Why Did Joseph Go to Bethlehem?

In the words of British archaeologist William M. Ramsay:

Luke is a historian of the first rank; not merely are his statements of fact trustworthy; he is possessed of the true historic sense. . . . In short, this author should be placed along with the very greatest of historians” (The Bearing of Recent Discovery on the Trustworthiness of the New Testament, ch. 18).

Despite this, numerous modern skeptics—many of whom are just repeating what other skeptics have said—treat Luke as if he’s hopelessly historically confused, particularly with regard to his birth narrative of Jesus, which says:

In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be enrolled. This was the first enrollment, when Quirinius was governor of Syria. And all went to be enrolled, each to his own city. [So] Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the city of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David (Luke 2:1-4).

One of the skeptics’ criticisms of this passage is the statement that Joseph went from Nazareth to Bethlehem because he was of the lineage of David.

Here is where mockery commonly begins.

“This is ridiculous!” the skeptic will say. “David lived a thousand years before the time of Jesus! The Roman Empire would never conduct a census this way! It would never require people to go where one of their ancestors lived a thousand years ago! Nobody would even know that! I mean, do you know the city where your ancestors lived a thousand years ago?”

Despite the vigor with which some skeptics pound their pulpits on this subject, their criticism is simply misdirected. They are misreading what Luke says.

Prior to this point, Joseph has been mentioned only once in the text, when the angel Gabriel came to announce the birth of Jesus:

In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent from God to a city of Galilee named Nazareth, to a virgin betrothed to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David; and the virgin’s name was Mary (Luke 1:26-27).

This passage indicates three things about Joseph: (1) he was betrothed to Mary, (2) he was of the house of David, and (3) he apparently has some kind of connection with Nazareth, since that’s where Mary was when the angel appeared. That’s all the reader knows at this point.

So let’s read the second passage discussing Joseph (2:1-4) and see what one of Luke’s normal readers would make of it.

Luke tells us that “all went to be enrolled.” The first thing to note is that Luke doesn’t tell us what kind of enrollment this was. He expects the reader to already know that from the events of the day. Many have assumed that this was a tax census, but we don’t know that. It may have been something else. In fact, there is a good chance that it was a loyalty enrollment that we have other records of, in which subjects of the Roman Empire swore their loyalty to Augustus Caesar.

However that may be, people needed to be somewhere that they could participate in the enrollment, so they went “each to his own city.” Obviously, this only applied to people who were away from their city during the period of the enrollment. If you were already in your own city, you didn’t need to go anywhere.

Did Romans require people to go to their own cities for enrollments if they were away from them? Yes, they did. In A.D. 104, the Roman governor of Egypt, Gaius Vibius Maximus, issued a decree that stated:

Since registration by household is imminent, it is necessary to notify all who for any reason are absent from their districts to return to their own homes that they may carry out the ordinary business of registration and continue faithfully the farming expected of them (lines 20–27; in Adolf Deissmann, Light from the Ancient East, 268).

So—if you were away from your home city—you needed to go back there for events like this.

Luke then says, “So Joseph also went up.” From this, we can infer that—at the time of the registration—Joseph was away from his “own city.” Therefore, he returned there.

Where was he at the time? Luke says he went up “from Galilee, from the city of Nazareth.” Okay, so he was in Nazareth in Galilee. That’s not surprising in light of the fact he was betrothed to Mary, who was in Nazareth when the angel appeared.

So where was Joseph’s “own city”? Luke tells us that he went “to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem.” Thus, Bethlehem was Joseph’s “own city.”

We now come to the statement that really sets skeptics off: “because he was of the house and lineage of David.”

Luke includes this line to help explain why Bethlehem was Joseph’s “own city,” but skeptics draw a completely unwarranted inference from this and assume that everybody in the Roman Empire was required to return to where one of their ancestors from a thousand years ago lived.

Does Luke say that? Of course not! It would not be remotely practical to conduct a census—or any other kind of enrollment—in that way.

And that’s not only obvious to us; it was just as obvious to Luke and to Luke’s readers. Everybody knew that there was no such requirement for Roman enrollments, and neither Luke nor his readers would have ever dreamed that someone would make such a ridiculous inference.

If Luke had the ability to speak with a modern, mocking skeptic, one can easily imagine him wanting to say something like, “Don’t be an idiot. That’s obviously not what I meant!”

So what did he mean? What would an ordinary, first century reader have inferred from what Luke wrote?

A logical inference would be that Bethlehem was Joseph’s “own city” because he had a contemporary connection with Bethlehem, because “he was of the house and lineage of David.” In other words, it was his place of residence because he was a Davidite.

And that would not be surprising. Inheritance was very important in ancient Israel. The whole land was an inheritance from God (Exod. 32:13), and each tribe inherited a particular portion of land (Num. 34:18). This area had to be preserved, and parcels of land could not be transferred from one tribe to another (Num. 36:1-9). Parcels could only be temporarily “sold” (really, leased) to another person, and the owner got it back in the Jubilee year (Lev. 25:13-16). This included houses in unwalled cities like Bethlehem (Lev. 25:31).

All this created a legal framework that that tended to stabilize the possession of properties within particular families. This had the effect of anchoring the family of David in Bethlehem, and so there were Davidites there. We’re thus meant to understand that, because Joseph was of the family of David, he had a residence there—a home. In fact, it was his primary residence.

How, then, are we to explain Luke’s statement just a few verses later?

And when they had performed everything according to the law of the Lord, they returned into Galilee, to their own city, Nazareth (Luke 2:39).

This is at the end of Luke’s birth narrative, and so it is meant to be read in context of what has preceded it. The logical inference that Luke would expect his readers to make is that Nazareth was also Joseph and Mary’s “own city.”

In other words, they had two residences: Joseph’s residence in Bethlehem and their joint residence in Nazareth.

Why would they have two residences? Were they rich? Far from it. Luke relates that when they made the post-childbirth sacrifice for Mary, they offered “a pair of turtledoves, or two young pigeons” (Luke 2:24). That was the offering prescribed for a poor woman who could not afford a sheep (Lev. 12:8).

We thus should not imagine that Joseph and Mary were rich and had two opulent homes. Instead, we should infer that their dual residency was a situation based on economic necessity.

Even today, many people have to live away from their family homes in order to find work, and they don’t just stay out on the streets. They find some kind of accommodation where the work is, but they still consider their family home their primary residence, and they travel back to it periodically. Usually, there are other family members there on a permanent basis. This is a pattern that happens in countries all over the world.

To cite just one example, if a couple is native to Sinaloa, Mexico but comes to Arizona to find work, they’ll have some kind of residence in Arizona and their primary, family residence in Sinaloa. The same is true of those who migrate for work elsewhere in the Americas, in Africa, Asia, the Philippines, and in the Middle East.

I’ve written about this before, but the logical inference that Luke would expect his readers to draw from this data is that Joseph had a residence in Bethlehem, which was his primary, legal residence (in keeping with Jewish property inheritance practices), so that’s where he went for the enrollment. However, for economic reasons he spent most of his time in Nazareth and also maintained a no-doubt humble residence there.

No mockery is warranted. This all makes perfect sense if you read what Luke says and interpret it sensibly.

BONUS! Click here for information about the “no room in the inn” verse?

Why Didn’t Jesus Defend Himself Before Pontius Pilate?

Readers of the four Gospels are struck by the fact that—when Jesus appears before the Roman governor Pontius Pilate—he says nothing in his own defense.

This isn’t just surprising to us; it also was striking to Pilate himself. We’re told:

Pilate said to him, “Do you not hear how many things they testify against you?”

But he gave him no answer, not even to a single charge; so that the governor wondered greatly (Matt. 27:13-14).

What should we make of Jesus’ silence? There have been many proposals.

During his trial, Jesus has been silent, a fact that has no genuine analogies in Greek, Roman, or later Christian trials. Jesus’ silence has often been explained with reference to the silence of the Suffering Servant in Isaiah 53:7 (with whom Jesus is thus identified), but Mark and the other Gospel writers do not alert their readers that such an allusion is intended; or with the silence of the righteous sufferer (Pss 38:14–16; 39:9); as fulfilment of Psalm 22:15; as a reflection of Jesus’ portrayal as a sage or teacher of wisdom; as an expression of self-control and perhaps nobility; as Jesus proving that he is in command or showing his contempt for those who sit in judgment over him; or as showing that he is the eschatological judge before the final verdict (Eckhard Schnabel, Mark: An Introduction and Commentary, at 14:60-61a).

But what’s the real explanation?

It helps to note that his appearance before Pilate is not the first time Jesus has been silent. A few hours earlier, when he appeared before the Jewish ruling council, he was similarly quiet:

Now the chief priests and the whole council sought testimony against Jesus to put him to death; but they found none. For many bore false witness against him, and their witness did not agree.

And some stood up and bore false witness against him, saying, “We heard him say, ‘I will destroy this temple that is made with hands, and in three days I will build another, not made with hands.’” Yet not even so did their testimony agree.

And the high priest stood up in their midst, and asked Jesus, “Have you no answer to make? What is it that these men testify against you?”

But he was silent and made no answer (Mark 14:55-61a).

However, there was one thing that did prompt Jesus to make a response:

Again the high priest asked him, “Are you the Christ, the Son of the Blessed?”

And Jesus said, “I am; and you will see the Son of man sitting at the right hand of Power, and coming with the clouds of heaven” (Mark 14:61b-62).

From this we see that Jesus apparently isn’t interested in responding to the charges made against him—even false ones like him saying that he would destroy the temple—but there is one thing he is interested in answering: the question of his identity.

When directly asked if he is the Christ, the “Son of the Blessed” (i.e., the Son of God), he responds straightforwardly: “I am.” He then identifies himself with the heavenly “Son of Man” figure from Daniel 7:13-14, who was given everlasting dominion over all peoples by God.

At the time, this figure was believed by some Jews to be a divine person who was sometimes referred to as “the lesser Yahweh,” and Jesus’ identification of himself with this figure was regarded by the high priest as blasphemy, so he tore his robes (Mark 14:63-64).

Jesus’ silence before the council on everything except one point is then replicated when he is brought before Pilate:

Pilate asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?”

And he answered him, “You have said so.”

And the chief priests accused him of many things. And Pilate again asked him, “Have you no answer to make? See how many charges they bring against you.”

But Jesus made no further answer, so that Pilate wondered (Mark 14:2-5).

Here again, Jesus is willing to address one question: the issue of his identity. When asked if he is king of the Jews, he responds affirmatively but somewhat cryptically. He could have simply said, “I am”—just as he did when the high priest asked if he was the Christ—the Jewish Messiah—who was understood as a coming king of the Jews.

However, here he says, “You have said so.” This is an acknowledgement that he does have that role, but he’s being cautious for a reason that we will come back to.

Other than this one point, however, Jesus does not respond to any of the other things said against him. Mark does not tell us what the charges were, but Luke fills at least some of them in:

They began to accuse him, saying, “We found this man perverting our nation, and forbidding us to give tribute to Caesar, and saying that he himself is Christ a king. . . . He stirs up the people, teaching throughout all Judea, from Galilee even to this place.” (Luke 23:2-5).

Jesus had no interest in responding to these charges—including the false one that he forbade paying taxes to Caesar (in fact, he had done the exact opposite; Mark 12:17, Luke 20:25).

When Pilate heard that Jesus was Galilean, he then sent him to Herod Antipas, but here again, Jesus was silent:

When Herod saw Jesus, he was very glad, for he had long desired to see him, because he had heard about him, and he was hoping to see some sign done by him. So he questioned him at some length; but he made no answer. The chief priests and the scribes stood by, vehemently accusing him (Luke 23:8-10).

Apparently—unlike the high priest and Pilate—Herod did not raise the issue of Jesus’ identity in a direct enough way, and he ignored the accusations being made.

So what’s the reason for his silence? The answer is found by looking at Jesus’ recent actions.

Jesus has already made three major predictions of his coming death and resurrection (Mark 8:31, 9:30-31; 10:33-34), the most explicit of which is the final one:

Behold, we are going up to Jerusalem; and the Son of man will be delivered to the chief priests and the scribes, and they will condemn him to death, and deliver him to the Gentiles; and they will mock him, and spit upon him, and scourge him, and kill him; and after three days he will rise (Mark 10:33-34).

He thus foresaw that—upon going to Jerusalem—he would be taken into custody by the Jewish authorities, turned over to the Romans, and be sentenced to death.

