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.

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.

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.

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!

Intertestamental Period: Meaning & Events (Timeline)

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

Most of my undergraduate students assume the chronological gap between the Old and the New Testaments is minimal. They often picture the biblical narrative as a seamless progression, from the laws of Moses and the prophets of Israel to the birth of Jesus and the formation of the early church. 

In truth, there is a significant and often overlooked gap between these two bodies of scripture. This is the period that scholars commonly refer to as the intertestamental period, a time when the “official” voices of prophecy had fallen silent, yet history itself was anything but quiet.

It contradicts the unspoken belief that the Bible’s story flows in one continuous line, with no real interruption in either time or theology. But of course, the reality is far more complex.

Though the biblical canon remains silent, Jewish literature, sectarian movements, foreign domination, and theological evolution were all in motion during this time, quietly shaping the world into which Jesus would be born.

When I first introduce this period to students, they are often surprised by how much happens “between the Testaments.” They hadn’t considered that Judaism underwent radical shifts in thought and structure, that empires rose and fell, and that a great deal of social change took place during the time difference between the Old and New Testaments.

In this article, we’ll explore what the intertestamental period was, when it occurred, and why it matters. We’ll begin by examining how the Old Testament ends — and whether it ends at all in a meaningful sense. 

From there, we’ll trace key events, rulers, and religious shifts across the centuries, building a timeline that illuminates how the so-called “400 years of silence” were a time of extraordinary change.

However, before we set out to explore the intertestamental period, you might want to check out an exciting new 8-lecture online course by acclaimed Bible scholar Bart D. Ehrman: Finding Moses: What Scholars Know About The Exodus and The Jewish Law.

In this course, Bart dives deep into what historians and biblical scholars have uncovered about one of the most foundational figures in Judaism, and what we can and cannot know about the Exodus tradition. It’s the perfect companion to understanding the broader sweep of Jewish history.

What Is the Intertestamental Period?

In his book The Creative Era Between the Testaments, Carl G. Howie notes that the “period between the Old and New Testaments is a blank for most laymen as well as many clergymen who are otherwise well-versed in the historical background of the Bible.” So, what exactly is this somewhat enigmatic historical gap that scholars refer to as the intertestamental period?

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Broadly defined, the intertestamental period spans roughly four centuries, from approximately 430 B.C.E., traditionally associated with the prophetic ministry of Malachi, up until around the life of John the Baptist near the turn of the Common Era. 

However, scholars caution against viewing these chronological boundaries as strict or absolute. To illustrate, although Malachi appears as the final prophetic book in the Christian Old Testament, it wasn't necessarily the last Old Testament text written.

From a historical-critical perspective, that distinction likely belongs to the Book of Daniel, composed in the middle of the 2nd century B.C.E. in response to the persecution of Jews under the Seleucid king Antiochus IV Epiphanes. 

Despite Daniel's internal claims of an earlier, 6th century B.C.E. origin, scholarly consensus, as John J. Collins emphasizes, firmly dates its composition to this much later period.

Moreover, people living in the 2nd century B.C.E. certainly didn't conceive of themselves as existing in a transitional or intertestamental period. They understood their religious identity and historical reality primarily through the sacred texts already recognized and revered: Texts that would later collectively become the Hebrew Bible.

By the late 2nd century CE, the Hebrew Bible had achieved widespread (unofficial) acceptance among Jewish communities as authoritative Scripture, forming an essential theological and cultural backdrop against which all subsequent Jewish religious life and literature developed.

Indeed, precisely because these texts had gained authority as Scripture, the intertestamental period was marked by the prolific emergence of other significant Jewish writings. They often sought to interpret, expand upon, or creatively retell themes and narratives inherited from the Old Testament. 

As Peter Enns succinctly put it, the establishment of Scripture inevitably led to the flourishing of interpretations, often at the expense of creating explicit contradictions! 

With the authority of the Old Testament scriptures firmly established, new interpretive traditions flourished in texts such as the Apocrypha (including books such as Tobit, Judith, and 1-2 Maccabees), the Pseudepigrapha (such as 1 Enoch and Jubilees), and the Dead Sea Scrolls discovered at Qumran.

While authorities ultimately did not include these texts in the Jewish canon, they vividly illustrate the ongoing religious creativity and theological reflection that characterized this vibrant yet often overlooked era.

Intertestamental Period: Significant Political and Social Events

In his book An Introduction to Early Judaism, James C. VanderKam explains that the intertestamental period “was an age in which the Jewish people, wherever they lived, were under the political and military control of other nations. Only for a brief time in the late second and early first centuries B.C.E. did they have their own independent state, which existed, however, under the shadow of far greater powers.”

Summarizing the rich political and social tapestry of these four centuries is challenging, but an overview of the era’s most significant changes can illuminate why this period was so transformative for Judaism.

To begin exploring the political and social backdrop of the intertestamental period, we need to start with the era of Persian dominance, which lasted from 538 until 332 B.C.E.

Following the Babylonian captivity, Persian rule was generally tolerant and allowed Jewish exiles to return to Judea and rebuild their Temple. It was an event of immense religious and national significance. As VanderKam notes:

The reconstruction of this “Second Temple” would profoundly influence Jewish religious life, becoming the spiritual center of Judaism until its destruction in 70 C.E.

Persian rule eventually gave way to Hellenistic dominance with Alexander the Great’s swift conquest in 332 B.C.E. Alexander’s empire fragmented upon his early death, leading Judea into periods of alternating control by the Greek dynasties of the Ptolemies (in Egypt) and Seleucids (in Syria).

This Hellenistic era introduced “Hellenism,” the widespread adoption of Greek culture, language, and thought across the Mediterranean and Near East. As David S. Russell notes in his book Between the Testaments:

The encounter with Hellenism reached a critical turning point during the Seleucid rule, particularly under Antiochus IV Epiphanes. Antiochus' attempts to forcibly Hellenize Judea led directly to the Maccabean Revolt (167-160 B.C.E.).

Jonathan A. Goldstein, in The Cambridge History of Judaism, explains Antiochus’ motivation vividly:

This crisis sparked a powerful nationalist and religious rebellion, led by the priestly family known as the Hasmoneans. The successful revolt restored Jewish religious practices and led to a brief period of political independence under the Hasmonean dynasty, which lasted roughly from 142 to 63 B.C.E.

Yet, even during this seemingly independent state, Judea remained vulnerable, caught between larger powers vying for dominance in the Mediterranean world.

Furthermore, it never broke out completely from the firm grip of Hellenism, not even under the rule of the Hasmonean dynasty. As Simon C. Mimouni explains 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.):

The Hasmonean rule came to an abrupt end in 63 B.C.E. when the Roman general Pompey captured Jerusalem, marking the beginning of Roman domination. 

Under Rome, Judea lost political autonomy and was governed first by client kings such as Herod the Great, whose rule was marked by impressive building projects (including significant expansions of the Second Temple) but also by harsh political repression. 

Following Herod’s death, direct Roman administration through procurators (including Pontius Pilate) introduced tensions that would later explode in the devastating Jewish War of 66-73 C.E.

Thus, the intertestamental period was anything but quiet. Under Persian, Greek, Hasmonean, and finally Roman dominion, the Jewish people faced constant pressures and transformations.

In response, Jewish communities produced a diverse body of literature vividly expressing their religious ideas, struggles, and hopes within writings that profoundly shaped their theological identity during the intertestamental period.

Intertestamental Period: A Timeline of Key Events

However, before we delve into the most significant parts of the intertestamental literature, we've decided to take a brief chronological detour. After all, let's face it, keeping all those kings, revolts, and empires straight is tough enough without a roadmap. You’re welcome.

Intertestamental Literature: A Brief Survey

During the intertestamental period, “God’s speech” became firmly established in written form, transforming the Judeans into a genuine “people of the book.”

Given the complex political transformations, cultural pressures, and religious challenges they faced, it's hardly surprising that Jewish communities produced a diverse body of literary (non-canonical) works.

One of the most notable genres that emerged during this period is Jewish apocalyptic literature, exemplified by texts such as 1 Enoch. 

