baptist would have possessed multiple heads, and Jesus himself could boast more than one foreskin.

Various cities and monasteries claimed they had the true head of John the Baptist, prompting amused medieval observers and later historians alike to wonder how many heads the Baptist actually had.

This competitive and lucrative relic trade led inevitably to widespread forgery, fraud, and deception. Indeed, the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215 explicitly warned the faithful against being “deceived by lying stories or false documents [associated with alleged relics], as has commonly happened in many places on account of the desire for profit.”

Within this context, the sudden appearance of the Shroud of Turin in the 14th century fits perfectly into a well-known historical pattern. Relics were incredibly profitable, drawing pilgrims from far and wide, generating local fame, and significantly enriching individuals, churches, and towns that housed them.

Fabricating a relic as significant as the burial cloth of Jesus would hardly have been extraordinary. Rather, it would have been entirely consistent with established medieval practices. Today, critical historians, as Dale C. Allison notes, “deem all alleged relics associated with Jesus to be counterfeits.” The Shroud of Turin fits perfectly within that category.

Jean-Christian Petitfils aptly summarizes this historical reality, noting:

Consequently, Allison rightly observes:

The Shroud of Turin in Comparison With the Only 1st-Century Burial Cloth Discovered

To further assess the authenticity of the Shroud of Turin, we must compare it with genuine archaeological evidence from 1st-century Palestine. As it turns out, there is only one reliably dated burial cloth from this exact historical context: The textile fragments recovered from the so-called “Tomb of the Shroud” at Akeldama in Jerusalem.

This tomb, carefully excavated by archaeologists, contained burial remains confidently dated by radiocarbon to between the late 1st century B.C.E. and the early 1st century C.E.

The textiles from Akeldama differ fundamentally from the Shroud of Turin. Crucially, the burial cloth found there isn’t a single uniform linen sheet, but rather comprises at least four separate fabric pieces made from different materials, woven in simple, plain weaves typical of ancient Jewish textiles. 

This sharply contrasts with the Shroud of Turin, a large, singular piece of linen woven using a complex 3/1 herringbone twill weave. Importantly, this sophisticated herringbone weave has never been archaeologically attested in any first-century burial context from Israel.

Moreover, molecular analyses conducted at Akeldama have further strengthened this archaeological evidence. The study, published in PLOS ONE, confirms that textiles found alongside skeletal remains of a sealed loculus within this tomb were indeed contemporaneous with the early 1st century C.E.

Furthermore, genetic tests revealed tuberculosis and leprosy pathogens in these remains, emphasizing the tomb's unique importance, yet revealing nothing that could support the authenticity or the weaving structure of the Shroud of Turin.

Thus, when the Shroud of Turin is examined alongside genuine, scientifically validated first-century burial cloths, it emerges not as an authentic relic of the ancient Middle East but as yet another artifact aligning closely with medieval European artistic and textile practices.

Conclusion

The Shroud of Turin continues to captivate imaginations across the world, but when weighed against the combined force of historical records, scientific testing, and archaeological evidence, its origin appears unmistakably medieval.

The strongest arguments for its authenticity are consistently undermined by flawed methodology, ideological bias, or an absence of corroborating data. By contrast, the evidence pointing to a 14th-century origin is cumulatively decisive.

Perhaps more revealing than any individual argument is the psychological mechanism underpinning many defenses of the Shroud: Confirmation bias, the very human tendency to seek, favor, and remember information that confirms our preexisting beliefs.

This bias is especially evident in the selective acceptance of certain scientific methods (such as palynology or mechanical dating) when they support authenticity, and their wholesale rejection when they don’t (as with radiocarbon dating). 

Would I like it if the Shroud of Turin were truly Jesus’s burial cloth? Of course I would! Just imagine the insights we could gain — the historical, theological, and cultural significance would be immense. But I have to set those wishes aside and approach the evidence from a critical, objective, and neutral standpoint.

Finally, it’s worth remembering that the inability to precisely replicate the Shroud’s image today does not prove it’s miraculous or ancient.

Many historical artifacts (e.g., Damascus steel, certain illuminated manuscripts, etc.) are difficult to reproduce, not because they are supernatural, but because the specific techniques, materials, and environmental conditions that produced them have been lost. In the case of the Shroud, mystery alone isn’t evidence of authenticity. Far from it!

The Bronze Age Collapse: The Bible’s Invisible Catastrophe?

This post is part of our “Voices from the Academy” series—an initiative highlighting standout content from members of the Biblical Studies Academy. Each month, we feature a few of the most insightful, thought-provoking posts from our community on BartEhrman.com.  The views expressed here belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of Dr. Bart D. Ehrman.