Upon arriving at Jerusalem, he fulfilled a messianic prophecy from Zechariah 9:9 by triumphantly riding the foal of a donkey into the city, depicting himself as the king of Jerusalem described in Zechariah, and being proclaimed by the joyful crowd as “the king of Israel” (John 12:13), “the king who comes in the name of the Lord” (Luke 19:38), and “the Son of David” (Matt. 21:9). He even refused to silence the crowd when urged to do so by the Pharisees (Luke 19:39-40).

Then he set himself on a collision course with the Jewish temple authorities by driving out of the temple those who bought and sold sacrificial animals and by overturning the tables of the moneychangers (Matt. 21:12-13, Mark 11:15-17, Luke 19:45-46; cf. John 2:14-22).

He was then arrested, tried by the Jewish council, and delivered to Pilate for execution—just as his passion predictions indicate he had planned.

This gives us the key to understanding both Jesus’ silence and his responses to the question of his identity.

He is silent to the charges against him because he is here to die. He is not interested in defending himself against false charges like saying he would destroy the temple or that one should not pay taxes to Caesar. His disciples knew the truth about these matters, but he isn’t interested in convincing the authorities of his innocence. He’s planning on being put to death.

His silence also may be a fulfillment of messianic prophecies, such as Isaiah’s statement about the Suffering Servant:

He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth; like a lamb that is led to the slaughter, and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent, so he opened not his mouth (Isa. 53:7).

However, fundamentally he is here to die and therefore he needs to be convicted of something that carries the death penalty.

This is why he responds on the question of his identity when the high priest asks if he is the Christ. He frankly says, “I am.” However, claiming to be the Messiah was not guaranteed to be regarded as a crime by the Jewish council, so Jesus does not leave it there: he also claims to be a divine figure, the Son of Man, which he knows that the high priest will regard as blasphemy and worthy of death.

However, claiming to be a divine figure was not necessarily a crime to the Romans. Their emperors—among others—were popularly regarded as divine, and Pilate likely would not have known about the Jewish Son of Man, anyway, so he drops this part in front of Pilate.

Instead, when Pilate asks him if he is king of the Jews, he acknowledges this but in a cryptic way that gives him what we now call “plausible deniability”—i.e., youve said that I’m the king of the Jews; I haven’t said that.

John clarifies that Jesus even told Pilate that “My kingship is not of this world” (John 18:36)—indicating that he isn’t interested in political power and thus not interested in challenging the authority of Caesar, who then held the authority to appoint Jewish kings.

Pilate thus emerges from his conference with Jesus and tells the Jewish authorities that he doesn’t find Jesus guilty of any crime, which causes the authorities to stir up the crowd to demand Jesus’ execution, and Pilate finally capitulates.

Jesus thus gives Pilate only an acknowledgement of his royal status, but it’s cryptic and he clarifies that he’s not interested in political power.

This makes it appear that Jesus wanted responsibility for his execution to ultimately fall on the Jewish authorities, in accordance with messianic prophecy. As Jesus himself said:

Have you not read this Scripture: “The very stone which the builders rejected has become the cornerstone; this was the Lord’s doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes”? (Mark 12:10-11; quoting Psalm 118:22-23).

We thus see Jesus performing a complex set of maneuvers in order to fulfill his mission: He is silent against false charges because he is here to die; he says enough to the Jewish authorities to bring about his conviction; he is truthful with the Roman authorities about his lack of interest in worldly rule; and ultimately it is the action of the Jewish authorities that causes Pilate to capitulate and order his execution—in accordance with the prophecy that the Jewish authorities (the builders) would reject Jesus (the stone).

Cleansing the Temple

One of the events recorded in all four Gospels is Jesus’ cleansing of the Temple. On this occasion, Mark tells us, Jesus “entered the Temple and began to drive out those who sold and those who bought in the Temple, and he overturned the tables of the money-changers and the seats of those who sold pigeons; and he would not allow anyone to carry anything through the Temple” (Mark 11:15-16).

A question that occurs to almost everyone who reads this passage is: Why did Jesus do this?

However, a second question occurs to those who study the Gospels closely: When did Jesus do this? Matthew, Mark, and Luke present it as occurring at the end of Jesus’ ministry, but John presents it as occurring at the beginning of the ministry.

Here we’ll look at both questions.

On why Jesus did it, the Gospels provide clues. The fullest version is found in Mark, who records Jesus saying, “Is it not written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’? But you have made it a den of robbers” (Mark 11:17).

Here Jesus combines two quotations from the Old Testament. The first is from Isaiah 56:7, where the prophet describes a day when God will bring Gentiles to Jerusalem, where they will worship him, and he will accept their offerings. Thus the Temple is called “a house of prayer for all the nations.”

The Temple was structured as a series of four progressively more holy courtyards. From the outermost to the innermost, they were

    • the court of the Gentiles, where Gentiles could (and did!) come to worship God;
    • the court of women, where Jewish women could worship;
    • the court of Israel, where Jewish men could worship; and
    • the court of priests, where Jewish priests ministered.

Jesus’ cleansing of the Temple on the grounds that it was to be a house of prayer for all the nations may indicate that the money-changers and the sellers of sacrificial animals had set up shop in the court of the Gentiles and were misappropriating worship space for ordinary commerce.

That leads us to the second quotation, which is from Jeremiah 7:11, where the prophet excoriates the people of his day for performing immoral and pagan practices and—in God’s eyes—turning his Temple into “a den of robbers” (that is, a place where robbers feel safe in their immoral lifestyle).

The fact the money-changers and sellers felt safe in the Temple—and the fact they were engaged in commerce—make the reference to the den of robbers appropriate.

The other Gospels do not pick up on the detail about the Gentiles that Mark includes. Matthew and Luke omit “for all the nations” from the Isaiah quotation, and John has Jesus telling the sellers of pigeons, “Take these things away; you shall not make my Father’s house a house of trade” (John 2:16).

These accounts focus more on the use of the Temple to earn a living rather than for worship as what is objectionable, though this is consistent with Mark’s account.

On the question of when Jesus did it, there have been several proposals:

    1. Jesus chronologically did it at the end of his ministry (per the Synoptic Gospels), and John presents it at the beginning for theological reasons.
    2. Jesus chronologically did it at the beginning of his ministry (per John), and the Synoptics present it at the end for theological reasons.
    3. Jesus did it twice—at both the beginning and the end of his ministry.

None of these options should be dismissed out of hand. It is demonstrable that the Evangelists do not always record events in chronological order. Instead, they sometimes put material in topical order—as when Matthew gathers together teachings of Jesus into major discourses (e.g., the Sermon on the Mount is a collection of Jesus’ ethical teachings that are scattered in different places in Luke).

There’s more to say about these three possibilities than we can explore here, but I’ll offer a few thoughts.

You might argue for proposal 1 by noting that the Synoptic Gospels link the cleansing of the Temple to Jesus’ death. Immediately after his remark concerning the den of robbers, Mark continues: “And the chief priests and the scribes heard it and sought a way to destroy him” (Mark 11:18).

Matthew and Luke put a little more space between the clearing of the Temple and the plot to kill Jesus, but all three have the cleansing as an initiating event in the conflict between Jesus and the Jerusalem authorities. Mark links them explicitly, and it’s understandable why—after a public outburst in the Temple—the authorities would act against Jesus. One might thus regard this as the chronological placement of the event.

However, you might argue for proposal 2 by pointing out that John is demonstrably concerned with chronology, so one could view his account as an attempt to clarify exactly when the incident happened.

Like the Synoptics, John notes that the incident happened when “the Passover of the Jews was at hand” (John 2:13). The question would be which Passover, and here John provides a clue. Jesus says, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up,” after which “the Jews then said, ‘It has taken forty-six years to build this temple [Greek, naos], and will you raise it up in three days?’” (vv. 19-20).

Unfortunately, this common translation appears to be mistaken. John distinguishes between the Temple in general, including its courtyards—for which he uses the term hieron—and the inner part of the Temple that only the priests could enter—for which he uses the term naos. Here John uses naos, and the naos was completed in 18/17 B.C.

This reveals that the verse should be translated according to another grammatically possible reading, which would be “This temple [naos] has been built for forty-six years.”

The forty-sixth anniversary of the naos’s completion would be A.D. 30, so John is locating the clearing of the Temple at Passover in A.D. 30.

While some think Jesus was crucified in A.D. 30, this is mistaken. The evidence indicates he was born in 3/2 B.C., and Luke states that he “was about thirty years of age” when he began his ministry (Luke 3:23). That means Jesus began his ministry about A.D. 29, so John situates the clearing of the Temple toward the beginning of Jesus’ ministry—in A.D. 30—with Jesus not being crucified until A.D. 33.

We thus have an indication from the Synoptics that the clearing led directly to the death of Jesus and an indication from John that it happened at the beginning of the ministry.

This leads us to proposal 3—that Jesus cleared the Temple twice, once at the beginning and once at the end of his ministry, like bookends.

This proposal is rejected by many scholars, but it is the most straightforward reading of the evidence.

One author who defends the two-clearings hypothesis is Joel McDurmon, and he proposes a reason why Jesus would clear it twice.

Simply to bookend his ministry with the two actions would be reason enough to do this, but McDurmon proposes that Jesus was modeling his actions after an Old Testament ritual whereby a priest was required to inspect a house that had become infested with “leprosy” (Lev. 14:33-53).

Houses can’t get the disease we call leprosy, so this was most likely a form of mold or mildew. The priest was required to inspect the house more than once:

    1. If he found “leprosy” in the house, he would order it closed for seven days.
    2. If, when he came back, it appeared that the disease had spread, the priest would have the affected plaster and stones yanked out and replaced.
    3. If the disease broke out again later, the priest would order the house destroyed.

McDurmon links the first and second clearings of the Temple to the second and third of these inspections. He concludes that after the initial clearing, Jesus rejected the Temple officials and replaced them with his disciples as “living stones,” and after the second clearing, he announced the destruction of the Temple.

This is interesting, but it is very speculative. The text does not mention or clearly imply a connection to Leviticus 14. Further, the priest is required to visit the house three times before ordering its destruction: (1) an initial inspection, (2) a second inspection seven days later, and (3) a third inspection at a later time if the disease breaks out again.

For the parallel to fit, Jesus would have needed to visit the Temple seven days before the first cleansing and see its corruption, but there is nothing like that in John or the Synoptics.

McDurmon tries to argue that the first visit is accomplished seven days before John’s cleansing by Jesus’ baptism and his constitution as the new Temple, but there are multiple problems with this: (i) Jesus was always the new temple; he didn’t become it upon baptism, (ii) he didn’t see corruption in himself when he was baptized, (iii) he didn’t visit the Jerusalem temple and see its corruption between his baptism and the first cleansing, and (iv) there are more than seven days between Jesus’ baptism and the first cleansing.

McDurmon tries to argue that this period is only seven days, but John does not say or imply this. In John, the length of time between the two is indeterminate. Further, we’ve already seen that Jesus’ ministry began in A.D. 29, but the first cleansing didn’t happen until Passover of 30—considerably more than seven days later.

The theory McDurmon proposes is thus interesting, but it doesn’t hold up to scrutiny.

Even apart from McDurmon’s proposals, there is reason to favor the two-cleansing hypothesis. John is clearly writing with supplemental intent—that is, he intends to supplement the material found in the Synoptic Gospels by principally relating stories not found in them.

In fact, the outline of John’s Gospel is designed to interlock with the Gospel of Mark, so John expects you to already know the Synoptic tradition, including the clearing of the Temple at Jesus’ final Passover in A.D. 33.

Why wouldn’t he mention both clearings, then? Because of economics. All four Evangelists keep their Gospels to the length of a single scroll because books were fantastically expensive at the time. A single copy of Matthew cost the equivalent of more than $2,200.

Because of his supplemental intent, John chose to include the clearing of the Temple at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, and because of economics, he chose to omit the one at the end so that he could keep his Gospel to a single scroll.

We also have other indications that John’s clearing of the Temple is designed to flesh out the Synoptics’ record. In Mark, Jesus’ accusers claim, “We heard him say, ‘I will destroy this temple that is made with hands, and in three days I will build another, not made with hands’” (Mark 14:58; cf. 15:29).

Jesus doesn’t say anything like that in Mark, but John records that during the first clearing of the Temple, Jesus had said, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up” (John 2:19). John thus appears to be supplementing Mark to indicate when the witnesses heard Jesus say something along these lines—it was during the first cleansing of the Temple, at the beginning of the ministry.

On that occasion, the Temple authorities didn’t act against Jesus. However, after he grew a reputation as the Messiah over the course of his ministry (cf. John 6:15), when he proved to be a repeat offender by clearing the Temple again, they did act against him.