Written in stages primarily between the 3rd century B.C.E. and the 1st century C.E., 1 Enoch narrates visions and journeys of the ancient patriarch Enoch, vividly portraying cosmic conflicts, angelic rebellions, and divine judgments.

Similarly, Jubilees, composed around the 2nd century B.C.E., retells the Genesis and Exodus narratives, reshaping Israel’s foundational stories into a theological framework that emphasizes strict observance of the Law and covenantal fidelity in the face of external threats.

Another prominent example is the book of Judith, probably written during or shortly after the Maccabean crisis. 

Although cast as a historical novel set in an earlier period, Judith uses the narrative structure and literary motifs typical of Greek storytelling to assert the moral and religious superiority of Judaism over pagan cultures.

Equally influential, the book of Tobit narrates the adventures of a pious Jewish family in exile, exploring themes of righteousness, divine providence, and religious identity within a diaspora context. Carl G. Howie notes:

These writings, along with others such as the additions to Esther and the various texts later discovered among the Dead Sea Scrolls, illustrate vividly how Judean literary creativity flourished during the intertestamental period, actively shaping theological discourse and cultural identity as Jewish communities navigated an ever-changing historical landscape.

Conclusion

Each semester, at the end of my lecture on the history of Second Temple Judaism, my students (hopefully!) come to realize that comprehending the history of early Christianity without understanding the intertestamental period is like stepping into the second act of a play without knowing the first.

As we’ve seen, this stretch between the “end of the Hebrew Bible” and the emergence of the New Testament was anything but dormant. Jewish communities lived under a succession of imperial powers, from the Persians to the Romans, each leaving its imprint on Judean society.

In the face of foreign rule, sectarian conflict, and ideological contestation, Jews not only preserved their traditions but reimagined them, producing a diverse corpus of non-canonical literature that explored apocalyptic hopes, reinterpreted ancestral stories, and articulated new visions of righteousness and resistance.

Second Temple Judaism: Meaning and Timeline

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

There is a popular saying among historians: “A text without a context is a pretext.” In other words, if we attempt to interpret people, ideas, or events from the past without first understanding the world they inhabited, we risk misrepresenting them entirely.

I remember the first time I heard this phrase in a university lecture hall. It was during an introductory course on the historical Jesus, taught by a professor whose clarity and passion left a lasting impression. “If you want to understand the historical Jesus,” he told us, “you first need to understand Second Temple Judaism.”

That statement, simple as it seemed, opened a door into a world of overlapping traditions, sectarian disputes, and shifting political powers. From that moment on, I began to see the study of history not as a mere exercise in collecting facts, but as a way of restoring lost voices to their rightful context.

That same lecture made another point that has stayed with me: Historical figures do not live in a vacuum. They speak particular languages, navigate specific cultural tensions, and react to the realities of their own time. Jesus, his followers, and even his opponents were all products of a distinct historical setting.

To separate them from it would be like trying to understand Martin Luther without the medieval Church, or Gandhi without British colonialism. The roots of early Christianity are deeply intertwined with the soil of Second Temple Judaism. Unless we first understand that foundation, we cannot truly grasp what grew out of it.

As a historian of early Christianity, I’ve come to appreciate how crucial it is to understand the broader landscape from which the movement emerged. The period we now refer to as “Second Temple Judaism” wasn’t a monolith. Rather, it was a dynamic and evolving world, shaped by empire, exile, temple ritual, and theological innovation.

What is Second Temple Judaism? In the sections that follow, we’ll explore what historians mean when referring to it, trace its historical arc, and examine the profound changes that occurred after the temple’s destruction in 70 C.E.

If you're interested in the historical roots of Judaism and want to explore how scholars approach one of its most iconic figures, you might enjoy Dr. Bart D. Ehrman’s online course Finding Moses: What Scholars Know About the Exodus and the Jewish Law.

In eight engaging lectures, Dr. Ehrman examines the Book of Exodus from a critical perspective, asking whether Moses was a historical figure or a legendary creation, and what that means for understanding the origins of Jewish law and tradition.

When Was Second Temple Judaism? Defining the Era

For Jews, there is a collective past that contributes enormously to their sense of unity, and without which Judaism cannot be understood. The collective memory in Judaism isn’t merely a sequence of events that once transpired, but a story to be studied, transmitted, and in certain cases, even re-lived.

In other words, Judaism represents an ongoing but constantly changing saga of 4,000 years. Each period left its distinct mark; thus, although certain basic beliefs were fixed, new expressions were constantly being added, or replacing earlier ones. 

How should we understand the period known as Second Temple Judaism? What are its major features? Most importantly, when did it occur?

Broadly speaking, the term “Second Temple Judaism” refers to the religious, cultural, and political developments in Jewish life between the rebuilding of the Jerusalem Temple after the Babylonian exile (circa 516 B.C.E.) and its destruction by the Romans in 70 C.E. 

But why was the rebuilding necessary in the first place? To understand that, we must look back to what Jewish tradition regards as the First Temple, constructed by King Solomon in the 10th century B.C.E. According to biblical accounts, Solomon built the Temple in Jerusalem as a permanent dwelling place for the Ark of the Covenant and as the central site for Israelite worship.

This structure stood as the heart of Jewish religious life for centuries until 586 B.C.E., when the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar II captured Jerusalem, razed the Temple to the ground, and exiled much of the Judean population to Babylon.

The nearly six-century-long era of Second Temple Judaism saw profound transformations, not only in the physical and political landscape of Judea but also in the diverse ways Jewish identity, theology, and practice were conceived and negotiated.

As Loren T. Stuckenbruck notes, this period is “pivotal,” not simply because of its chronological placement between the First and Second Jewish Temples, but because it witnessed “a series of far-reaching socioreligious and political shifts” that influenced Jewish communities in Judea and across the diaspora.

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Despite the tendency to view ancient Judaism as a singular, monolithic religion, the Second Temple period is best understood as a tapestry woven from many different strands.

And yet, even amidst the diversity, certain enduring features can be identified: A shared commitment to sacred traditions (particularly the Torah), reverence for the Temple as the earthly dwelling of God, and ongoing efforts to define Jewish identity in the face of foreign rule and internal tensions.

At the heart of this era stood the Second Temple itself, originally rebuilt by returning exiles under the Persian Empire and later magnificently renovated by Herod the Great in the 1st century B.C.E. Bart D. Ehrman and Hugo Mendez note the paramount importance of the Jewish Temple:

To put it more bluntly, the Temple served as the ritual and symbolic center of Jewish life. It was the locus of daily sacrifices, annual pilgrimages, priestly activity, and national festivals. But beyond its function as a religious institution, it also served as a political and economic hub.

For many Jews, to imagine religious life without the Temple was nearly unthinkable, a reality that would be deeply challenged in the wake of its destruction.

Yet Second Temple Judaism wasn’t limited to Jerusalem. As Stuckenbruck emphasizes, this was a period of intense cultural interaction, political upheaval, and geographic dispersion. 

Jewish communities thrived in the diaspora (in Egypt, Babylon, Asia Minor, and beyond) where they creatively adapted their traditions to new settings, often translating sacred texts into Greek and engaging with surrounding cultures.

Throughout this time, the memory of the Temple and the land of Israel remained powerful symbols, even for those who lived far from them. Still, the lived reality of Judaism evolved and expanded, responding to new circumstances while staying rooted in ancient narratives.

Second Temple Judaism: Social, Religious, and Political Background

Needless to say, Second Temple Judaism didn’t emerge separate from outside influence. Rather, a succession of foreign empires, each imposing its political systems, economic models, and cultural values on the Jewish people shaped it.

From the return from Babylonian exile under Persian auspices in the late 6th century B.C.E. to the increasing tensions under Roman occupation in the 1st century C.E., the Jewish population of Judea and the broader diaspora navigated complex political circumstances while negotiating their religious identity.

As Daniel M. Gurtner emphasizes, the historical and political contexts of this period weren’t simply background details. Rather, they were formative pressures that fundamentally influenced the evolution of Jewish life, belief, and practice.

The Persian Empire (539-332 B.C.E.) provided the earliest foundation for this new era. After conquering Babylon, Cyrus the Great issued an edict permitting the exiled Judeans to return and rebuild the Jerusalem Temple, which, as already noted, had been destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 B.C.E.

