Every few weeks Shirley Paulson looks back over recent conversations in early Christian studies and shares some developments that she thinks curious readers might enjoy knowing about.

In my search for where new scholarship in early Christianity is heading, I found that the EABS (European Association of Biblical Studies) conference, held in Leuven in July 2026, offers an insightful window into new developments. Three of these developments have caught my attention.

First, beyond the effort to reconstruct historical events, attention is turning toward studying how events were remembered and interpreted.

Second and similarly, beyond the study of written texts, scholars are paying attention to the lived worlds of those who wrote, copied, and read the texts.

Third, beyond the search for the “correct text,” scholars are interested in learning valuable insights from the variations between the texts.

These three developments remind me that by looking beyond the canon or beyond traditions, we’re not being asked to abandon what we trust. A larger field of evidence opens possibilities for asking new questions. Here are some examples.

Remembering the Passion

For the first development, in the call for papers for the EABS research unit, “Apocrypha and Christian Origins: Plural Memories and Identities,” one of the chairs, Cecilia Antonelli wrote that they were paying particular attention to the role of apocryphal traditions in “constructing plural memories of the Passion and their interaction with canonical writings.” They were looking for broader reflections on the dynamics of inclusion, exclusion, and re-appropriation in the making of Christian identity. Besides the questions about what happened historically, scholars are asking what these various accounts can tell us about how different Christian communities remembered the Passion and how those memories helped shape different Christian identities.

I’m intrigued by this kind of study because exploring how various memories shaped different Christian identities may help us understand relationships among ancient communities—and perhaps prompt us to think differently about the role of memory in Christian identities today.

Evidence Beyond the Written Word

For the second development, the research unit, “Jews, Christians, and the Materiality of Mortuary Rituals in Late Antiquity,” reminded me of my recent Substack post on Sarah Parkhouse’s article, where physical evidence calls into question the long-held assumption that Perpetua was martyred in a large, grandiose amphitheater. This EABS unit completed its third and final year studying burial locations, inscriptions, objects, and places to reveal how identities and relationships actually operated. They are interested in addressing the complex interplay between religious traditions—how they can be both distinct and intertwined. Together, archaeological evidence, epigraphic sources, and historical texts can help scholars trace the continuous reconstruction of identity, memory, and social relations.

One of the comments in the project description surprised me. Scholars have already seen evidence that the mortuary rituals “seem to be directed towards the ongoing social personhood of the deceased.” These rituals took on so much more meaning to me with that understanding.

When Variations Tell Us Something

The third development, gaining insights from variations between texts, challenges the way I was taught to read ancient texts. Dávid Cielontko compares versions of an episode in which the child Jesus reprimands a teacher. In the version scholars have most often studied, Jesus appears responsible for the teacher’s death—a troubling episode for interpretations that see Jesus developing morally throughout the Infancy Gospel of Thomas. But an earlier version does not implicate Jesus in the death. The difference between the versions therefore becomes evidence in its own right.

Instead of searching for “the enduring message in the correct version,” I am reminded by Cielontko’s approach how valuable these variants can be for understanding the people who transmitted and interpreted these texts.

Looking Ahead: Theology Beer Camp

And finally, I want to offer a brief “looking ahead” note. James McGrath brought Theology Beer Camp (October 8-10, 2026) to my attention; he’ll be attending. It brings together scholars, podcasters, theologians, and interested non-specialists. This year’s theme, “The Godpodcalypse,” raises the question: “What does the kingdom of God look like when the world feels broken?” The event offers an interesting opportunity to see how biblical scholarship enters contemporary theological conversations.

© 2026 by Shirley Paulson

What is your most recent publication?

Garrick V. Allen and Kimberley Fowler, “The Story of Codex H (GA 015): Manuscript Migration and Primary Sources in Biblical Studies,” Journal of Biblical Literature (2025) 144.1: 167–196. https://doi.org/10.15699/jbl.1441.2025.9

My most recent publications are from a multi-year project that recently finished, exploring an important New Testament manuscript of Paul’s letters from the 6th century. The manuscript is known as GA 015 (or Codex H to its friends, which I hope I can now count myself among, having spent so much time with it the past few years...). I was lucky enough to be part of a fantastic team of scholars exploring what Codex H could teach us about early Christian scribal and annotation practices and what this meant for how biblical manuscripts were used for study or in worship settings during the late antique period and beyond.

Will you give a summary of the article?