More can be said about all this. In his book The Historical Reliability of the Gospels, Craig Blomberg offers additional considerations favoring the two-clearings hypothesis (see pp. 216-219). But for our purposes, it’s enough to say that the idea that Jesus cleansed the Temple two times should not be rejected out of hand.

The case may not be 100% conclusive, but the hypothesis should not be dismissed as a naive “harmonization” of the Gospels. John writes with supplemental intent and crafts the outline of his Gospel around that of Mark, so he clearly expects us to read his Gospel in light of the Synoptics.

Are Saturday Evening Masses Based on an Ancient Jewish Practice?

According to the current Code of Canon Law:

A person who assists at a Mass celebrated anywhere in a Catholic rite either on the feast day itself or in the evening of the preceding day satisfies the obligation of participating in the Mass (can. 1248 §1).

Sunday is a holy day of obligation (can. 1246 §1), and as a result, you can fulfill your Sunday obligation either by going to Mass during the 24 hours of Sunday or on Saturday evening.

(The same principle applies to holy days of obligation that fall on other days of the week—though we won’t go into that here).

Masses celebrated on the evening of the preceding day are commonly called “vigil Masses,” though this isn’t their official name.

Instead, they are formally known as “anticipated” Masses since they use the same readings as the following day rather than special readings designed for a vigil service.

 

A Proposed Explanation

Many people want to know why this is permitted. Why can we fulfill our Sunday obligation by going to Mass on Saturday evening?

A common proposal is that it is because—in the Jewish timekeeping system—the day begins at sunset, and so there is a sense in which Sunday begins on Saturday evening.

Catholics are thus allowed to fulfill their Sunday obligation at this time in honor of Christianity’s Jewish heritage.

It’s a plausible explanation, but is it true?

Here are three problems with it.

 

Jewish Practice Was Inconsistent

The first problem is that Jewish reckoning of when the day begins was inconsistent.

There are four logical points during the day where it makes sense to start a new day:

    • Sunrise
    • Sunset
    • Midnight
    • Midday (i.e., noon)

Different cultures have used various points for their day divisions. In the Handbook of Biblical Chronology (2nd ed.), Jack Finegan writes:

11. In ancient Egypt the day probably began at dawn, in ancient Mesopotamia it began in the evening.

Among the Greeks the day was reckoned from sunset to sunset, while the Romans already began the day in the “modern” fashion at midnight.

Summing up the different reckonings among different people in his time Pliny [the Elder] wrote:

The Babylonians count the period between two sunrises, the Athenians that between two sunsets, the Umbrians from midday to midday, the common people everywhere from dawn to dark, the Roman priests and the authorities who fixed the official day, and also the Egyptians and Hipparchus, the period from midnight to midnight [Natural History 2.79.188].

But what about the Israelites? When did they reckon the day as starting? The answer is that it varied. Finegan continues:

12. In the Old Testament the earlier practice seems to have been to consider that the day began in the morning.

In Gen 19:34, for example, the “morrow” (asv) or “next day” (rsv) clearly begins with the morning after the preceding night.

The later practice was to count the day as beginning in the evening.

So in the Old Testament it looks like the early practice was to reckon the day as beginning at sunrise, but the later practice seems to have been to reckon it as beginning at sunset.

And since the New Testament is later than the Old Testament, that means that—in Jesus’ day—the day began at sunset, right?

Well . . .

13. In the New Testament in the Synoptic Gospels and Acts the day seems usually to be considered as beginning in the morning.

Mark 11:11 states that Jesus entered Jerusalem, went into the temple, and when he had looked at everything, since it was “now eventide” (asv) or “already late” (rsv), went out to Bethany with the twelve; verse 12 continues the narrative and tells that on the “morrow” (asv) or the “following day” (rsv) they came back to the city.

It is evident that the new day has begun with the morning following the preceding evening.

Likewise Matt 28:1; Mark 16:1f., and Luke 23:56–24:1 all picture the first day of the week beginning with the dawn following the preceding Sabbath.

And Acts 4:3, for an example in that book, tells how Peter and John were put in custody “until the morrow, for it was already evening,” thus clearly indicating that the new day would begin the next morning.

It has been suggested that this counting of the day as beginning with the morning is a continuation of the earlier Old Testament practice already described (§12), and that this usage was maintained in parts of Galilee and was followed by Jesus and the early disciples, which would account for its appearing so frequently in the Synoptic Gospels and Acts.

But is there no trace in the Synoptic Gospels and Acts of the idea of the day beginning at sunset? And what about the Gospel of John? Finegan continues:

On the other hand, even though the common reckoning in the Synoptic Gospels is from the morning, in Mark 1:32 = Luke 4:40, the later Old Testament (§12) and Jewish usage of counting the one day as ending and the next as beginning at sunset is plainly reflected in the fact that the people of Capernaum were free to bring the sick to Jesus at sunset when the Sabbath came to an end.

As for the Fourth Gospel, in John 20:1 Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb while it is still dark, yet it is already “on the first day of the week.”

This can be explained by supposing that the late Old Testament and Jewish usage is in view, according to which the new day had begun at the preceding sunset, or it can be explained equally well by supposing that John is giving the description in terms of the official Roman day which, as Pliny told us (§11), began at midnight.

In either case, the new day had begun already before the sunrise.

So Jewish practice about when the day began was inconsistent. The Old Testament uses both sunrise and sunset as points for beginning the day, and the New Testament isn’t consistent, either.

The Synoptic Gospels and Acts usually have the day starting with sunrise (though not always), and it isn’t clear (at least from what Finegan writes) whether John is using sunset or midnight.

This is not a strong basis for saying the modern practice of anticipated Masses is simply a continuation of a well-established Jewish practice from the days of Jesus.

However, there’s another problem.

 

The Practice Was Introduced in the 1960s

The second problem is that anticipated Masses date to the 1960s.

They aren’t something that the Church has been doing for the last 2,000 years—which is what you would expect if they were simply the continuation of an ancient Jewish practice.

Instead, what happened was that in 1964, the Vatican made an announcement (on Vatican Radio) that the faithful could fulfill their Sunday obligation on Saturday evenings in certain churches that had been designated for this purpose by the local bishop.

The permission applied only to Sundays (not other holy days of obligation), and it did not apply to all locations where Mass was being celebrated—only to specially designated churches.

Most fundamentally, it was only at the discretion of the local bishop—not part of the Church’s universal law.

That changed in 1983 with the release of the revised Code of Canon Law, which removed these restrictions and allowed the faithful to fulfill their Mass obligation on the preceding evening for Sundays and other holy days and anywhere a Mass is being celebrated, as long as it is “in a Catholic rite.”

(This means, among other things, that the Mass doesn’t have to use the next day’s readings, as these will vary between rites; e.g., the Chaldean rite uses a different lectionary than the Roman rite).

So this is not an immemorial practice. It was introduced to the universal Church—at the bishop’s discretion—in the 1960s and then broadened in 1983. It thus isn’t simply a continuation of an ancient Jewish practice.

Still, it’s possible that—in the 1960s zeal for restoring ancient liturgical uses—that the Vatican decided to restore an older practice that had fallen into disuse.

So is that what they did?

 

It’s Not What They Said

The third problem with the idea is that it’s just not what the Vatican said when they introduced the practice.

On June 12, 1964, Vatican Radio announced:

The faithful can also satisfy the Sunday precept of holy Mass by assisting at the celebration of the divine service in the afternoon of Saturday in churches specifically designated by the local ecclesiastical authority.

The Sacred Congregation of the Council, at the request of local Ordinaries [i.e., bishops], granted the faculty to celebrate holy Mass after first Vespers on Saturday together with the valid discharge of the Sunday precept.

It is left to the prudent judgment of the Ordinaries to indicate the times, localities, and churches which will enjoy this faculty as has already been done in some dioceses of Italy, Switzerland, and Argentina (n. This concession has also been recently granted to Catholics in Israel where, as is known, Sunday is considered a working day).

Among the considerations which have prompted this concession at the present time are:

        • the enormous and ever-increasing frequency of weekend trips and of skiing excursions for whose patronizers the schedules of departure and return make it at least difficult to fulfill the Sunday precept;
        • the situation in which numerous mountain villagers find themselves where, during the long periods of isolation brought about by accumulation of snow, part of the inhabitants would not be able to get to church and can at present have contact with the priest on Saturday;
        • the serious dearth of clergy in some countries in which at present the priest by being able to celebrate four Sunday Masses including that on Saturday, will meet the greater number of the faithful [Canon Law Digest 6:670-671].

So the Vatican indicated that the reasons anticipated Masses were introduced included modern weekend travel, weather conditions, and a shortage of priests in some countries.

None of these considerations were restoring an ancient Jewish practice.

However, Vatican Radio did say that the named factors were “among the considerations” leading to the decision. That doesn’t completely rule out that the decision was influenced by an older Jewish practice in some way.

But it would indicate that this either wasn’t a consideration or wasn’t a principal consideration.

 

Conclusion

In light of these factors, it wouldn’t be responsible to tell people that we can fulfill our Sunday obligations on Saturday evening based on ancient Jewish time reckoning:

    • Ancient Jewish practice was actually mixed, including in the time of Christ
    • There was no continuation of the day-begins-at-sunset practice in the Church, and anticipated Masses were only introduced in the 1960s
    • When they were introduced, all the named factors leading to the decision were modern, not ancient

 

Blessings: 7 Things to Know and Share

 

There is currently considerable discussion about whether it is possible to bless persons in same-sex unions.

In light of this, it can be useful to step back and take a look at the topic in general.

Here are 7 things to know and share about blessings.

 

1) What are blessings?

The English word bless is used to translate the Latin word benedicere and the Greek word eulogein. Both of these mean “to speak good.”

In Scripture, the terms have a variety of uses. For example, one may bless God by speaking good of God—i.e., praising him (Ps. 68:26, Jas. 3:9, etc.).

However, another prominent use of the term is speaking good about something other than God in hopes of bringing about good effects. Thus the patriarch Isaac intended to bless his son Esau to bring good things upon him, but through Rebekah’s intervention, this blessing was stolen by Jacob (Gen. 27).

To bless is the opposite of to curse (Latin, malidicere, “to speak evil”). When a person curses something, he speaks evil about it in order to bring about evil or bad effects. Thus the Moabite king Balak sought to have the prophet Balaam curse Israel to harm the nation, but through God’s intervention the curse was turned into a blessing (Num. 22-24).

Blessings and curses of this type are sometimes called invocative because they invoke either good or evil upon the person or thing.

Whether the blessing or curse ultimately achieves its effect depends on the will of God, who is the one being invoked and asked to help or harm someone.

Another kind of blessing has developed which involves permanently changing the status of someone or something by setting it apart for a holy purpose. This type of blessing is sometimes called constitutive because it constitutes the person or thing in its new, holy status. This form of blessing is also sometimes referred to as a consecration.

The Catechism states:

Certain blessings have a lasting importance because they consecrate persons to God, or reserve objects and places for liturgical use.

Among those blessings which are intended for persons—not to be confused with sacramental ordination—are the blessing of the abbot or abbess of a monastery, the consecration of virgins and widows, the rite of religious profession, and the blessing of certain ministries of the Church (readers, acolytes, catechists, etc.).

The dedication or blessing of a church or an altar, the blessing of holy oils, vessels, and vestments, bells, etc., can be mentioned as examples of blessings that concern objects (CCC 1672).

 

2) What can be blessed?

A wide variety of people and things can be blessed. The Catechism specifically mentions persons, meals, objects, and places (CCC 1671).

 

3) Who are the parties involved in a blessing?

There are several parties that can be involved in a blessing. They include:

    • The person being blessed (or those that are helped by a blessed object or thing)
    • The person who performs the blessing
    • The Church, which has authorized some blessings to be given in its name
    • God, who is the ultimate source of all blessing (Jas. 1:17)

The Church is not involved in all blessings but only those it has authorized. These may be considered official blessings. They involve the intercession of the Church, as expressed through the authorized person performing the blessing.

Other blessings—such as those performed by ordinary people (e.g., when we say “God bless you” to someone)—may be considered unofficial.

 

4) Do blessings take effect automatically?

The standard answer is no, but careful reflection suggests that the answer is more complex than that.

In the case of constitutive blessings—such as the blessing of an abbot or abbess or the blessing of a church or an altar—the answer would appear to be yes.

If the Church’s official rite of blessing has been used for an abbot or abbess, that person really has been consecrated or set aside for a holy office, even if the man or woman is personally unworthy. Similarly, if a church or altar has been consecrated, it really has been set apart for sacred use.