The Second Temple was completed around 516 B.C.E. and became the central symbol of religious continuity. Persian policy allowed a considerable degree of local religious autonomy without any strict policies of imposing foreign cults and beliefs.

The arrival of Alexander the Great and the subsequent division of his empire introduced new dynamics. Under the Hellenistic kingdoms of the Ptolemies (based in Egypt) and later the Seleucids (based in Syria), Judea experienced both cultural exchange and political exploitation

Greek language, education, and customs penetrated deeply into urban centers, challenging traditional Jewish norms. These changes culminated in the policies of Antiochus IV Epiphanes, whose attempt to suppress Jewish religious practices and install Hellenistic cults in the Temple sparked the Maccabean Revolt in the 160s B.C.E. and the rise of the Hasmonean dynasty.

However, the true reasons for this revolt go beyond the simplified Antiochus IV vs. Jews picture that previous generations of scholars often painted.

Simon C. 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.) explains:

In any case, the Hasmonean period (140-63 B.C.E.) was marked by both expansion and internal strain. The rulers expanded Jewish territory and enforced religious uniformity, but their legitimacy was often contested. Conflicts between different Jewish factions intensified, particularly over questions of priestly authority, legal interpretation, and relations with foreign (Hellenistic) powers.

These divisions laid the groundwork for the emergence of competing groups within Judaism (see Did You Know? section), even as the Hasmonean leadership became increasingly aligned with aristocratic and priestly interests.

Eventually, internal conflict and external pressure led to Roman intervention. In 63 B.C.E., Pompey the Great entered Jerusalem and effectively made Judea a client state of the Roman Republic.

Under Roman rule, and especially during the reign of Herod the Great (37-4 B.C.E.), the political landscape of Judea was further transformed. Herod, appointed king by Rome, was a shrewd and ruthless figure who maintained power through a mix of brutal suppression and ambitious building projects.

His most famous contribution was the massive renovation and expansion of the Jerusalem Temple. It was a move that sought to win favor with the Jewish population while displaying his loyalty to Rome. 

Herod’s reign, however, was marked by deep suspicion and political volatility. In his book Backgrounds of Early Christianity, Everett Ferguson notes that “although Herod was a Jew by religion, his racial descent was Edomite,” and despite his efforts to appease the Jews, he was never popular. 

The fact that he killed a large part of his own family (Emperor Augustus famously quipped he would rather be Herod's pig than Herod's son) and ordered the arrest and execution of prominent citizens upon his death (so there would be mourning whether people liked him or not) certainly didn’t help his popularity among the Jewish people.

His successors, including Archelaus and the Roman procurators who followed, struggled to maintain enduring stability. Increasing economic burdens and mounting resentment toward Roman interference in Jewish religious life fostered a climate of unrest that would eventually erupt in open revolt.

Consequently, by the mid-1st century C.E., the social fabric of Judean society had begun to fray under the weight of Roman taxation, elite collaboration with imperial powers, and widespread disillusionment among the population.

In other words, the world of Second Temple Judaism on the eve of the war in 66 C.E. was one of remarkable diversity, spiritual vitality, and deep tension – a tension that would eventually lead to the collapse of the entire period and the emergence of rabbinic Judaism.

The End of Second Temple Judaism

It’s an irony of history that Second Temple Judaism began after Jews returned from exile, and ended with a devastating war and yet another exile. What had been a long and dynamic period of religious life, cultural development, and political adaptation was brought to a violent halt in 70 C.E. with the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple by the Romans.

Scholars have broadly identified five interwoven causes for the revolt that erupted in 66 C.E.: Social inequality, fiscal exploitation, political frustration, cultural dislocation, and ideological alienation.

The political dimension was particularly explosive. As Mimouni notes: 

Similarly, Paul Johnson, in his book A History of the Jews, notes that the “real trouble with the Jews was that they were too advanced, too intellectually conscious to find alien rule acceptable.” 

Except for the Sadducean elite (a small group mostly drawn from the priestly class and Temple functionaries), the majority of Judeans longed for some degree of national self-determination, free from Greek influence and Roman exploitation.

Simultaneously, cultural and economic pressures mounted. The spread of Greco-Roman culture, institutions, and urban life alienated large segments of the population, especially in rural areas. Roman taxation policies and land seizures impoverished many Judeans, while the collaboration of elite classes with imperial power created sharp social divides.

So, when open revolt broke out in 66 C.E., it was driven by both desperate anger and messianic hope, but it was also met with brutal Roman efficiency.

The war reached its tragic climax in 70 C.E. when Titus, son of the Emperor Vespasian, led Roman forces in the siege and destruction of Jerusalem. The Temple (the very heart of Jewish religious life) was reduced to rubble.

In his book From the Maccabees to the Mishnah, Shaye Cohen notes the profound consequences of the Jewish revolt:

For generations, Jews had turned toward this sacred center to offer sacrifices, observe festivals, and gather in pilgrimage. Its annihilation marked not merely the loss of a building, but the collapse of a religious world. As Gedaliah Alon observed:

Out of this vacuum emerged a bold and adaptive response in the form of rabbinic Judaism. 

This period, as Shaye Cohen explains, “begins in 70 CE and ends in the 6th century CE. Historians of the ancient world usually refer to these centuries as 'late antiquity' because they mark the end of the classical world... For historians of Judaism, these centuries also mark the end of one world and the beginning of another. The shift from Second Temple Judaism to rabbinic Judaism is not a mere chronological transition but a substantive change.”

Rabbinic literature ascribes much of the initial effort to reimagine Jewish life to Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai. According to later traditions, Yohanan negotiated with Roman authorities to establish a center for learning and religious leadership in Yavne (Jamnia), a small town on the southern coast. 

The Mishnah attributes to him several key ordinances aimed at preserving religious continuity by adapting or relocating formerly Temple-bound practices to new settings. These changes laid the groundwork for a revised authority structure in which the rabbis, not the priests, would take center stage.

Though the details of these accounts were likely shaped by generations of retrospective editing, they reflect a real historical process: The gradual emergence of rabbinic Judaism.

This post-Temple Judaism took on a markedly different character. It was decentralized, text-based, and spiritually elastic. Synagogues became the new centers of communal life. 

Sacrifice gave way to prayer, and the charismatic authority of the rabbi replaced the inherited status of the priest. Rabbis, unlike the Temple priesthood, could travel, teach, and gather disciples across Judea and the diaspora.

Over time, their interpretations of the Torah and their commitment to halakhic reasoning would define Jewish religious life for centuries to come. Though born out of crisis, this restructured Judaism proved resilient, adaptable, and deeply rooted in the experience of survival. With the Temple in ruins, Second Temple Judaism passed into history.

Conclusion

As we noted at the beginning, “a text without a context is a pretext.” Nowhere is this more apparent than in the case of early Christianity and the world that gave rise to it.

To understand the teachings, tensions, and trajectories of Jesus and his earliest followers, we must first understand the historical landscape they inhabited. That landscape was Second Temple Judaism. It was a period of vibrant diversity, political complexity, and theological creativity.

Without it, many of the debates, practices, and expectations we find in the New Testament remain historically unintelligible.

Second Temple Judaism, though long past, left a profound imprint on Jewish and Christian history alike. Its destruction didn’t mark an end, but a transformation. What emerged in its place (rabbinic Judaism, synagogue worship, portable traditions) testifies to the resilience of a people and their faith.

Matthew in the Bible: Life, Death & Interesting Facts

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

Most readers assume that the Gospel of Matthew is the earliest of the four Gospels simply because it appears first in the New Testament. However, this order reflects not chronology but status. The Gospel of Matthew gained immense popularity in the early Church due to its careful structure, extensive teaching content, andJewish-Christian orientation. 

But behind its prestige lies a deeper mystery: Who was Matthew in the Bible? What can we, as historians, say about his life, identity, and the tradition that connects him to this foundational text?

In what follows, we’ll explore Matthew in the Bible in two dimensions: As a figure who briefly appears in the New Testament narrative and as the name traditionally attached to one of Christianity’s most influential texts. 