Often, when people first start looking at the Bible through a historical lens, they look at the events mentioned in the Bible and try to line them up with the things that we know from history. Some things — the Kings of Judah, the Babylonian Captivity, the Herodian dynasty — are all clearly confirmed by the historic record. Others — the United Monarchy, the existence of the Patriarchs, much of Jesus’s career — are not directly confirmed, but fit plausibly into the historic context. And still others — the Deluge, the Exodus as described, the Massacre of the Innocents — are very difficult to square with the historic record.

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But there’s another way to look at things: you can start with what we know from history about the time and places described, and then see if the Biblical authors seem aware of the most important events, and if so, how those events affected their narratives. And when you do that, you notice something odd. If you add up the lengths of years of various events and reigns as listed in the Bible, it appears that Moses would have lived around 1300 BCE, David would have reigned around 1000 BCE, and the Conquest and Judges would have been in between. But in that general time and place occurred one of the most catastrophic events in human history... and it is not mentioned at all. It's what I call "the invisible catastrophe": the Bronze Age Collapse.

A little background. Ever since the beginnings of civilization, human society had grown more and more advanced, century by century. Great kingdoms were sometimes destroyed, but they were quickly replaced by greater kingdoms, more powerful, more technologically advanced, with new innovations that led to increasingly organized societies. This had been the progression of history for literally thousands of years. But then around 1200 BCE, in a frighteningly brief period of time, it all came crashing down. Many of the greatest empires of the world were utterly destroyed. In Asia Minor and Syria, the most advanced cities were sacked and left uninhabited for centuries. In the South, Egypt survived, but it went from being a superpower that utterly dominated the Levant to being an inward-looking region, a museum piece frequently ruled by outsiders. In the North of the Aegean, literacy was completely forgotten and had to be reinvented from scratch centuries later. It was a collapse so total that it makes the European Dark Ages seem like a brief inconvenience in comparison. The causes of this collapse are still debated, but what I want to note here is, the Biblical authors don't mention it. They don't seem to even know that it happened.

Before the Collapse, the Hittites were one of the most powerful and centralized empires in the world, and Egypt had a sprawling empire that included all of Canaan. After the Collapse, “Hittite” was more of a scattered ethnic group living in clusters here and there. Egypt was still wealthy and impressive, but it was far away and no longer invincible. And new peoples, such as the Philistines, had been resettled as Canaan’s neighbors. Even if the people of Canaan would never have a good grasp on the scope of the disaster, they should have known the parts that most affected them. They wrote eloquently about the post-Collapse reality, but there doesn't seem to be any awareness of Egypt having been a power in Canaan, of the Philistines coming in from outside, or of the Hittites as ever having been a centralized power.

What do you make of this? And are there any echoes of this disaster or its effects in the Hebrew Bible? What's your take?

Symbolism in Mark: Rethinking the Gospel's Portrayal of Judas Iscariot

This post is part of our “Voices from the Academy” series—an initiative highlighting standout content from members of the Biblical Studies Academy. Each month, we feature a few of the most insightful, thought-provoking posts from our community on BartEhrman.com.  The views expressed here belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of Dr. Bart D. Ehrman.

Hearing Dr. Hugo Méndez demonstrate Mark’s creative license through the symbolism he uses (i.e. the double healing pericope, the Markan Sandwiches, parables, use of irony) reminded me of something I had read about the Judas story earlier.

Let’s face it: the Judas story in our Gospels (primarily from Mark) is weird. If Jesus was given a sentence to be crucified by the ruling authorities for some sort of significant offence like causing unrest in the temple or declaring himself to be the Messiah, or even some sort of zealot-like or violent activities, it did not require one of his followers to betray him for him to be crucified! It would have happened regardless of whether any followers stuck to him or not.

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So what are the reasons why this story may be made up?

Against a fictional betrayal story, is the “criterion of embarrassment”: It must have been embarrassing for Mark to deal with a story of one of Jesus’ own disciples turning his back on Jesus and therefore if he included the narrative in his gospel, it surely must not be invented.

But could have it been invented?

The criterion of embarrassment does not hold if Mark stood to gain something from the narrative — like an agenda or ideology. But what could he gain?

Scholars like John Dominic Crossan, Gerd Lüdemann & Robert Eisenman suggest the following.

It’s quite possibly in the name  — Judas or Judah: the tribe of Israel that housed the temple cult, from where we get the words “Jew” and “Judaism” from.

Against the backdrop of the gospels, we have a hostile environment where Jews were persecuting christians for their beliefs. Could Judah’s betrayal of Jesus be symbolic of how Jews have treated their Messiah? It certainly fits with Mark’s literary profile!

So was the Judas story a symbolic myth from Mark, and the other evangelists liked the story and ran with it? It certainly fits Mark’s creative literary style and once more displays his genius!