When it comes to invocative blessings, the matter is different. Blessings are not sacraments but sacramentals. In fact, the Catechism notes that “Among sacramentals blessings . . . come first” (CCC 1671).

Sacraments are rites instituted by Jesus that God has promised to use to distribute his grace—especially sanctifying grace—so long as the recipient does not put a barrier in the way of receiving it.

Sacramentals are rites instituted by the Church, and so God has not promised to distribute his grace on each and every occasion that they are performed. The 1907 Catholic Encyclopedia states:

Blessings are not sacraments; they are not of divine institution; they do not confer sanctifying grace; and they do not produce their effects in virtue of the rite itself, or ex opere operato. They are sacramentals.

Similarly, the Catechism states:

Sacramentals do not confer the grace of the Holy Spirit in the way that the sacraments do, but by the Church’s prayer, they prepare us to receive grace and dispose us to cooperate with it (CCC 1670).

In general, whether an invocative blessing has its intended effect will depend on the piety of the one receiving the blessing and whether it is God’s will for the person to receive the intended good.

 

5) What effects do blessings have?

The Catholic Encyclopedia states:

[T]hey produce the following specific effects:

        1. Excitation of pious emotions and affections of the heart and, by means of these, remission of venial sin and of the temporal punishment due to it;
        2. freedom from power of evil spirits;
        3. preservation and restoration of bodily health.
        4. various other benefits, temporal or spiritual.

All these effects are not necessarily inherent in any one blessing; some are caused by one formula, and others by another, according to the intentions of the Church.

The particular effects that a blessing involves will depend on the words used in the blessing—i.e., what does the blessing ask God to do?

One should consult The Book of Blessings for the words used in official blessings.

 

6) Who can perform blessings?

There has long been an association between blessings and the priesthood. Thus Numbers 6:22-27 states:

The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, “Speak to Aaron and his sons, saying, Thus you shall bless the people of Israel: you shall say to them,

‘The Lord bless you and keep you;

the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you;

the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.’

So shall they put my name upon the people of Israel, and I will bless them.”

However, blessings were not restricted to priests. In the Old Testament, the patriarchs gave blessings to their children, and various prophets (including Balaam) pronounced blessings also.

Also, Israel—like the Church—was called to be “a kingdom of priests” (Ex. 19:6, Rev. 1:6; cf. 1 Pet. 2:9). As a result, there are situations in which laity also can give blessings. The Catechism explains:

Sacramentals derive from the baptismal priesthood: every baptized person is called to be a “blessing,” and to bless.

Hence lay people may preside at certain blessings; the more a blessing concerns ecclesial and sacramental life, the more is its administration reserved to the ordained ministry (bishops, priests, or deacons) (CCC 1669).

The Church’s Book of Blessings notes who can perform which individual blessings. Sometimes this will be the bishop, sometimes a priest, sometimes a deacon, sometimes a lay person, and sometimes a combination of these.

Among others, laity are authorized to perform the blessing of an Advent wreath, a Christmas manger or Nativity scene, a Christmas tree, and throats on St. Blase’s Day (Feb. 3). They also are authorized to help with the distribution of ashes on Ash Wednesday, though the blessing of the ashes is reserved to a priest or deacon.

There are no limits to who may perform unofficial blessings. Any person can say, “God bless you” to another, bless a meal, or bless their children.

 

7) Where can I learn more?

The single most authoritative source on blessings is the Church’s Book of Blessings. It contains not only the texts used for individual, official blessings, it also contains introductions to the individual texts, as well as a general introduction to the subject of blessings.

Also helpful is Fr. Stephen J. Rossetti’s book The Priestly Blessing: Recovering the Gift. It contains a discussion of the history of blessings in light of Church teaching and the opinions of theologians.

Who Is Mary Magdalene?

All four Gospels refer to a woman named Mary Magdalene. She is one of the witnesses of Christ’s crucifixion, burial, and resurrection, and she is often named first in lists of women.

All this makes it clear that she was prominent in the early Christian community and was well-known by the authors of the Gospels.

But who was she? What do we know about her? And how has her image changed over time?

 

What’s in a Name?

The first thing to note is her name: Mary Magdalene. Magdalene is not a last name. They didn’t have last names in first century Jewish society, so what does this term mean?

It helps if you look at the Greek behind it. In Matthew, Mark, and John, she is referred to as Maria hê Magdalênê or Mariam hê Magdalênê. These would be literally translated as “Mary the Magdalene”—so a Magdalene is a kind of person.

The specific kind of person a Magdalene represents is someone from the fishing village of Magdala, which was a mostly Gentile town of about 40,000 people on the western side of the Sea of Galilee.

So Mary was from Magdala in Galilee. She is thus being referred to by a naming convention whereby you give the person’s name and place of origin—as in “Jesus of Nazareth” (Acts 10:38) or “Jesus the Nazarene” (Matt. 26:71).

However, this place designation is not the most common way that women were referred to in first century Palestinian Jewish culture. Instead, they were normally named based on their relatives.

Men were often referred to using a patronym—that is, their father’s name—as in “Simon son of Jonah” (Matt. 16:17) or “Simon son of John” (John 1:42).

However, when an Israelite woman got married, she left the house of her father and became a member of her husband’s household. Consequently, women were commonly referred to in different ways:

    • An unmarried woman would be referred to using her father’s name—e.g., “Anna the daughter of Phanuel” (Luke 2:36).
    • A married woman would be referred to using her husband’s name—e.g., “Joanna the wife of Chuza” (Luke 8:3).
    • A woman who was a mother might be referred to using the name of her son or sons—e.g., “Mary the mother of Jesus” (Acts 1:14), “Mary the mother of James and Joseph” (Matt. 27:56). This would happen especially if the woman was a widow and no longer had a husband.
    • And if a woman didn’t have such a living father, husband, or son, she might be referred to by the name of her siblings—e.g., though the Gospels never do this, you could refer to “Mary the sister of Martha and Lazarus”

But none of these things happen for Mary Magdalene. Instead of specifying which Mary we’re talking about by referring to her relatives, she gets a place designation.

This suggests that she didn’t have any relatives that were well known in the early Christian community, so they defaulted back to a place name.

Most likely, she had no father, husband, or sons—and she certainly didn’t have any that were well-known.

The identifying thing that stuck out in the minds of the first Christian communities was that she was a Galilean from Magdala, so that’s how they referred to her.

 

A Former Demoniac and Woman of Means

Luke tells us two interesting things about Mary Magdalene. At one point, he says:

Soon afterward [Jesus] went on through cities and villages, preaching and bringing the good news of the kingdom of God. And the Twelve were with him, and also some women who had been healed of evil spirits and infirmities: Mary, called Magdalene, from whom seven demons had gone out, and Joanna, the wife of Chuza, Herod’s steward, and Susanna, and many others, who provided for them out of their means (Luke 8:1-3).

This tells us that “seven demons had gone out” of Mary, so she was a former demoniac, and given the context, it was likely Jesus who cast the demons out of her, something that is explicitly stated in the longer ending of Mark (Mark 16:9).

She is also grouped women who provided for Jesus and the Twelve “out of their means.” This suggests that Mary was a woman of means. She had money—i.e., disposable income that she could use to support Jesus and his mission.

 

A Key Witness

All four Gospels indicate that Mary was a key witness to the events of the climax of Jesus’ ministry.

She had come with his traveling party to his final Passover in Jerusalem (Matt. 27:55, Mark 15:41), and there she witnessed the Crucifixion (Matt. 27:56, Mark 15:40, John 19:25).

She also witnessed his burial (Matt. 27:61, Mark 16:47) and his resurrection (Matt. 28:1, Mark 16:1, John 20:1), after which she returned and told the Twelve (Luke 24:10, John 20:18).

Luke mentions that the women had prepared spices with which to anoint Jesus’ body on Good Friday, after the Crucifixion (Luke 23:56), and then they brought the spices to the tomb on Easter Monday (Luke 24:1). Mark adds the detail that they had bought the spices (Mark 16:1), which would again suggest that Mary Magadele had financial resources.

But when they arrived at the tomb, they discovered it empty, and angels appeared to them and announced that Jesus has been raised.

John records a touching story of Jesus appearing to Mary Magdalen (John 20:11-18). He doesn’t mention other women being with her, so it is possible she was alone.

When she realizes that she is seeing Jesus, she is overjoyed but he gives her a warning. Some translations render it, “Do not touch me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father.” This translation is confusing since—before the Ascension happens—Jesus invites Thomas to touch his wounds (John 20:27).

Better translations would be “Do not hold me” (RSV), “Stop holding on to me” (NAB:RE), and “Do not cling to me” (ESV). The idea is that Mary shouldn’t become overly attached to Jesus now that he’s back, because he’s going to be Ascending to the Father and she will not always be able to be with him.

 

Do We Know More?

We’ve covered the passages in the New Testament that explicitly name Mary Magdalene, but some Christians have wondered if she may be mentioned in other passages—either with the name Mary or without it.

For example, it has been speculated that she may be the sinful woman (likely a prostitute) who weeps on Jesus’ feet, wipes them with her hair, and anoints his feet (Luke 7:36-50).

The answer is that she almost certainly is not this woman. Not only does Luke not name her, he also relates this story at the end of chapter 7 of his Gospel. The very next thing he says is the passage quoted above, where Mary Magdalene is introduced.

It is scarcely likely that Luke would omit the woman’s identity at the end of chapter 7 and then immediately introduce her by name at the beginning of chapter 8. We thus have no basis for besmirching Mary Magdalen’s reputation by accusing her of being a prostitute.

Many have identified Mary Magdalen with Mary the sister of Martha and Lazarus, including Pope Gregory I (590-604). However, this also is a mistake.

One reason is that Mary Magdalene is identified as “the Magdalene” in all four Gospels, while the two Gospels that refer to the sister of Martha and Lazarus (i.e., Luke and John) identify her with respect to her siblings. This means that the latter Mary had prominent siblings that were known in the Christian community, while Mary Magdalene did not.

Further, Mary the sister of Martha and Lazarus isn’t from Magdala. She isn’t even from Galilee. John tells us: “a certain man was sick, Lazarus from Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha” (John 11:1).

Bethany is just outside Jerusalem in Judea, so Mary, Martha, and Lazarus were Judeans rather than Galileans, and Mary of Bethany would have had no need to follow Jesus from Galilee to Jerusalem for the final Passover, because she lived right there!

The idea that Mary Magdalen and Mary of Bethany were the same person was common for a long time in the Western church (not the Eastern churches), and this left a mark on the Western liturgical calendar.

Mary Magdalen has long had a memorial on July 22, while Martha has one on July 29. But now that the confusion between Mary Magdalen and Mary of Bethany has been cleared up, the Congregation for Divine Worship ordered in 2021 that the July 29 memorial be listed as that of “Martha, Mary, and Lazarus”—giving the other two Bethany siblings their due on the calendar.

 

 

Reconstructed Dialogue in the Bible

June 1, 1993 was my report-to-work date at Catholic Answers. By divine providence, it’s also the memorial of St. Justin Martyr, patron of apologists.

Today–June 1, 2023–is thus my 30th anniversary as a professional apologist, and so I thought I’d put up a post discussing one of the things I’ve developed a clearer awareness of in the last 30 years.


Some Christians appear to believe that the Bible contains nothing but exact quotations of the people it describes. In other words, everything you see between quotation marks in the Bible is exactly what the person said. There’s not one word of difference.

It’s easy for modern Christians to think this since we live in a world of audio and video recorders and stenographers and transcriptionists. Exact quotations come easy to us.

However, the attitude of ancient audiences was different. They lived before any recording devices had been invented, few people were literate, and of those who were literate, only a very few were trained in stenography and capable of taking down exactly what someone said in real time.

As a result, they did not expect exact quotations the way that we do. Instead, they expected texts to convey the gist or basic meaning of what someone said, but not the exact words.

They also recognized that authors would, at times, need to reconstruct the dialogue or conversations that people had.

 

No Recording Devices

Think about it: Without recorders and transcribers of such conversations, how would anybody remember exactly what had been said on a particular occasion? They might remember the gist of what was said, but likely not the exact words—especially after a long space of time.

Of course, in divinely inspired texts like the books of the Bible, God could reveal the exact words that had been used on a particular occasion. That’s possible. But it’s not what the ancient audience was expecting. They were used to reading books of history that used the convention of reconstructed dialogue, and so that’s what they would have assumed books of Scripture also contained—unless the text said otherwise.