We’ll trace how the early Church came to associate the apostle with the Gospel, examine why modern scholars reject that attribution, and review what historical evidence (if any) exists for Matthew’s life and death.

In the end, the story of Matthew (both the man and the Gospel) is as much about the shaping of cultural memory as it is about history.

However, before we embark on our pursuit to uncover the identity of Matthew, readers interested in the broader landscape of Gospel origins should check out Dr. Bart D. Ehrman’s course The Unknown Gospels: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. In eight engaging 30-minute lessons, Dr. Ehrman explores how these foundational texts emerged, navigating the boundaries between history, myth, and tradition.

Who Was Matthew in the Bible: A Brief Overview

Matthew in the Bible is mentioned only a handful of times, yet his name has become one of the most recognizable in Christian tradition. 

In the Gospel of Matthew (9:9), he is introduced as a tax collector sitting at a toll booth, whom Jesus calls to follow him: “As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man called Matthew sitting at the tax booth; and he said to him, ‘Follow me.’ And he got up and followed him.”

Matthew is then listed among the twelve disciples in Matthew 10:3. Interestingly, the Gospel of Mark (2:14) and the Gospel of Luke (5:27-29) narrate the same calling story but refer to the tax collector as “Levi,” not Matthew. Both of these Gospels also include lists of the Twelve, and in those lists, the name Matthew appears, but without any mention of Levi.

This discrepancy has long puzzled scholars and sparked debates about whether Matthew and Levi were the same person, different individuals, or the result of redactional decisions made by later Gospel writers.

John P. Meier favors the last option. He notes:

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Despite the level of uncertainty that Meier affirms, the Matthew-Levi identification became largely accepted within Christian tradition, which brings us to our next question: How did St. Matthew become the evangelist? 

The traditional attribution of the first Gospel to Matthew the apostle arises not from the Gospel text itself but from early Christian writings, particularly those of the 2nd century.

One of the earliest (possible) references is found in the writings of Papias, bishop of Hierapolis, whose statement is preserved by the 4th century historian Eusebius. As Mark A. Powell explains in Introducing the New Testament:

Papias’ comment was interpreted by later figures such as Irenaeus, writing toward the end of the 2nd century, as solid evidence that the apostle Matthew had composed the only of the four Gospels that mention “Matthew” as the tax collector. 

In his work Against Heresies (3.1.1), Irenaeus confidently stated that “Matthew also issued a written Gospel among the Hebrews in their own dialect, while Peter and Paul were preaching at Rome, and laying the foundations of the Church.”

Such affirmations reflect an emerging tendency in the early Church to ascribe apostolic authorship to texts that held theological and liturgical authority within the community. The association between Matthew the apostle and the Gospel attributed to him would become foundational for centuries of Christian thought. However, that wouldn’t last forever!

Matthew in the Bible: Assessing the Traditional Theory

At the end of the 16th century, as Europe was shaken by profound social and religious transformations, the French philosopher Michel de Montaigne perceptively documented the rising tensions within society. Reflecting on the religious wars that tore through families and communities, he wrote:

The centuries that followed (particularly the Enlightenment) saw the rise of secular approaches to religious texts. For the first time, Christian Scripture was subjected to historical and literary scrutiny, and long-standing assumptions, such as the apostolic authorship of the Gospel of Matthew, began to be questioned in earnest.

Today, most critical scholars reject the traditional theory that Matthew in the Bible — the tax collector — was the author of the Gospel that bears his name. 

One of the most basic but essential observations is that the Gospel itself is anonymous. Nowhere does the text identify its author by name, not even in the passage that introduces Matthew as a character (Matt. 9:9). The narrative remains in the third person throughout.

A key turning point in modern scholarship came with the recognition that the Gospel of Matthew used the Gospel of Mark as one of its primary sources. Through careful redactional and literary analysis, scholars such as A. M. Honore and Robert H. Stein have demonstrated that over 90% of Mark’s content appears in the Gospel of Matthew, often with high levels of verbal agreement.

This raises a significant question: Could someone who personally followed Jesus rely so heavily on a text written by someone like Mark — who, according to tradition, wasn’t an eyewitness? In other words, it seems improbable that an eyewitness would borrow so extensively from a second-hand source.

The tradition, as noted in the previous section, traces back to Papias, who stated that Matthew compiled the sayings of Jesus in the “Hebrew dialect.” However, our current Gospel of Matthew wasn’t written in Hebrew or Aramaic but in Greek.

Moreover, it’s not a mere collection of sayings (like the hypothetical Q source might have been) but a fully developed narrative Gospel, complete with infancy stories, a structured passion account, and carefully arranged teaching blocks.

Additionally, the style and vocabulary indicate that the author was a highly literate Greek-speaking Christian with a deep understanding of Jewish scripture in its Greek form (the Septuagint). 

This is difficult to reconcile with what we know (or rather, what little we know) about Matthew in the Bible. 

He was a telōnēs, a tax collector likely tasked with door-to-door revenue collection or toll booth duties in Roman Galilee. There is no historical basis to assume that such a person would have received the kind of literary education required to compose a sophisticated Greek narrative of this magnitude.

Dutch Reformed theologian Herman N. Ridderbos summed up the arguments in the following way:

While the traditional theory linking the apostle to the Gospel has been largely set aside, this doesn’t mean we are left entirely in the dark. In the next section, we’ll explore what can be said about the author of the Gospel of Matthew, not the tax collector mentioned in the Bible, but the anonymous writer who shaped one of Christianity’s most influential texts.

Who Was Matthew in the Bible?

The name “Matthew” became associated not only with one of Jesus’ twelve disciples but also with one of the most influential Gospels in the New Testament. Yet, beyond his fleeting appearances in the biblical text, what do we truly know about him?

In what follows, we’ll explore what can be known (or at least plausibly inferred) about the life and death of Matthew in the Bible, drawing on both biblical references and early Christian traditions.

Matthew in the Bible: Birth and Life

When it comes to the birth of the author of the Gospel of Matthew, the historical record is silent. Unlike some key figures in early Christianity (such as Paul, whose background is partially accessible through both his letters and Acts), there are no biographical details in the New Testament about where the author of Matthew was born or raised. 

Later traditions attempted to fill in this void, locating his origins in places such as Capernaum or even Antioch, but these accounts are speculative and stem from much later centuries. As such, scholars today uniformly agree that there is no reliable historical data regarding the birthplace or early life of the person responsible for the Gospel of Matthew.

Regardless of the naming issue (Matthew-Levi?), the story of Matthew’s acceptance of Jesus’ call is very memorable: Matthew is a tax collector, a profession regarded with suspicion and even contempt in 1st century Jewish society. Yet, Jesus’ call overrides social stigma and draws him into the circle of followers.

This raises an important question: Was Matthew merely a disciple, or was he also an apostle? As John P. Meier explains in A Marginal Jew, the category of “disciple” in the Gospels refers broadly to those whom Jesus calls and who choose to follow him.

Meier outlines two basic conditions for becoming a disciple: 

#1 – Jesus must take the initiative in calling the individual.
#2 – The person must literally leave behind home and possessions to follow. 

The category “apostle” is more specific, referring to the twelve men chosen by Jesus to represent the twelve tribes of Israel and to participate in his mission symbolically and organizationally. 

Matthew, listed among the Twelve in all three Synoptic Gospels (Matt 10:3; Mark 3:18; Luke 6:15), is thus considered both a disciple and an apostle.

What can we say, then, about his cultural background and the broader contours of his life? Virtually all scholars agree that the Matthew who appears in the Bible was of Jewish origin. So was the author of the Gospel! 

As William Davies and Dale Allison emphasize in their commentary, the Gospel of Matthew displays a pervasive Jewish character: It’s saturated with quotations from the Hebrew Bible, it shows a deep concern for the Law, and its theological motifs often emerge from debates within Jewish tradition.

R. T. France, in his book Matthew: Evangelist and Teacher, likewise highlights the Gospel’s profound engagement with Jewish identity and its tensions with emerging Christian self-understanding. 

Though there are harsh criticisms of the Pharisees and Jewish leadership, these shouldn’t be taken as evidence of Gentile authorship. Rather, they reflect the polemical tone of intra-Jewish disputes in the late 1st century.

As for the Gospel’s place of composition, scholarly opinion has varied over time, but the most likely candidates are cities with vibrant Jewish-Christian communities in the Eastern Mediterranean. Antioch in Syria has long been favored due to its early Christian prominence and proximity to Judaism, though, as R. T. France notes, the evidence remains circumstantial.

How Did Matthew Die?

When it comes to biblical clues about the death of the author of the Gospel of Matthew, historians find none. The New Testament offers no indication of how or where this individual died, nor does it provide any information about the later stages of his life. 

Unlike figures such as Paul or Peter, whose deaths are at least hinted at, the Gospel writer known as Matthew leaves no biographical trace beyond the text itself. As a result, we have no historical data concerning his fate.

However, later Christian tradition didn’t remain content with this silence. Over the centuries, a number of legends emerged surrounding the death of St. Matthew. These legends, of course, (wrongly) assume that the apostle and the Gospel author were one and the same. 

The most widespread version of the story appears in hagiographical texts such as the Acts of Matthew and in later medieval compilations like the Golden Legend. According to these accounts, Matthew traveled to distant lands (often named as Ethiopia or Persia) to preach the Gospel.

In one popular version, he is said to have converted the daughter and wife of a local king, which enraged the ruler. As a result, Matthew was martyred while celebrating the Eucharist at the altar. Referring to this narrative, Hans-Josef Klauck explains:

While these stories are rich in narrative detail and reflect the theological values of the communities that produced them, they aren’t historically reliable.

Scholars agree that these legends were written many generations after Matthew's time and contain numerous anachronisms, miraculous embellishments, and literary tropes common to other apostolic martyrdom stories.

Conclusion

The figure of Matthew in the Bible remains enigmatic. While he appears briefly in the Gospel narratives as a tax collector called to discipleship and listed among the Twelve, the historical trail quickly fades. The Gospel attributed to him, though central to Christian tradition, offers no internal claim to apostolic authorship.

Modern scholarship has shown that the Gospel’s sophisticated literary structure, reliance on Greek sources like Mark, and theological depth all point to a highly educated, anonymous Jewish-Christian author writing in the latter part of the 1st century.

And yet, the memory of Matthew the apostle endured and evolved through tradition, legend, and liturgical devotion.

What we encounter in both text and tradition isn’t a fully recoverable biography, but a layered figure shaped by tradition, legends, and the early Church’s desire to root its foundational texts in apostolic witness. In the end, the historical Matthew didn’t end up making history. The remembered Matthew did! 

Top 5 Best Biblical Hebrew Courses Online (Free & Premium)

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 best Hebrew course available online? People have become interested in the answer, especially since Old Testament stories about the creation of the world, Adam and Eve, the fall of humanity, Noah and the flood, and Moses parting the Red Sea are foundational narratives that are deeply woven into the cultural fabric of Western civilization. Additionally, they were originally written in Hebrew. 

These stories echo through our education systems, resonate in great works of art, and inspire everything from sacred music to blockbuster films. Indeed, ancient Hebrew is an evocative, poetic, and complex language that shaped some of the most influential texts in human history.

For centuries, Biblical Hebrew remained largely inaccessible to the general public. It was the domain of seminary students, philologists, theologians, and historians, studied in hushed university libraries and parsed in footnotes of academic journals. To learn it meant years of formal education and access to specialized programs. 

But with the rise of modern technology and the spread of online learning platforms, that landscape has dramatically changed. Today, anyone with curiosity, an internet connection, and a bit of discipline can begin learning Biblical Hebrew from the comfort of their home. 

Whether you're a pastor preparing sermons, a scholar-in-training, or simply a curious reader who wants to delve deeper into the Old Testament texts, there are now more tools than ever to help you succeed.

In this article, we’ll explore the top 5 Hebrew courses online, including both free and premium options. We’ll walk through the strengths and drawbacks of each, look at user reviews and course structure, and offer recommendations for different kinds of learners — from absolute beginners to academic researchers.

Conclusion

The revival of interest in Biblical Hebrew reflects a broader movement toward engaging ancient texts in their original linguistic and cultural contexts. 

Whether one's goal is to deepen theological understanding, enhance academic study, or simply connect more intimately with the Hebrew Bible, the tools and resources now available online have democratized access in unprecedented ways.

The courses featured in this article vary in structure, price, and pedagogical approach, but each offers a unique doorway into a language that has shaped millennia of religious thought and literary tradition.

Ultimately, the best Hebrew course is the one that aligns most closely with your learning style, academic goals, and available time. From the rigorous scholarly environment of the Hebrew University to the budget-friendly clarity of Jeff Benner’s Udemy lectures, there is truly something for everyone.

And if you're interested in how those very texts were transmitted, preserved, and altered across time, you may also want to explore Dr. Bart D. Ehrman’s new online course, The Scribal Corruption of Scripture: How the Bible Was Changed and How Readers May Never Know.

In just four eye-opening lectures, Dr. Ehrman unpacks how the New Testament was copied and modified (sometimes unintentionally, other times quite deliberately) by scribes over the centuries. It’s a compelling next step for anyone invested in the history, language, and integrity of the biblical tradition.

10 Key Textual Variants in the New Testament

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

The New Testament is the most influential body of literature in the history of Western civilization. It has shaped the course of theology, philosophy, politics, literature, and art for nearly two millennia. 

Since the invention of the printing press, it has remained the world’s undisputed bestseller. Yet, despite its cultural and historical significance, many readers today are surprisingly unfamiliar with the New Testament — its content but also the basic facts about how it came into existence. Some people also do not realize that it contains differences.

What caused these textual variants in the New Testament? One crucial but often overlooked aspect of its transmission process is that it, like all ancient books, was copied by hand. For the first fifteen hundred years of its history, every single manuscript of the New Testament was written by a scribe.

As you can imagine, where there is handwriting, there are mistakes. Over time, these hand-copied manuscripts began to diverge, sometimes in small and subtle ways, sometimes in ways that significantly altered the meaning of the text. 

In this article, we’ll explore what textual variants are, how they came into being, and why they matter. We’ll begin by looking at the nature of the New Testament itself. What kind of collection was it, and how was it copied and preserved? 

Then, we’ll examine the causes behind textual variants, from simple copying errors to deliberate editorial changes made for theological or practical reasons. Finally, we’ll explore 10 of the most significant textual variants in the New Testament.

By the end, you’ll not only have a clearer understanding of how the New Testament came down to us through the centuries but also why studying these textual differences is essential for anyone interested in the history, meaning, and ongoing interpretation of the Bible.

The New Testament: Basic Introduction

In their book The New Testament: A Historical Introduction, Bart D. Ehrman and Hugo Mendez note:

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Most of my students have little knowledge about the formation of the New Testament, which is always surprising, especially considering that we live in a predominantly Catholic country.

Even the most basic point is frequently overlooked: The New Testament isn’t one single book. It’s a library of 27 distinct writings, composed by various authors over decades, in a range of literary genres, including Gospels and letters. 

These texts were composed in ancient Greek, the lingua franca of the eastern Mediterranean world during the first century C.E.

The earliest of these writings are the letters of the apostle Paul, with 1 Thessalonians often considered the first, written around 49 or 50 C.E. The latest is probably 2 Peter, which most scholars date to the early second century, well after the death of Peter himself.

This means that the New Testament, as we know it, emerged gradually over time, shaped by different theological, pastoral, and communal needs.

However, writing a text was only the beginning of its story. In the ancient world, every book — religious or otherwise — had to be copied by hand. The New Testament was no exception. For centuries, it was preserved and circulated by scribes who sat by lamplight, painstakingly reproducing each word onto scrolls or codices.

We don’t possess the original manuscripts (or “autographs”) of any New Testament books. What we have are later copies: Some made with great care, others with obvious errors and alterations.

A scribal culture had long existed in the ancient Near East, including in Israel, where writing was considered a prestigious and even sacred task. 

While oral performance retained its authority, the act of writing (especially prophetic or divine words) conveyed seriousness and permanence. As scholars have noted, writing enabled communities to fix content, control tradition, and resist the changes that oral transmission might introduce.