A key principle of good biblical exegesis is reading the text the way the ancient audience would have, and so we also should understand the Bible as using reconstructed dialogue. We should not introduce the added assumption—not shared by the original audience—that God miraculously revealed what was said by minor players in the narrative, like the exact words used by every person who approached Jesus for a miracle.

Nobody would have written down the exact words of a healing request at the time, but the gist would have been remembered (e.g., a blind man asked Jesus for his sight back), and so we would expect the exact words to be reconstructed.

This much we can establish based on a knowledge of how ancient literature worked, but can we find evidence supporting this view in the text itself?

We can! And one way we can do this is by comparing different accounts of the same incident.

 

Synoptic Parallels

Let’s compare Mark’s and Matthew’s account of what the demons said to Jesus in the case of the Gerasene/Gadarene demoniacs.

Mark 5 presents us with Jesus exorcizing a single demoniac, and we read of the following exchange taking place between Jesus and the demons (statements by the demons are in blue):

“What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I adjure you by God, do not torment me.”

For he had said to him, “Come out of the man, you unclean spirit!”

And Jesus asked him, “What is your name?”

He replied, “My name is Legion; for we are many.”

And he begged him eagerly not to send them out of the country. Now a great herd of swine was feeding there on the hillside; and they begged him, “Send us to the swine, let us enter them” (Mark 5:7-12).

Now here’s the account of the same event from Matthew 8, where Matthew records that there were two demoniacs that Jesus exorcized:

“What have you to do with us, O Son of God? Have you come here to torment us before the time?”

Now a herd of many swine was feeding at some distance from them.

And the demons begged him, “If you cast us out, send us away into the herd of swine” (Matt. 8:29-31).

As you can see, Matthew omits the reference to “Legion,” but the gist is the same in both accounts—the demons ask what Jesus has to do with them, they’re concerned about being tormented, and they ask to go into the herd of pigs.

But the exact words used are different. In Mark the demons say, “What have you to do with me” (singular), because Mark is only mentioning one demoniac, while Matthew has “What have you to do with us” (plural), because Matthew mentions the second demoniac.

In Mark the demons identify Jesus as “Jesus, Son of the Most High God,” while in Matthew they just identify him as “Son of God.”

In Mark the demons make a request about torment—“I adjure you by God, do not torment me”—while in Matthew they ask a question—“Have you come here to torment us before the time?”

Finally, concerning the pigs, Mark’s demons make a simple request—“Send us to the swine, let us enter them”—while in Matthew they make a conditional request—“If you cast us out, send us away into the herd of swine.”

We thus see how the biblical authors Mark and Matthew both wanted to convey the gist of what happened on this occasion, but they don’t feel bound to use the same exact words of dialogue. There is dialogue reconstruction—in the form of paraphrase—happening in these texts.

 

A More Striking Example

An even more striking example of reconstructed dialogue occurs in Luke’s account of the day of Pentecost in Acts.

After the Holy Spirit descends on the disciples and they begin speaking in tongues, we read:

Now there were dwelling in Jerusalem Jews, devout men from every nation under heaven. And at this sound the multitude came together, and they were bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in his own language.

And they were amazed and wondered, saying,

“Are not all these who are speaking Galileans?

“And how is it that we hear, each of us in his own native language?

“Parthians and Medes and Elamites and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabians, we hear them telling in our own tongues the mighty works of God” (Acts 2:5-11).

Note carefully what Luke says: “they were amazed and wondered, saying.” This tells us that the words that follow represent what the crowd—a group of people—said.

Now—unless they’re chanting in unison—when a group of people speak, each person says something different. In real life, they would hold a conversation about the amazing event unfolding before them.

But instead of recording a conversation between individual speakers, Luke represents the crowd as if it is speaking in unison: “How is it that we hear, each of us in his native language? . . . We hear them telling in our own tongues the mighty works of God.”

Interposed between these is a long list of places that the Jews came from, and there is no way in real life that a group of people speaking in unison—without a script—would name the same places in the same order.

What’s more, the list isn’t random. This may not be obvious to modern readers, who aren’t that familiar with ancient place names, but the list mentions places of Jewish settlement moving from east to west. It starts in the far east with Parthia (in modern Iran) and works its way westward through the Holy Land and North Africa before moving up to the capital of the empire—Rome—with Cretans (an island people) and Arabs (a nomadic people) thrown in at the end.

There is no way a crowd would spontaneously come up with this list. If they wanted to speak in unison, they’d need to first decide on the places to name and then figure out the sequence in which to name them.

 

A Greek Chorus

The way that Luke presents the crowd bursting into common speech will be familiar to readers of ancient literature. What Luke depicts the crowd doing is functioning as a Greek chorus.

Greek choruses were made up of performers in ancient Greek plays. Choruses consisted of 12 to 50 actors, and they sang, danced, and spoke lines in unison. Their purpose was to represent the common people who were witnessing the events of the play, and they provided commentary on them.

They would say things that the main characters couldn’t (e.g., the chorus might comment on the main character’s faults or hidden fears and motives), they would comment in ways that would bring out the significance of events in the story, and they would underscore elements of the plot to make it easier for the audience to follow.

Here’s an example of a chorus speaking in Sophocles’s play Antigone—about the daughter of Oedipus the king. At this point in the play, Antigone has been sentenced to be buried alive in a tomb by the tyrant King Creon, and she has just compared her fate to a somewhat similar fate experienced by Niobe, the daughter of King Tantalus.

The chorus then speaks up and says:

Yet she [Niobe] was a goddess, thou knowest, and born of gods;

we are mortals, and of mortal race.

But ’tis great renown for a woman [you, Antigone] who hath perished that she should have shared the doom of the godlike, in her life, and afterward in death.

You see how the chorus speaks in unison—“We are mortals, and of mortal race.” This kind of speaking in unison would not happen in real life unless people were reading from a script, which is exactly what happened in ancient Greek plays. The actors had a script to direct their speech.

The crowd on Pentecost had no script to read from, but Luke knows that his readers will have seen plays and be familiar with the literary device of a chorus, so he reconstructs dialogue-in-unison to reflect the thoughts and nature of the crowd and has them provide commentary on the miracle they have just witnessed.

No doubt, individual people in the Pentecost crowd did say things like, “Are not all these who are speaking Galileans?”, “How is it that we hear, each of us in his own native language?”, and “We hear them telling in our own tongues the mighty works of God.” They probably didn’t use those exact words, but they convey the gist of what people in the crowd said.

Luke then fuses these remarks with a list of the places that the people came from to provide an overall commentary that conveyed to his readers a sense of the multiple languages represented in the miracle and the crowd’s reaction to it.

We thus find a real event being presented with a particularly clear case of reconstructed dialogue.

 

The Words of Jesus

A question that modern readers will want to ask is what all this says about the words of Jesus.

We can say basically two things: First, that the authors of the Gospels were concerned with accurately presenting the gist of Jesus’ teachings and interactions, and second, that they were at liberty to paraphrase and reconstruct dialogue.

This means that we would expect more exact representations of Jesus’ words in certain types of passages. Teachings were the most important things Jesus said (as opposed, for example, to where the group would be having dinner or spending the night), so they should most closely reflect his actual words.

Also, shorter statements are easier to remember than longer ones, so teachings given in shorter form should convey more of the actual words.

Indeed, we have evidence that Jesus himself took these effects into account, and many of his teachings are framed in short, vivid, easy-to-remember forms. An example is this statement:

The last will be first, and the first last (Matt. 20:16).

This saying uses a literary device known as a chiasm or chiasmus (in Greek chiasma means “crossing”). Chiasms involve a sequence of elements that reverse in order. If we label the word “last” as A and the word “first” as B, this chiasmus has an A B | B A structure.

Such structures make sayings easier to remember, and it appears Jesus used them to make his teachings more memorable.

Another literary device he used to do this was the parable. Jesus’ parables are short, memorable stories that teach spiritual lessons, and humans are wired for stories, so we remember the gist of them easily.

Some of Jesus’ longer discourses—like the Sermon on the Mount (Matt. 5-7)—are essentially collections of short, easily memorable sayings, and if you study the Sermon on the Mount, you can see that it’s organized around different collections of sayings that begin the same way (e.g., “Blessed are the X”, “You have heard X, but I say Y”, “When you do X, do not do Y”).

There is also the fact that—as a teacher—Jesus would have given the same teachings multiple times, to many different audiences, so his disciples would have heard his teachings many times and—as his disciples (i.e., students)—they would have made efforts to memorize them so they could preach them to others.

On the other hand, not everything Jesus said would have been remembered in this way. Things he said only once would not be expected to be as close to the original wording, so we would expect more reconstruction in one-off statements.

The same would be true of minor characters—people other than Jesus. Numerous people approached him for miracles of healing or exorcism during his ministry, and their exact words in making the request would not have been memorized. Consequently, we would expect the Evangelists to reconstruct what such people said, basing it on the kind of thing someone with a particular problem would say to Jesus in making a respectful request for relief.

Similarly, things that Jesus said that went on for a long time—very lengthy statements, especially those made only once—would be harder to memorize, and we would expect more paraphrase and reconstruction.

For example, Jesus gives some long speeches in the Gospel of John. One of them runs for five chapters (John 13-17)! And it was apparently given only once, on Holy Thursday. Even though John was an eyewitness (John 21:24), and even though he had supernatural assistance in remembering what Jesus said (John 14:26), the ancient audience would not have expected John to reproduce a word-for-word transcript of a lengthy speech he heard Jesus give only once.

Instead, they would expect the Holy Spirit to help John remember the gist of what was said, and then John would employ the normal reconstruction and paraphrase that was expected in ancient literature.

What we see is thus that the four Evangelists felt the need to accurately preserve the substance of what Jesus said, but not always the exact wording—as can be seen by comparing the Gospel accounts of the same sayings and noting the variation in the exact words used.

 

No Quotation Marks

Part of the problem modern readers have with the idea that quotations in the Bible may not be exact is because they are encased in quotation marks. When Jesus says something, modern Bibles put quotation marks around it.

However, the original Greek manuscripts of the New Testament (and the Hebrew manuscripts of the Old Testament) do not contain quotation marks. They are a later invention.

The ancestors of quotation marks were invented in the 2nd century B.C., but they had a different function. At the Library of Alexandria, they were used to signal erroneous or disputed portions of text.

Once the Christian age began, authors began using them to signal quotations, but they were a particular type of quotation—one that came from the Bible. Biblical passages would get quotation marks, regardless of whether someone was speaking or not. Thus when the author of Genesis writes “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth,” it would get quotation marks, and so would Jesus’ statement “The last will be first, and the first last.”

Later, quotation marks came to be used for quotations of the words another person used in saying something, which is their modern function. And they usually indicated exact quotations—the exact words someone said, with no paraphrase or reconstruction.

This is the connotation that they have today, and their use in modern editions of the Bible leads the reader to suppose that they are being given an exact quotation.

But the quotation marks aren’t in the originals. They are added by modern translation committees. There are even disputes—in some cases—about where a particular quotation begins and ends, because there aren’t any marks in the Greek telling you where it ends and where the author’s voice picks up again. (For example, it’s clear that in Galatians 2:14 Paul begins quoting something he once said to St. Peter, but it isn’t precisely clear where the historic quotation ends and where Paul shifts back to giving his current thoughts rather than what he said to Peter in the past.)

The difference in how ancient writers quoted people and how modern, English-speaking ones do is illustrated by the difference between what are known as direct and indirect discourse.

In direct discourse, a modern English-language writer will be giving you what he believes were the exact words a person used—no paraphrasing allowed—as in this statement:

    • John said, “I am hungry”

By contrast, indirect discourse doesn’t present you with a quotation, and so quotation marks are not used, as in the statement:

    • John said that he is hungry.

The way English writing works, you know that in the first statement the author is giving you what he thinks is an exact quotation of what John said, while in the second statement he is giving you a summary of what John said, but not necessarily his exact words (e.g., John might have literally said, “I’m famished!” or “I’m peckish” or “I haven’t eaten today,” but you could summarize all of those with “John said that he is hungry”).

Greek has equivalents of direct and indirect discourse, but they don’t work exactly the same way the English versions do. In particular, since ancient authors generally weren’t expected to give you exact quotations, this wasn’t normally part of what Greek direct discourse implied.

But when you add quotation marks to signal direct discourse in English, it tells the reader that what they have before them is supposed to be an exact quotation. This can mask the greater flexibility ancient authors had in presenting quotations. So when you read the statement:

    • And Jesus said to the centurion, “Go, as you have believed it will be done for you.”

It may actually mean something more like:

    • And Jesus said to the centurion that he should go and that, as he had believed, it would be done for him.

This is not to say that a quotation doesn’t preserve the exact words of Jesus. It may or may not, but it will accurately preserve the gist of what he said.

 

Dei Verbum

So what can we say in light of all this? One of the things that the Second Vatican Council taught was the following:

Since, therefore, all that the inspired authors, or sacred writers, affirm should be regarded as affirmed by the Holy Spirit, we must acknowledge that the books of Scripture, firmly, faithfully and without error, teach that truth which God, for the sake of our salvation, wished to see confided to the sacred Scriptures (Dei Verbum 11).

In other words, everything that the authors of the Bible intended to assert, properly speaking, is also asserted by the Holy Spirit and is thus true.

The authors of the Bible intended to assert the substance of Jesus’ actions and teachings. They didn’t intend to assert the exact words that he and others always used, because that kind of assertion wasn’t a standard part of ancient literature. However, they did intend to assert the gist—the substance—of what he said and did.

Therefore, that substance is guaranteed by the Holy Spirit to be transmitted by the Gospels “firmly, faithfully, and without error.”

Mysteries of the Magi

‘When Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem” (Matt. 2:1).

“Wise men” is a common translation in English Bibles, but it doesn’t give us a good idea who they were. The Greek word used here is magoi, the plural of magos. These terms may be more familiar from their Latin equivalents: in St. Jerome’s Vulgate, we read that magi came from the east; an individual member of the group would be a magus.

Who were the magi?

Originally, the term magi referred to a group of people in Persia (modern Iran). Around 440 B.C., the Greek historian Herodotus listed the magi as one of the six tribes of the Medes (Histories 1:101:1).

Apparently, they were like the Jewish tribe of Levi in that they exercised priestly functions. Herodotus says that whenever a Persian wanted to sacrifice an animal to the gods, he would cut it up and then “a magus comes near and chants over it the song of the birth of the gods, as the Persian tradition relates it; for no sacrifice can be offered without a magus” (Histories 1:132:3).

In the book of Daniel, magi are called upon to interpret dreams (1:20; 2:2, 10, 27).

The Persians also looked to magi to interpret heavenly omens. Consider the case of the Persian king Xerxes I (also known as Ahasuerus, who married the biblical Esther). In 480 B.C., he asked the magi to tell him the meaning of a solar eclipse that occurred as he was about to do battle with the Greeks.

They told him that the sun was special to Greeks, so when it abandoned its place in the daytime, the god was showing the Greeks that they would have to abandon their cities. This emboldened Xerxes (Histories 7:37:4), but things didn’t work out well. His expedition against Greece failed.

Even so, this shows the original magi were interpreters of astronomical portents, as later magi would be for the star of Bethlehem.

Over time, the term magi ceased to refer exclusively to members of the Persian priestly caste. The skills they practiced became known as mageia, from which we get the word magic in English, and by the first century, anyone who practiced magic could be called a magos.

Thus, in Acts 8, we meet a man named Simon, who was a Samaritan, meaning he had mixed Jewish ancestry. Simon practiced mageia (8:9, 11), and so he became known as Simon Magus.

Full Jews also could be magi, and in Acts 13 we meet a Jewish man named Bar-Jesus, who is described both as a magus and a false prophet (13:6). This means that in Jesus’ day, the term magus was flexible, so we need to ask another question.

Who were these magi?

Matthew’s magi were clearly dignitaries of some kind, as shown by the facts that:

  1. They saw themselves as worthy to congratulate a distant royal house on a new birth.
  2. They had the resources and leisure to undertake such a lengthy journey.
  3. They could offer costly gifts.
  4. They received a royal audience with King Herod the Great.

Matthew says that they came “from the East,” which from the perspective of Jerusalem would point to locations such as Arabia, Babylonia, and Persia.

Jews lived in all of these regions. Consequently, some interpreters have proposed that the magi who visited Jesus were Jews, who would naturally be interested in the newborn king of their race.

However, most scholars have concluded this is unlikely. If they were visiting Jewish dignitaries, Matthew would have identified them as co-religionists. The fact he merely describes them as being “from the East” suggests that they were Gentiles who came from a distant eastern land. Matthew also tells us that they went back “to their own country” (2:12), suggesting they were among its native inhabitants rather than Jews living in exile.

In fact, there is a theme in Matthew’s Gospel of Gentiles who respond to the true God. Matthew uses it to show his Jewish readers that Gentiles can be Christians. The pattern culminates in the Great Commission, when Jesus tells the apostles to “make disciples of all nations” (alternate translation: “make disciples of all the Gentiles”; 28:19).

The Magi are part of this pattern: they are Gentile dignitaries who represent an early response to God’s Messiah, in contrast to the Jewish king, Herod, who seeks to kill him. This prefigures how the Jewish authorities kill Jesus, but Gentiles embrace his gospel.

Scholars have concluded that Matthew’s Magi were Gentile astrologers from an eastern land, though we can’t be sure which one (see Raymond E. Brown, The Birth of the Messiah, 168-170).

The earliest discussion we have is found in St. Justin Martyr, who around A.D. 160 said that they came from Arabia (Dialogue with Trypho 78:1). Around A.D. 210, Tertullian deduced that this is where they came from based on the gifts they offered (Against Marcion 3:13). Although in the ancient world gold and frankincense were associated with Arabia, this isn’t conclusive since they were widely traded in the region.

Many scholars have seen Babylon as a possibility, and the Jewish readers of Matthew would have been familiar with the book of Daniel, which associates magi with Babylonia. It has also been argued that the major Jewish colony there could have given the Magi a special interest in the Jewish Messiah, though this was also a common expectation of Jews in other lands.

Most Church Fathers concluded that the Magi were from Persia. Just after A.D. 200, Clement of Alexandria identified them as coming from there (Stromata 1:15), and they were commonly depicted in early Christian art wearing Persian clothing. They may have been members of the original class of magi.

How did they know?

In popular accounts, the Magi are depicted as following the star that brought them to Bethlehem. That has led many to see the star as a supernatural manifestation that moved around in the sky in a way stars don’t.

But this isn’t what Matthew says. He never claims they were following the star, only that it was ahead of them as they went to Bethlehem and that it stood over the house (2:9). This was a providential coincidence.

They weren’t being led by the star for, as Pope Benedict XVI points out, they initially went to Herod’s palace in Jerusalem—the natural place to find a newborn prince (Jesus of Nazareth: The Infancy Narratives, ch. 4). They assumed that Herod the Great or one of his sons had had a baby boy who would grow up to be king. When the magi learned there was no new prince at the palace, they had to consult with the chief priests and scribes to learn where they needed to go: Bethlehem (2:4).

The fact that the chief priests and scribes looked to a well-known prophecy of the birth of the Messiah (Micah 5:2; cf. Matt. 2:6) suggests the Magi could have seen the appearance of the star as signaling not just the birth of an ordinary king but of a particularly great one: the predicted messiah.

Although Magi weren’t following the star, it did tell them when he was born, for they said, “We have seen his star in the East” (2:2).

Recently, scholars have argued that this is a mistranslation and that the Greek phrase rendered “in the East” (en tê anatolê) should instead be “at its rising”—that is, when it rose over the eastern horizon as the Earth turned. Some have argued that this is a technical term for what is known as a star’s heliacal rising, which occurs when it briefly rises above the horizon just before sunrise.

The real question is what told the Magi that the star was significant and why they linked it to a king of the Jews. Here we can only speculate.

The system of constellations in use at the time, which includes our own zodiac, was developed in northern Mesopotamia around 1130 B.C, and Babylonian and Persian astrologers used it.

It’s not surprising that they would associate a particular star with the birth of a king, because at that time astrology was used to forecast national affairs. Horoscopes weren’t normally worked up for the hoi polloi. Heavenly signs were interpreted as having to do with things of importance, such as relations between nations, wars and rebellions, whether the crops would be good or bad, epidemics—and the birth of kings.

What the star they saw might have been is difficult to determine, but one possibility is Jupiter. At that time, Jupiter and the other planets were considered “wandering” stars, since they moved against the backdrop of “fixed” stars.

Unlike some later Greeks, Mesopotamian astrologers didn’t see the stars as controlling events on Earth. Instead, they thought the gods made their wills known through celestial phenomena, so it was a form of divine revelation. Jupiter was associated with Marduk, the king of the Babylonian pantheon, and it was often involved in signs associated with kings. For example, one Babylonian text says that if Jupiter remains in the sky in the morning, enemy kings will be reconciled.

An Assyrian text indicates that if a lunar eclipse takes place and Jupiter is not in the sky, the king will die. To protect the king, the Assyrians came up with an ingenious solution: they took a condemned criminal and made him a temporary, substitute “king” who could then be executed to save the life of the real king!

Whether Jupiter was the star the Magi saw depends on when Jesus was born, and that’s also something scholars debate.

When was Jesus born?

According to the most common account you hear today, Herod the Great died in 4 B.C., so Jesus would have to have been born before this.

In Matthew 2:7, Herod secretly learns from the Magi when the star appeared, and in 2:16, he kills “all the male children in Bethlehem and in all that region who were two years old or under, according to the time which he had ascertained from the wise men.” This indicates the star was understood as appearing at Jesus’ birth, which is to be expected, since such portents were associated with births (as opposed to conceptions).

It also indicates that Jesus was born as much as two years before the magi arrived—though it may not have been a full two years, since Herod may have added a “safety” margin to his execution order.

Many scholars have thus proposed that Jesus was born around 7 to 6 B.C., and this is the date we commonly hear.

However, other scholars have argued that a better case can be made that Herod died in 1 B.C. (see Jack Finegan, Handbook of Biblical Chronology, 2nd ed., and Andrew Steinmann, From Abraham to Paul). This likely would put Jesus’ birth in 3 to 2 B.C., which is the year Church Fathers identify as the correct one.

It also fits with Luke’s statement that Jesus was “about thirty years old” when he began his ministry (3:23), shortly after John the Baptist began his in “the fifteenth year of the reign Tiberius Caesar” (3:1)—i.e., A.D. 29. Subtracting 30 from A.D. 29, we land in the year 2 B.C. (bearing in mind that there is no “Year 0” between 1 B.C. and A.D. 1).

What was in the sky?

Regardless of which date of Jesus’ birth is correct, it occurred in the first decade B.C. So what notable astronomical events took place then that could have served as the star of Bethlehem?

A large number have been proposed. The sidebar below contains only some.

One of the most interesting of these events was the rising of Jupiter and Venus on August 12, 3 B.C. Since Babylonian times, Jupiter was seen as a heavenly king, and Venus was seen as a heavenly queen, suggesting a birth. Furthermore, the Babylonians named Regulus (the brightest star in Leo) “the king,” and the lion was a traditional symbol of the tribe of Judah (cf. Gen. 49:9).

Also interesting is what happened on September 11, 3 B.C. In Revelation, John says, “A great portent appeared in heaven, a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet, and on her head a crown of twelve stars” (12:1). This woman gives birth to Jesus (12:5). Some have proposed that this encodes information about when he was born: when the sun was in the middle of Virgo (“the virgin”) and thus “clothing” it, with the moon at her feet.

Obviously, we can’t say which if any of these events corresponds to the star of Bethlehem without knowing precisely when Jesus was born. That’s something the Bible doesn’t tell us, and the Church Fathers had different opinions, with only some proposing December 25.

The role of Jewish thought

Thus far, we’ve looked at how the Magi would have interpreted celestial events in terms of established Mesopotamian astrology. This association with paganism gives rise to the question, “Would God really use pagan astrology to signal the birth of his Son?”

That’s a matter for God to decide. Scripture indicates God cares for all people and makes himself known to them in various ways (cf. Rom. 1:19-20). It wouldn’t be so much God using pagan astrology to mark the birth of his Son as choosing to preserve certain true ideas among Gentiles to point to this event.

Also, if the Magi were Persians, they wouldn’t have been polytheists. By this period, the Persians did not believe in the old gods, and their dominant religion was Zoroastrianism. This faith taught the existence of a single, great, all-good creator god to whom they referred as “the Wise Lord” and whom they believed would vanquish evil in the end. They believed in the renovation of the world, the final judgment, and the resurrection of the dead.

If the Magi were Persians, they could have seen themselves as spiritual kin to the Jews and as worshiping the same God—the only true God—using their own terms for him. Additionally, they may well have had contact with Jews living in their own land and thus may have come into contact with biblical revelation that influenced their perception of the star. They could have learned, for example, of the lion as a symbol of Judah, and they could have associated the coming Jewish Messiah with a star.