Furthermore, texts were written on various materials in antiquity, from stone and pottery shards to wooden tablets and leather. However, as Bruce Metzger and Bart D. Ehrman explain, “Among these several materials, the student of the New Testament is interested chiefly in the last two, for almost all New Testament manuscripts are made of either papyrus or parchment.”

Today, scholars have access to thousands of New Testament manuscripts in Greek, ranging from tiny scraps to complete codices. One of the oldest known fragments is Papyrus 52 (P52), a small piece containing verses from the Gospel of John, likely dated to the first half of the 2nd century.

The production and preservation of the New Testament, then, was an enormous and expensive undertaking. Books in antiquity were never cheap (there were no Kindle versions, of course), and every step in the copying process introduced the possibility of change.

Whether due to human error, poor eyesight, or intentional editing, differences crept into the text over time. Scholars refer to these differences as textual variants in the New Testament. And it’s this important phenomenon (how such variants emerge and why they matter) that we now turn to.

Textual Variants in the New Testament: An Introduction

When discussing textual variants in the New Testament, it's important to begin with the basics: What exactly is a textual variant, and why does it happen? Simply put, a textual variant is any difference found among the surviving manuscripts of the New Testament.

The existence of these variants is a direct consequence of the way texts were copied in the ancient world.

Copying manuscripts in antiquity was a remarkably different endeavor than it’s today. Without printing presses, computers, or even punctuation and spacing between words, scribes had to rely on their eyes, memory, and familiarity with the text to transcribe what they saw.

Often, ancient manuscripts presented words in an unbroken sequence (like THISWITHOUTSPACES), requiring scribes to parse and interpret the meaning as they copied. This made the work prone to error. Some scribes copied visually, others by listening and repeating what was read aloud. In both cases, human fallibility inevitably crept in.

These errors can be grouped into two broad categories: Unintentional and intentional changes. 

Unintentional errors include mistakes such as confusing letters that sound alike, skipping a line due to similar endings (a phenomenon known as homoioteleuton), repeating words or phrases, and occasionally inserting marginal notes into the main body of the text.

On the other hand, intentional changes were introduced when a scribe believed the text needed “correction.” Sometimes, this was due to doctrinal convictions or the scribe’s memory of an alternative reading he believed to be more accurate.

The sheer number of manuscripts and fragments we possess only adds to the complexity. As Leon Vaganay explains in his An Introduction to the New Testament Textual Criticism:

Likewise, Bart D. Ehrman, in his book The Orthodox Corruption of Scripture, underscores the point: “Strikingly, with the exception of the smallest fragments, no two of these copies are exactly alike in all their particulars. No one knows how many differences, or variant readings, occur among the surviving witnesses, but they must number in the hundreds of thousands.”

Needless to say, the vast majority of textual variants in the Bible are minor and don’t affect the meaning of the text. However, some do, and it’s these theologically and literarily consequential changes that merit closer examination.

We aren’t, of course, going to survey every example of textual variation in the New Testament. That would require not just an article but an entire book — or perhaps a series of them!

Instead, in what follows, we’ll focus on some of the most noteworthy examples: Ten key textual variants in the New Testament that likely emerged from deliberate changes made by scribes who, for various theological or interpretive reasons, believed the text before them needed modification.

Ten Key Textual Variants in the New Testament

#1 – The Woman Caught in Adultery

We begin our exploration of the textual variants in the New Testament by looking at one of the most famous and beloved scenes in the Gospels: The story of the woman caught in adultery.

This poignant episode, in which Jesus tells a crowd of would-be executioners, “Let the one who is without sin cast the first stone,” is absent from the oldest and most reliable manuscripts of the Gospel of John.

In his bestseller Misquoting Jesus, Bart D. Ehrman explains:

#2 – The Longer Ending of Mark (Mk 16:9-20)

I remember reading the Gospel of Mark for the first time and realizing its abrupt ending without any clear reference to Jesus' post-resurrection appearances. Being a Christian, it kind of bothered me. As it turns out, I wasn’t the only one. 

At some point in the early transmission of the text, a scribe added a longer ending (verses 9 to 20) detailing resurrection appearances, missionary commands, and signs of belief. 

However, most scholars today agree that the original Gospel of Mark ends at 16:8, with the women fleeing the empty tomb in fear, and that the longer ending is a later addition designed to resolve the awkward silence after the original narrative.

As Ehrman explains in his book The Orthodox Corruption of Scripture:

#3 – The Comma Johanneum (1 John 5:7-8)

Another example of a textual variant in the Bible (perhaps the most theologically loaded) is found in 1 John 5:7-8, a passage known as the Comma Johanneum. In later manuscripts, especially in the Latin Vulgate, the text includes an explicit Trinitarian formula: “The Father, the Word, and the Holy Spirit — and these three are one.”

However, this phrasing is absent from all early Greek manuscripts and appears to have been added much later to support the doctrine of the Trinity during theological disputes. Most scholars agree that this phrase isn’t original to the text of 1 John but is instead a clear example of an intentional scribal alteration introduced to reinforce a particular doctrinal viewpoint.

In his Commentary, Raymond E. Brown concludes:

#4 – Jesus’ Agony in the Garden (Lk 22:43-44)

Textual variants are scattered throughout the Gospels, and another major example comes from Luke’s account of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. In some manuscripts, Jesus, while praying, is described as being in such agony that “his sweat became like drops of blood falling to the ground,” and an angel appears to strengthen him.

Bart D. Ehrman and Mark A. Plunkett argued that these verses aren’t original to Luke’s Gospel but were added by later scribes for theological reasons. In their view, the verses reflect a strong anti-docetic impulse — intended to emphasize Jesus’ real, physical suffering against those who claimed he only seemed human (a view held by groups such as the Marcionites).

These verses (Luke 22:43-44) are missing from our earliest and most reliable Greek manuscripts and key early Church Fathers of the Alexandrian tradition, such as Clement and Origen. 

Yet, they appear already in the second century in authors like Justin and Irenaeus. So, were they added or removed? Ehrman and Plunkett believe they were added!

They emphasized how Luke, elsewhere in his Gospel, goes out of his way to present a calm, composed, and in-control Jesus during the Passion, omitting any signs of emotional anguish that appear in his source, the Gospel of Mark.

Furthermore, the bloody sweat passage stands out as inconsistent with Luke’s redactional choices (in comparison to Mark’s text), disrupting the literary structure of the scene and introducing an image of Jesus that seems more Markan than Lukan.

However, it must be noted that not all scholars agree with Ehrman’s and Plunkett’s conclusions. Some defend the authenticity of the verses by appealing to their presence in a broad range of later manuscripts and noting their Lukan stylistic features.

In the end, while the debate continues, many textual critics lean toward seeing this as an interpolation. It’s a vivid example of how textual variants in the New Testament can reflect deep theological tensions in early Christian communities.

#5 – Luke 23:34 – “Father, forgive them…”

Among the most memorable lines attributed to Jesus during the crucifixion is his prayer: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” 

Yet this deeply moving saying is absent from several of our earliest and most reliable Greek manuscripts, including Papyrus 75 (dated to around 200 C.E.) and several high-quality codices from the 4th century. 

At the same time, the passage appears in Codex Sinaiticus and a large number of later manuscripts, especially from the medieval period. This raises a classic textual question: Was the verse originally part of Luke’s Gospel and later removed, or was it a later addition inserted by a scribe?

Scholars remain divided. Some have argued that a scribe may have added the prayer to ensure Jesus appeared as forgiving as Stephen, the first Christian martyr, who prays in Acts 7:60, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” 

However, this theory is complicated by the fact that scribes typically harmonize passages by reproducing identical wording (not merely similar themes), and in this case, the wording differs significantly. 

Moreover, Luke, who authored both the Gospel and the Acts of the Apostles, often draws explicit parallels between Jesus and his followers. The idea that Stephen would echo Jesus, rather than the other way around, aligns more naturally with the literary structure and theological message of Luke-Acts.

If the verse was indeed original, why might it have been removed? Historical context offers one possible answer. 

As tensions between early Christians and Jews intensified, some scribes may have become uncomfortable with the idea of Jesus offering forgiveness to those perceived as his executioners — particularly if the blame was increasingly placed (see Christopher Edwards’ excellent book!) on the Jewish authorities.