One of the most famous messianic prophecies is that “a star shall come forth out of Jacob, and a scepter shall rise out of Israel” (Num. 24:17). At that time, this prophecy had long been associated with the Messiah, which is why in the A.D. 130s the messianic pretender Simon bar Kosiba was hailed as “Simon bar Kokhba” (Aramaic, “Simon, son of the Star”).

What about astrology?

What about the role of astrology itself in this account? Although astrology was popular among Gentiles, it wasn’t so among Jews, many of whom looked down on it. This in itself argues that Matthew’s tradition about the magi is historically accurate. It’s not the kind of thing that Jewish Christians would make up.

However, while astrology wasn’t as popular among Jews as among Gentiles, it did exist. Genesis says that God made the sun, moon, and stars “to separate the day from the night; and let them be for signs and for seasons and for days and years” (1:14). This could mean that they are simply to be timekeeping markers. But some Jews thought that their function as “signs” included information about future events. Thus, the Dead Sea Scrolls contain astrological texts.

In the ancient world, there was no rigid distinction between astronomy and astrology. It’s only in the last few centuries that the two have been disentangled. This happened as scientists discovered what the effects the sun, moon, and stars do and don’t have on life here on Earth.

Even Thomas Aquinas, based on the science of his day, thought that the heavenly bodies had an influence on the passions and could, for example, make a man prone to anger—but not in such a way that it would overwhelm his free will (Commentary on Matthew 2:1-2, ST I:115:4, II-II:95:5).

Subsequent scientific research showed they don’t have this kind of effect, and consulting the stars for these purposes is superstition. Thus, the Catechism of the Catholic Church warns against consulting horoscopes (CCC 2116).

While the stars don’t have the kind of influence many once thought they did, that doesn’t mean God can’t use them to signal major events in his plan of the ages. The fact he signaled the birth of his Son with a star shows he can. This isn’t what people think of as astrology, but it’s part of divine providence.

In fact, this doesn’t appear to be the only time God did something like that. On the day of Pentecost, Peter cited the prophet Joel’s prediction that the moon would be turned to blood as fulfilled in their own day (Joel 2:31-32; Acts 2:20-21). It so happens that on the night of the crucifixion (April 3, A.D. 33) a lunar eclipse was visible from Jerusalem. The moon did turn to blood.

Sidebar: What Could Account for the Star of Bethlehem?

7 B.C.

  • December 1: Jupiter and Saturn in conjunction

6 B.C.

  • April 17: Jupiter has its heliacal rising in Ares (a constellation associated with Judaea), with several other significant features in the sky
  • May 27: Jupiter and Saturn in conjunction
  • October 6: Jupiter and Saturn in conjunction

5 B.C.

  • March: A comet in Capricorn

4 B.C.

  • April: A comet or nova (which one is unclear) in Aquilea

3 B.C.

  • August 12: Jupiter and Venus rise in the east, in conjunction with each other, in Leo, near Regulus
  • September 11: The sun in mid-Virgo, with the moon at the feet of Virgo
  • September 14: Jupiter in conjunction with Regulus

2 B.C.

  • February 17: Jupiter in conjunction with Regulus
  • May 8: Jupiter in conjunction with Regulus
  • June 17: Jupiter in conjunction with Venus

The Woman Caught in Adultery

The two longest passages in the New Testament that have questionable origins are the longer ending of Mark (16:9-20) and the section on the adulteress in John’s Gospel (7:53-8:11). Interestingly, both passages are twelve verses long.

We’ve already discussed the longer ending of Mark, and here we take up the story of the adulteress.

In scholarly circles, it is known as the Pericope Adulterae (from Greek and Latin roots, meaning “the section on the adulteress”; note that pericope is pronounced per-IH-kuh-PEE).

In the story, a woman caught in the act of adultery is brought before Jesus, and his opponents test him by asking what should be done with her. The Mosaic Law prescribed death for such offenses (Lev. 20:10, Deut. 22:22), but Jesus says, “Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.” The opponents then disperse, and afterward Jesus tells the woman to go and sin no more.

It’s a vivid, memorable story, and many people know it today.

So why would anyone question it? The first reason is that it is not in many of the early manuscripts. The New Testament was written in Greek, but the pericope is not found in any surviving manuscripts before Codex Bezae, which dates to the A.D. 400s. This is significant, because John was one of the most popular Gospels in the early centuries—as evidenced by the surviving number of copies of it—and we would expect the pericope to be in other early copies if it was part of the original. The pericope also is missing from some early Latin, Syriac, and Coptic manuscripts.

The second reason the pericope is questioned is that it floats. That is, when it does appear, it’s found in different places. Sometimes it follows John 7:52, sometimes 7:36, sometimes  7:44, sometimes it’s tacked on at the end of John’s Gospel (after 21:25), and sometimes it’s at the end of Luke 21 (following 21:38). This reflects the behavior of scribes trying to fit it into the Gospels and being unsure where to place it.

The third reason is that none of the Greek commentators mention the passage before Euthymius Zigabenus, around A.D. 1118. Although this is an argument from silence, a silence of more than 1,000 years is striking and could suggest that most of these commentators were unfamiliar with the passage.

The fourth reason is that the style of the pericope differs from John’s Greek style. Experts indicate that it doesn’t sound like him. Instead, it sounds more like Luke’s Greek style. However, arguments from style are not particularly strong, and it’s always possible that an author is closely following an earlier source that had a different style.

For the above reasons, most contemporary scholars hold that the pericope was not originally part of John’s Gospel but was added to it at a later date. Consequently, many contemporary Bible translations put the pericope in brackets and have a footnote discussing the issue of its origin.

However, scholars also acknowledge that there is evidence that the story is ancient. The fact that the style is said to sound like Luke and that it is sometimes placed in Luke’s Gospel has led some to suggest that it may have actually been penned by Luke rather than John.

Further, the early second century writer Papias of Hierapolis—who was gathering his data at the end of the first century—may have mentioned the story. In the 300s, the historian Eusebius stated that Papias “has set forth another story about a woman who was accused before the Lord of many sins, which is contained in the Gospel according to the Hebrews” (Church History 3:39).

Some have thought that this may be a reference to the Pericope Adulterae, but this is not certain. While it could have appeared both in John (or Luke) and the Gospel of the Hebrews, if it was the same story, we’d expect Eusebius to refer to it as being found in one of the canonical Gospels. Further, the pericope involves a woman accused of one sin—an act of adultery that she was caught during—not a multitude of sins.

Still, it is possible that this is early evidence for the existence of the story, if not its placement in a canonical Gospel.

Of the arguments against the pericope’s originality to one of the canonical Gospels, the strongest is its absence in early Greek manuscripts. What could explain this?

One possibility is that—after John (or Luke) wrote the passage—an early, influential scribe left it out of his copy, and this affected the copies that followed. That would explain why later scribes weren’t sure where to reinsert it, and it would explain why Greek commentators didn’t mention the passage for so long. The only remaining argument is stylistic in nature, and we’ve mentioned that stylistic arguments tend to be inconclusive.

The major question would be why an early, influential scribe would omit the passage. While scribes do occasionally omit part of a sentence or a verse by accident, the omission of 12 full verses looks deliberate. So what would the reason be?

A key proposal is that it has to do with the subject that the pericope involves: the forgiveness of adultery.

Adultery was regarded as a particularly heinous sin, and some early Christians believed that a person could be sacramentally forgiven of it only once after baptism. Others believed that it required a very lengthy period of penance before reconciliation. And some thought that it could not be forgiven at all.

Around A.D. 220, Tertullian of Carthage was of this view. “Such [sins] are incapable of pardon—murder, idolatry, fraud, apostasy, blasphemy; of course, too, adultery and fornication” (On Modesty 19).

Around 251, St. Cyprian of Carthage wrote that “among our predecessors, some of the bishops here in our province thought that peace was not to be granted to adulterers, and wholly closed the gate of repentance against adultery” (Letter 51:21).

Given the early stage of doctrinal development, the Pericope Adulterae—in which Jesus simply says to the adulteress, “Has no one condemned you? . . . Neither do I condemn you; go, and do not sin again”—could seem shocking and in conflict with what they otherwise believed about forgiving adultery.

Consequently, there could be a motive for early, influential scribes to remove the passage—presumably thinking it had been added by an earlier scribe who was lax on the issue of adultery.

The nature of the passage may also have made some commentators reluctant to discuss it for the same reason.

If the Pericope Adulterae was not originally in one of the Gospels, what is its status as part of the Bible?

A footnote in the New American Bible: Revised Edition states, “The Catholic Church accepts this passage as canonical scripture.”

The basis for this statement is that the Council of Trent infallibly defined that the books of the Catholic canon are “sacred and canonical, these same books entire with all their parts” (Decree Concerning the Canonical Scriptures).

This affirmation is most clearly directed against the views of Protestants who wanted to consider the deuterocanonical portions of Daniel and Esther to be non-inspired.

There was some discussion at the council of the Pericope Adulterae, but the fact that the final decree does not make it clear which “parts” of biblical books it has in mind—beyond those of Daniel and Esther—could be seen as leaving the matter not fully settled.

However, even if the passage was not original to the Gospels, it still may have been written in the apostolic age and could count as inspired scripture.

And even if this were not the case, the passage teaches nothing contrary to the Christian faith. Early authors who were skeptical of forgiveness for adultery were mistaken, and this passage provides a dramatic, memorable illustration of a truth of the faith:

There is no offense, however serious, that the Church cannot forgive. There is no one, however wicked and guilty, who may not confidently hope for forgiveness, provided his repentance is honest. Christ who died for all men desires that in his Church the gates of forgiveness should always be open to anyone who turns away from sin (CCC 982).

Death Dynasty: Who were the Herods, and what do we know about them?

Jesus Christ was the king of the Jews, but he wasn’t the only person of his day to have that title.

In fact, according to the Romans, the legitimate king of the Jews was Herod the Great. This Herod was on the throne when Jesus was born, and he tried to kill Jesus as an infant, but he is not the only Herod in the Bible. We continue to read about Herod’s descendants in the Gospels and in Acts.

Who were these people, and what do we know about them?

This is the story of the Herods—Judaea’s outrageous ruling family.

Family origins

Herod the Great’s ancestors were not Jews. They were from Idumea, or Edom, as it is called in the Old Testament. This is a land south of the Dead Sea, whose inhabitants were reckoned as descendants of Jacob’s brother, Esau (cf. Gen. 25:19-34).

A little before 100 B.C., the Maccabean leader John Hyrcanus conquered Idumea and forced the inhabitants to be circumcised and convert to Judaism if they wanted to stay in their land (Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews 13:9:1).That included a family that rose to prominence in Jewish society and eventually became the Herodian dynasty.

The Herods were thus Jewish by religion but Edomite by ancestry, a point that bred resentment among their Jewish subjects.

Birth of a dynasty

The man responsible for Herod’s rise was his father, Antipas the Idumean.

Antipas had become a key advisor to the Hasmonean rulers of Israel, whom he played against each other in order to gain influence for himself. He also courted favor with neighboring peoples, and—more significantly—he courted the favor of the Romans.

When Julius Caesar was fighting in nearby Alexandria, Egypt, Antipas took troops there and defended Caesar, who made him a governor. Antipas then used this position to usurp the place of the Hasmonean dynasty, which had ruled Israel since the time of the Maccabees.

Needless to say, Antipas made lots of enemies, and eventually one of them poisoned him.

The rise of Herod the Great

When Herod was a young man, his father appointed him governor of Galilee and his brother, Phasael, governor of Jerusalem.

Herod quickly endeared himself to the Romans by capturing and executing a band of brigands who were preying on his territory. This did not endear him to the Jewish authorities, in part because only the Sanhedrin was allowed to issue death sentences at that time.

The Sanhedrin summoned young Herod before it, but instead of appearing in the customary black clothing, he strode into its chamber wearing purple, with a group of bodyguards ready to defend him, and carrying a letter of protection from the governor of Syria.

Overawed, the council was afraid to do anything against Herod. The president of the tribunal, Shemaiah, warned the others that they would regret their failure to take action against Herod.

And they did.

Herod the king

Julius Caesar was assassinated by a group of Roman senators in 44 B.C., leading to a period of civil war. Full stability was not restored until Augustus Caesar became emperor in 27 B.C.

Herod exploited the period of instability to his own advantage, switching allegiance as needed to promote his own interests. At one point, Herod was forced to flee Judaea by the last of the Hasmonean kings, Antigonus, who had been proclaimed king and high priest by the Parthians.

Herod ended up in Rome, where the future Augustus and his rival Mark Antony pleaded Herod’s case before the Senate. The body then proclaimed him king of the Jews.