In this scenario, the prayer might have been deliberately omitted to better reflect the theological and polemical climate of the time. Whether original or secondary, the passage remains one of the most discussed textual variants in the New Testament — another reason to love Biblical studies and early Christianity!

#6 – “Son of God” Omission (Mark 1:1)

The opening verse of the Gospel of Mark traditionally reads, “The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” However, some early manuscripts do not include the phrase “the Son of God,” leading scholars to question whether those words were part of the original text.

Many textual critics argue that the shorter reading, “The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ”, is more likely original. The reasoning is partly based on what is known as the principle of lectio brevior, the idea that scribes were more prone to adding clarifying or theologically rich material than removing it.

In this case, it's plausible that a scribe inserted “the Son of God” to reinforce Christological belief, especially as the title plays a key role later in the Gospel.

#7 – "By the Grace of God" or "Apart from God" (Hebrews 2:9)

In Hebrews 2:9, most modern translations read that Jesus tasted death “by the grace of God” (chariti theou) for everyone. However, a small number of early manuscripts instead read “apart from God” (chōris theou), suggesting a different theological nuance: That Jesus died forsaken or separated from God.

Most scholars consider “by the grace of God” to be the original reading, partly because it fits more smoothly within the theological tone of Hebrews, which consistently emphasizes divine initiative and mercy.

The alternative reading, “apart from God,” while attested in early sources such as the Church Father Origen, may have arisen through a copying error, especially given the similarity of the Greek words chariti (χάριτι) and chōris (χωρὶς).

#8 – “Nor the Son” Omission (Matthew 24:36)

In Matthew 24:36, Jesus speaks about the timing of the end of the age, saying: “But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.” However, some manuscripts of Matthew omit the phrase “nor the Son” (οὐδὲ ὁ υἱός).

In The Orthodox Corruption of Scripture, Ehrman explains the manuscript tradition:

Scholars generally believe that “nor the Son” was part of the original text and was later removed by some scribes. The rationale is that this phrase, which implies a limitation to Jesus’ knowledge, may have been viewed as theologically problematic by copyists who emphasized his divine omniscience.

This example illustrates how textual variants in the New Testament could also arise from scribal efforts to resolve perceived theological difficulties.

#9 – Expanded Ending (Romans 8:1)

Romans 8:1 is a classic example of a verse that appears in two different forms in the manuscript tradition. Some manuscripts read simply: “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” Others add a longer clause, adding two phrases: “who do not walk according to the flesh but according to the Spirit.”

Most scholars believe the shorter reading is original and that the longer version represents a later scribal expansion. The additional phrase was likely inserted to clarify or reinforce the ethical behavior expected of believers, aligning with Paul’s broader teaching.

Thus, Robert Jewett, in his Commentary on Romans, explicitly concludes: “The witnesses without these two phrases are sufficiently broad and ancient to claim priority.”

#10 – The Number of the Beast: 666 or 616? (Revelation 13:18)

This is, for me, the most interesting example of textual variation in the Bible. I found out about it long before I ever became a historian. As a high-school kid, I was reading John Lloyd's and John Mitchinson's excellent work, The Book of General Ignorance.

The number of the beast, famously 666, might not be 666 in every manuscript. Some early sources record it as 616. Revelation 13:18 is where the infamous number appears. In most manuscripts, it reads: “Let the one who has understanding calculate the number of the beast, for it’s the number of a man. His number is 666.”

Yet a handful of early and significant manuscripts (including Papyrus 115 and Codex Ephraemi Rescriptus) record the number as 616 instead. This discrepancy puzzled me at first, but later, as I delved into New Testament scholarship, I learned that this is one of the many genuine textual variants in the New Testament.

As Bart Ehrman explains in his book Armageddon, both numbers may be tied to the same figure (Emperor Nero) through a system called gematria, in which letters correspond to numerical values.

Depending on how “Nero Caesar” is spelled (particularly whether the Latin or Hebrew transliteration is used), the total can add up to either 666 or 616. So, which is it?

Most scholars agree that 666 is the original reading, supported by its broader manuscript attestation and symbolic resonance in apocalyptic literature. Still, the presence of 616 in early witnesses suggests that some scribes (or Christian communities) may have used an alternate spelling of Nero’s name that fit their linguistic or cultural context.

Conclusion

The presence of textual variants in the New Testament reminds us that the Bible is not a monolithic or static document handed down unchanged through the centuries. Instead, it reflects a long and complex history of transmission, shaped by the hands, minds, and sometimes even the theological agendas of countless scribes.

If you're interested in diving deeper into how scribes changed the Bible (intentionally or by accident), check out Bart D. Ehrman’s online course, The Scribal Corruption of Scripture. Through four engaging lectures, Bart unpacks many of the themes we've explored here, offering expert insights, historical context, and fascinating examples that bring this scribal history to life.

These variations and changes don’t necessarily undermine the historical value of the New Testament but instead invite us to engage with it more thoughtfully and historically, recognizing that our modern Bibles are the product of centuries of careful preservation but also inevitable human imperfection.

By examining ten key examples, we have seen how some textual variants are minor while others carry significant doctrinal, literary, or historical implications. Whether added intentionally or introduced by accident, each tells a story. And its story is one of the many reasons I fell in love with Biblical scholarship!

Pauline Chronology: Reconstructing the Timeline of Paul's Letters

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

A few years ago, I remember eagerly anticipating the release of Paul, the Apostle of Christ. As someone deeply invested in early Christian history, the idea of seeing an apostle Paul timeline portrayed on the big screen was genuinely exciting. But when the movie finally hit theaters, my enthusiasm gave way to mixed feelings.

While the cinematography and performances were engaging, the story leaned heavily into a Hollywood-style dramatization, missing, in my view, some of the more complex and historically fascinating aspects of Paul’s life. Still, the experience reminded me of just how central Paul remains, not only to Christian theology but to the very shape and identity of early Christianity.

And Paul's life? Nothing short of extraordinary. A staunch persecutor of the early Jesus movement who became its most zealous proponent, Paul crisscrossed the Mediterranean world, founding communities, writing letters, and enduring hardship at nearly every turn.

Yet, reconstructing an Apostle Paul timeline is no easy task. His writings offer tantalizing clues, while the Book of Acts provides a parallel (but often conflicting) narrative. The task for historians is to sift through these sources, weigh their historical reliability, and place Paul’s letters within the broader flow of his life and ministry.

In this article, we’ll walk through that reconstruction process, beginning with a brief overview of who the apostle Paul was and why his voice matters so much. Moreover, we'll focus in particular on the scholarly attempt to arrange these writings in chronological order — an effort that helps us understand the timeline of Paul.

By the end, we’ll present a working timeline of Paul’s letters alongside key events in his life. While debates remain and certainties are few, scholars have made remarkable progress in outlining the shape of Paul’s ministry. 

Understanding the Apostle Paul’s timeline, even in its provisional form, offers an unparalleled glimpse into the birth of Christianity. Not as a sudden event, but as a process shaped by time, struggle, and letters.

When it comes to Paul and his influence, one thing is worth highlighting: Dr. Bart D. Ehrman offers an outstanding course titled Paul and Jesus: The Great Divide. In it, he explores the fascinating differences between the two most influential figures in Christian history — Paul and Jesus — through sharp historical analysis. Ever wondered whether the two would have seen eye to eye? If so, this course is for you. Don’t miss it — check it out today!

Contextualizing the Apostle Paul Timeline: A Brief Overview of His Life

Before we delve into our Apostle Paul timeline, it’s worth pausing to consider who he was and why his life left such a lasting mark on the development of early Christianity.

Unlike Jesus, Paul left behind a series of writings that provide direct insight into his thoughts, experiences, and theological convictions. Alongside these letters, the Book of Acts offers a narrative account of his missionary journeys and interactions with other leaders of the early Church.

While Acts supplies an interesting biographical framework, historians approach it with caution, recognizing that its theological agenda often diverges from the self-representation found in Paul’s letters.

Paul’s background is as complex as his legacy. Born into a Jewish family and trained in the traditions of Pharisaic Judaism, he described himself as zealous for the Law and blameless in its observance.

Initially, he opposed the Jesus movement and actively sought to suppress it. His transformation came through what he describes not as a conversion but as a divine revelation: A sudden and overwhelming encounter with the risen Jesus.

From that moment, Paul believed he had been commissioned to bring the message of Jesus to the Gentiles. This shift, as Larry Hurtado notes, didn’t amount to a rejection of his Jewish identity, but rather a radical reinterpretation of God's promises in light of what he understood as the climactic event of Jesus’ resurrection.

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The years that followed this revelatory moment were marked by intense missionary activity. Paul traveled across the eastern Mediterranean, preaching in cities like Corinth, Philippi, Thessalonica, and Ephesus.

What emerges from his writings is a deeply personal and theological vision of life in Christ. As Mark A. Powell observes in Introducing the New Testament, Paul wasn’t only the most prolific early Christian writer but arguably its most influential thinker. 

His passion, rhetorical skill, and unwavering sense of purpose shaped both the communities he founded and the broader theological contours of the Christian tradition.

Understanding the man behind the letters is crucial for any attempt to reconstruct the flow of his ministry. His teachings on faith, grace, and the inclusion of Gentiles weren’t simply doctrinal positions but deeply tied to his lived experience and self-understanding as an apostle.

As Bart D. Ehrman and Hugo Mendez point out in The New Testament: A Historical Introduction to the Early Christian Writings, Paul’s insistence that Gentiles need not adopt the Jewish Law to become part of God’s people was one of the most revolutionary (and controversial) aspects of his mission.

It’s within this larger historical and theological framework that scholars have sought to piece together the sequence of his letters and journeys. 

Reconstructing the apostle Paul’s timeline, then, isn’t just about dates and events. It’s about tracing the arc of a life that helped shape the very identity of Christianity in its formative decades.

Before we begin delving into Pauline chronology, let’s break down the timeline of his letters in a nice chart that will help you follow the rest of our article! We are the best, I know.

What Is the Chronological Order of the Pauline letters?

Paul’s impact on early Christianity is preserved most tangibly in the letters that bear his name — thirteen epistles in total, forming a foundational part of the New Testament. Scholars typically classify these writings into three categories based on linguistic style, theological content, and historical context:

#1 – The seven undisputed letters
#2 – Deutero-Pauline Epistles
#3 – Pastoral Epistles 

The stylistic and conceptual distance between these groups of letters reflects different phases of early Christian development and the influence of Pauline school traditions. 

Needless to say, only the first group goes back to the historical Paul. Other letters were probably written after his death by later followers who tried to back up the claims they made by identifying themselves as Paul.

Furthermore, in his book Einleitung in das Neue Testament (Introduction to the New Testament), Udo Schnelle notes:

Understanding the basic information about this literary corpus, therefore, is essential before attempting to map Apostle Paul’s timeline.

While all thirteen letters are included in the New Testament canon, not all can be used equally as historical sources. The seven undisputed letters form the bedrock of any reconstruction of Paul’s chronology, offering relatively direct windows into specific moments of his ministry. For that reason, we’ll focus on those and leave the rest for future articles!

Timeline of Paul’s Letters: A Scholarly Reconstruction

When it comes to reconstructing the sequence in which the apostle Paul wrote his letters, scholars generally operate within two competing models. The traditional view follows the structure of Paul’s missionary journeys as outlined in Acts, aligning them with references in his epistles.

In contrast, revisionist models suggest earlier or alternative datings. A smaller but influential group of scholars supports this approach.  Their reconstructions depend heavily on different dates of Jesus' crucifixion and differing levels of trust in Acts versus Paul's letters.

Raymond E. Brown, in his An Introduction to the New Testament, outlines both approaches, but ultimately supports the traditional model, in which Paul’s major letters were composed between roughly 50 and 58 CE. Still, as Brown notes, precise dating remains elusive.

Still, as Brown notes, precise dating remains elusive. Even with careful source analysis, any Pauline chronology remains provisional — an educated guess at best!

The one widely accepted anchor point is his appearance before Gallio, the Roman proconsul of Achaia (Acts 18:12-17). This event provides a rare fixed point in the New Testament chronology. As Daniel Marguerat explains in his recent monograph, Paul de Tarse (Paul of Tarsus):

With this benchmark in place, most scholars agree that 1 Thessalonians is likely the earliest of Paul’s extant letters, written from Corinth around 50–51 CE. The letter addresses a young Christian community in Macedonia that Paul had recently founded but was forced to leave due to persecution.

Paul’s next surviving letters, 1 and 2 Corinthians, were likely written between 53 and 56 CE, during his extended stay in Ephesus and later travels through Macedonia. 

1 Corinthians addresses internal divisions, moral lapses, and questions about marriage, spiritual gifts, and the resurrection, while 2 Corinthians reveals a more personal and vulnerable Paul who defends his apostolic authority and criticizes the so-called “super-apostles.” 

Galatians, though harder to date precisely, was likely written between 52 and 55 C.E., either before or just after 1 Corinthians. The debate hinges on whether Paul was addressing communities in northern or southern Galatia — a question with implications for the letter’s place in his itinerary.

Regardless, the epistle is a fiery defense of his gospel: Salvation by faith in the resurrected Jesus apart from the works of the Law. More specifically, Paul insists Gentile believers need not adopt Jewish practices such as circumcision, a claim that placed him at odds with other early Christian leaders. 

The dating of Philippians and Philemon presents a particularly interesting scholarly challenge, as Paul wrote both letters while in prison. Yet, the precise location and time of that imprisonment remain uncertain. 

The traditional view holds that these two letters were composed during Paul’s Roman imprisonment around 60-62 C.E., a position supported by the narrative at the end of Acts (28:16-31). This dating would make these letters among the final texts written by Paul before his presumed execution under Nero.

However, some contemporary scholars argue for an earlier date and different location, suggesting that both letters were written during a previous imprisonment in Ephesus, likely between 54 and 56 C.E.

Udo Schnelle, for instance, affirms this as a viable alternative, noting that recent scholarship increasingly favors Ephesus as the place of composition.

Daniel Marguerat is more cautious, summarizing the debate and arguments by focusing on the Epistle to Philemon:

While certainty remains out of reach, acknowledging both options allows us to appreciate the fluid and context-dependent nature of Pauline chronology. 

Finally, Paul’s Letter to the Romans! Günther Bornkamm famously referred to it as “Paul’s testament.” 

Why? Basically, it’s the closest we can get to the systematic outline of Paul’s theology. As Mark A. Powell notes, Romans represent “a good starting point for understanding Paul precisely because it offers a mature and articulate presentation of some of his key ideas.”

Similarly, Marguerat explains:

So, how does Romans fit into the apostle Paul timeline? Well, it was likely written from Corinth around 57 C.E., as he prepared to bring the collection from his Gentile churches to Jerusalem.

In his Commentary on Romans, Robert Jewett notes:

As such, Romans stands not only as a theological synthesis of Paul’s gospel but also as a carefully timed appeal to a community he hoped would support the next phase of his mission — a letter shaped as much by doctrinal conviction as by strategic foresight at a pivotal moment in his ministry.

Apostle Paul Timeline: Chart

Before we conclude our exploration of the Apostle Paul timeline, we thought it would be helpful to provide a concise overview of the key events in his life just to give you (our favorite readers!) a clear sense of how his ministry unfolded in real historical circumstances!

Conclusion

Reflecting on my experience watching Paul, the Apostle of Christ, I now recognize more clearly why the film (despite its dramatic strengths) left me wanting more. What was missing, I believe, was the intricate, historically grounded picture that emerges when we examine Paul not just as a saint or martyr but as a complex, dynamic historical figure.

His letters, written across the span of a turbulent and demanding life, are not isolated theological tracts but deeply contextual pieces of communication. By stepping into the world behind those writings (his travels, his imprisonments, his interactions with communities), we begin to see just how remarkable and layered the apostle Paul’s timeline truly is.

And yet, this timeline remains, in many ways, a puzzle in motion. While the traditional model offers a coherent narrative, it cannot claim final certainty. Scholarly debate continues, fueled by new readings, archaeological discoveries, and evolving methods of interpretation.