He returned to Judaea and took possession of his kingdom by conquering it with the help of the Romans. Antigonus, the last king of the Maccabean line, was executed, and the Herodian dynasty began.

Herod the builder

In some respects, Herod proved an able ruler. During his reign, his kingdom prospered economically, which allowed him to raise the money needed to conduct an extensive series of building projects.

Constructing large and important public works was one of the ways ancient rulers made a name and—literally—built a legacy for themselves. Herod outdid many others in this respect, which is one reason he is styled “the great.”

He even conducted building projects in foreign lands, to build his reputation abroad, but of course most of his building was done in Palestine. This included as series of lavish palaces for himself, but he also had built many facilities for public use, including Hellenistic innovations like public baths, gymnasia, and racetracks.

To show his loyalty to his Roman patrons, Herod named many of the things he built after them. This included the Antonia Fortress in Jerusalem (named for Mark Antony), the Samaritan city Sebaste (for Augustus’s Greek name), and the coastal city of Caesarea Maritima (again for Caesar Augustus). The name of Augustus’s long-time colleague, Agrippa, was even inscribed on one of the gates of the Jerusalem temple.

The temple

Herod initiated a massive campaign to expand and beautify the Jerusalem temple, which was to be the most important of all Herod’s building projects.  This project, carried out on Judaism’s holiest site and expected to last for centuries, was meant to ensure Herod’s immortality.

The results were impressive. According to the Babylonian Talmud, there was a popular saying: “He who has not seen the temple of Herod has never seen a beautiful building” (Baba Batra 4a). One of Jesus’ own disciples exclaimed: “Look, Teacher, what wonderful stones and what wonderful buildings!” (Mark 13:1).

But Jesus himself stated: “Do you see these great buildings? There will not be left here one stone upon another that will not be thrown down” (v. 2). Far from becoming an immortal monument to the memory of Herod, the Jerusalem temple was swiftly destroyed.

Herod the paranoid tyrant

As Herod’s reign progressed, he became increasingly paranoid and unstable. There were indeed plots against him, and those around him manipulated his fears to their own advantage, leading him to lash out violently, including against members of his own family.

Herod had a large number of people executed or assassinated, including members of his broader family and even some of his own wives and sons.

One of Herod’s main wives was named Mariamne, and she was of Hasmonean origin. Herod married her, at least in part, to cement ties with the nation’s former ruling family, even as his own family was displacing it.

Herod professed to love Mariamne so much that, on more than one occasion, he gave orders for her to be killed when he himself died, so that he might not be separated from her in death. She, however, became convinced that he did not really love her, and relations between them turned frosty. Eventually, Herod’s sister convinced him that Mariamne was planning to poison him, and she was executed.

Herod’s own sons fared little better. Two of Mariamne’s sons—Alexander and Aristobulus—had fractious relations with their father, who suspected them of plotting against him. Eventually, he brought them up on charges of treason before Augustus Caesar, who allowed Herod to convene a court to try them.

The court found them guilty, and they were put to death by strangulation.

They weren’t the last of Herod’s sons to be killed. Herod’s firstborn son—Antipater, born of Herod’s first wife, Doris—for many years was favored by Herod and heir to his throne. But he, too, was eventually brought up on charges of plotting against his father.

He was executed just five days before Herod’s own death.

In view of such executions, the emperor Augustus reportedly quipped, “It is better to be Herod’s pig than son” (Macrobius, Saturnalia, 2:4:11)—the joke being that, since Herod was a Jew, he didn’t eat pork and his pig would be safe.

Slaughter of the innocents

Against this background, it is easy to understand the account of Herod the Great in the Gospels.

The magi came from the east, seeking the newly born king of the Jews. It was natural to seek such an infant in the court of the current king—Herod—and so they appeared, asking, “Where is he who has been born king of the Jews?” (Matt. 2:2).

Since Herod killed three of his own sons for plotting against him, you can imagine how this would have set off alarm bells for him. The people of Jerusalem, knowing Herod’s fears about usurpers, would have been alarmed as well, and so they were: “When Herod the king heard this, he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him” (Matt. 2:3).

Herod manipulated the magi into finding the child for him, but when they failed to report back, he flew into a rage: “Then Herod, when he saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, was in a furious rage, and he sent and killed all the male children in Bethlehem and in all that region who were two years old or under, according to the time which he had ascertained from the wise men” (Matt. 2:16).

Sometimes it is objected that we do not have an independent record of this event, but even absent that, the event is entirely in keeping with what we know of Herod’s character and how he responded to perceived threats to his throne.

Herod’s death

Herod survived all the perceived plots against him and died, apparently, of natural causes. What those causes were, however, is not entirely clear. He was felled by a mysterious disease that has proved difficult for modern medical experts to diagnose.

According to Josephus, “There was a gentle fever upon him, and an intolerable itching over all the surface of his body, and continual pains in his colon, and dropsical tumors about his feet and an inflammation of the abdomen—and a putrefaction of his privy member, that produced worms. Besides which he had a difficulty of breathing upon him, and could not breathe but when he sat upright, and had a convulsion of all his members” (War, 1:33:5).

Modern specialists have proposed a wide range of diagnoses for these maladies. One recent suggestion is kidney failure coupled with gangrene in the genitals.

Herod sought various forms of treatment before he died. Needless to say, many of his subjects viewed his death as a judgment from God and rejoiced at Herod’s fall.

The tyrant knew there would be rejoicing at his death, and to prevent that from happening, near his death he had many of the most eminent men in the land locked up in a hippodrome (a stadium for horse races) with orders that they be killed as soon as he died, so that every family would mourn upon his passing.

Fortunately, his orders were not carried out.

The next generation

Although Herod had killed several of his sons, he did not have all of them executed, and the survivors became the next generation of leaders in Judaea. It was not a smooth transition.

Three of Herod’s sons—Archelaus, Antipas, and Philip—ended up inheriting significant portions of his kingdom. Until shortly before his death, Herod’s will named Antipas as his principal successor, but in the end he changed his will in favor of Archelaus.

This set up a dispute among family members, with some favoring Archelaus, others favoring Antipas, and still others favoring the idea of direct Roman rule over Palestine.

The matter was ultimately settled by the Emperor Augustus, when the three brothers traveled to him for his decision. This trip forms part of the background to Jesus’ parable of the talents, in which “a nobleman went into a far country to receive kingly power and then return” (Luke 19:11-27).

Ultimately, Augustus confirmed Archelaus as Herod’s principal successor. The territories of Judaea, Samaria, and the family homeland of Idumea thus went to Archelaus, the territories of Galilee and Perea went to Antipas, and the northeasterly part of Herod’s kingdom (Iturea and Trachonitis) went to Philip.

Collectively, these brothers—like other members of the family—are known as Herodians. Each of the three is also called by the name Herod (Herod Archelaus, Herod Antipas, Herod Philip), and each is mentioned in the New Testament.

Herod Archelaus

We meet Archelaus only briefly, when the Holy Family is returning from their flight to Egypt.

Matthew notes that St. Joseph “took the child and his mother, and went to the land of Israel. But when he heard that Archelaus reigned over Judea in place of his father Herod, he was afraid to go there, and being warned in a dream he withdrew to the district of Galilee. And he went and dwelt in a city called Nazareth” (2:21-23).

Had it not been for Archelaus obtaining Judea, Joseph might have taken the Holy Family back to Bethlehem, at least for a time. He went instead to Galilee, which was ruled by Antipas, perhaps indicating that he thought Antipas was a less dangerous ruler than Archelaus.

Archelaus had a poor reputation as a ruler. Even before Augustus had confirmed his position, Archelaus had 3,000 of his subjects massacred in the temple at Passover (which he then canceled). He made many enemies among his subjects, and eventually the Romans banished him to what is now France and assumed direct rule of his territory.

This is why, when Jesus is crucified, the Roman governor Pontius Pilate is in charge in Judea rather than one of the Herodians.

Herod Antipas

St. Joseph’s judgment that it would be better to live under Herod Antipas than Archelaus may be reflected in the fact that, when Jesus was an adult, Herod Antipas was still ruling Galilee. By comparison to his brother Archelaus, Antipas was a more stable and long-lasting ruler.

Because he ruled Galilee during Jesus’ ministry, Herod Antipas is the family member about whom we hear the most in the Gospels. Often he is referred to simply as “Herod.”

The Gospels portray him as a complex man. For a start, he had an unlawful marriage. At some point, he apparently stole Herodias, the wife of his brother Herod Philip. That put him in opposition to John the Baptist, who opposed the union (Mark 6:18), leading Herod to arrest John (Matt. 14:3).

Although he had John in custody, and although his wife hated John and wanted him dead, Herod Antipas served as John’s protector and had an unusual fascination with the fiery preacher: “Herod feared John, knowing that he was a righteous and holy man, and kept him safe. When he heard him, he was much perplexed; and yet he heard him gladly” (Mark 6:20).

Eventually, after her daughter, Salome, delighted Antipas with a special dance at his birthday party, Herodias was able to manipulate him into giving the order for John’s death (Mark 6:21-28).

This did not end Antipas’s fascination with John. When he began to hear reports about Jesus, he thought Jesus might be John risen from the dead (Mark 6:14), and he sought to see Jesus for himself (Luke 9:9).

There are also indications he sought to kill Jesus. At one point, some Pharisees seek to help Jesus by telling him, “Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you” (Luke 13:31). In the end, Herod does get to see Jesus: During the Passion narrative, Pontius Pilate sends him to see Herod (Luke 23:6-12), and Herod mocks Jesus and sends him back (Luke 23:11).

Although Antipas lasted longer than his brother, Archelaus, he too ended up being exiled to France by the Romans after being accused of plotting against the Emperor Caligula.

Herod Philip

We know less about Herod Philip than we do his brothers. In fact, there is some confusion in the historical sources about him.

As the ruler of the most northeasterly part of Herod the Great’s territories, Philip does not enter very much into the Gospel accounts, as Jesus’ ministry was not based there.

He was the first husband of Herodias, before she married Herod Antipas (Mark 6:17). It appears that he was the father of her daughter, Salome, who performed the dance that led to John the Baptist’s death (Josephus, Antiquities 18:5:4).

Herod Agrippa I

Eventually, the generation of Herod the Great’s sons began to pass, and a new generation began to take their place.

The key figure in this generation was Herod Agrippa, one of the original Herod’s grandsons. He was named after the Roman statesman and general Marcus Agrippa, who was a friend of Herod the Great and a colleague of Augustus.

Herod Agrippa’s father was Aristobulus, one of the sons his grandfather had executed. Agrippa was educated in Rome and spent much time there. He was friends with the emperors Caligula and Claudius and played a pivotal role in helping stabilize Claudius in office after the dramatic assassination of Caligula by his own guards.

A roguish and flamboyant figure, Herod Agrippa was sometimes down on his luck, but ultimately he rose to prominence, being given the title “king” and also territories that ultimately became larger than those of Herod the Great. He was a popular ruler and, in his own day, was referred to as “Agrippa the Great” (Josephus, Antiquities 17:2:2).

We meet him in Acts 12, where he has James the son of Zebedee put to death (12:1-2) and attempts to have Peter killed as well (12:3-19).

Agrippa met his end when, at a public meeting with a delegation from Tyre and Sidon, he was acclaimed as a god and did not rebuke the flattery. He was immediately struck with a violent illness and died five days later (Acts 12:20-23; Antiquities 19:8:2).

Agrippa II—Last of the Herods

The Herodian dynasty lasted one more generation in Judaea. Its principal figure was the son of Herod Agrippa, who also bore his father’s name.

He is referred to in Acts simply as “Agrippa,” and we meet him when he and his sister, Berenice, pay a welcome visit to the Roman governor Festus, who had St. Paul in custody (25:13 through 26:32).

Agrippa takes an interest in Paul’s case, and when a hearing is held in which Paul speaks to Festus, Agrippa, and Berenice, he takes the opportunity to evangelize, and Agrippa responds: “In a short time you think to make me a Christian!” Paul replies with the comedic line that he wishes all men would become as he is—“except for these chains” (26:28-29).

After Paul was sent to Rome, Agrippa and Berenice went on to play a major role in trying to prevent the Jewish War that broke out in A.D. 66 and led to the destruction of the Herod the Great’s temple in A.D. 70.

Part of Agrippa’s own territories revolted, and he fought alongside the Roman forces to put down the rebellion. Ultimately, they succeeded, and Agrippa was rewarded for his loyalty to Rome.

Little is heard of him after that and he, together with the Herodian dynasty, vanishes into history.