The manuscript is our oldest witness to a system of paratextual annotations (i.e., interpretative aids, introductory texts, and markings found before, after, and around the main biblical text) that scholars call the “Euthalian apparatus.” This is because in some of the manuscripts where we find these annotations, they seem to be attached to a person called Euthalius. We don’t know for sure who he was, but the textual apparatus associated with him is found in the majority of New Testament manuscripts of Paul, Acts, and the Catholic Epistles produced right through the middle ages.

Codex H is a very fragmentary manuscript now (with pages held in Paris, Turin, Kyiv, St. Petersburg, Moscow, and on Mount Athos in Greece, where we believe it was last an intact book). Several of its pages were taken away from its home at the Megisti Lavra monastery on Mount Athos by various travelers and collectors, largely illicitly. Its story is a fascinating one, and you can read about its history in an article that I wrote together with Garrick Allen from Glasgow University for the Journal of Biblical Literature. The article is open access, so you can read it online for free.

Were there other outlets for this project?

Garrick V. Allen, Kimberley A. Fowler, Emanuele Scieri, and Maxim Venetskov, The Euthalian Tradition of the New Testament: A Catalogue of Greek Manuscripts. Leiden: Brill, 2025. https://doi.org/10.1163/9789004736917

Yes, the first is not for the faint-hearted, since it catalogues every single Euthalian paratextual feature in over 600 Greek New Testament manuscripts. If you’re interested in learning more about how late-ancient and medieval readers of Acts, Paul, and the Catholic Epistles would have encountered the texts on the page, the catalogue also has a nice introduction to the various features of the Euthalian system and explains how they worked to shape and deepen understanding of these biblical texts. I worked on this with my three colleagues from the project, and again, it is open access and free for anyone to read or download.

Finally, and perhaps most exciting of all, here is the Greek edition.

We have just finished the final proofs for our brand new edition of Codex H, which we made after the wonderful people at EMEL (the Early Manuscripts Electronic Library) traveled with us to Greece, Italy, and France to take new multispectral images of the manuscript. Thanks to their work, we were even able to recover text from now-lost pages, text that had imprinted itself onto surviving pages but is largely invisible to the naked eye. While we’re waiting for the print and digital edition of the book to come out, you can see the results of this here.

Are there any reviews or responses you’d like to mention?

The project gathered a fair amount of attention worldwide in the media, which we didn’t expect when we started out! If you search for the project online, you will find several short news articles, YouTube videos, and the like. Some of these border on being a bit sensationalist, but we were absolutely thrilled that a New Testament manuscript was making headlines and hope that it inspires people to think about the material history of the Bible and why it’s important for scholars and Christian readers alike.

What idea or question inspired you to do this research?

For me, this has always been a real driving factor in my research, not just of this New Testament manuscript, but of all the early Christian texts that I work with. Those who know me or my work will know that much of my time is spent working on the Coptic texts from Nag Hammadi. Here also their materiality has been a draw for me ever since I was a PhD student. Thinking about the physical form of a text tells us so much that we miss in the polished editions we buy from the bookstore. Spending time with the artifacts themselves and thinking about where they were produced, where and how they might have been used, and the journeys they have taken, gives us so many new insights. When I started the project on Codex H, I thought that there couldn’t be much more to learn about Paul’s letters (I know... Pauline scholars will be coming for me now...). I was proved very wrong indeed!

Any recent updates you’d like readers to know?

Now that the Codex H project has finished, I’ve returned to Nag Hammadi (in spirit, at least) and am in the final stages of a new translation, introduction, and thematic exploration of the Gospel of Philip. The book will be part of a series that I co-edit (click here), and all being well, it should come out with Cambridge University Press in the not too distant future...

© 2026 by Shirley Paulson

The issues Paul Linjamaa explores in The Nag Hammadi Codices and Their Ancient Readers are so diverse and thought-provoking that I want to devote several separate posts to them. In my July 27 post, I described a significant shift in scholarship—from trying to recover the meaning of second-century texts we no longer possess in their original form to paying closer attention to the surviving fourth-century manuscripts themselves.

The book’s second chapter asks readers to take another unexpected step. The discovery of a manuscript is more than an interesting backstory. It shapes the questions scholars can legitimately ask about the manuscript itself. When, where, and how these books were discovered—and how that story has been told—can influence the way we interpret the texts today.

Until reading Linjamaa, I had never paid much attention to the debates surrounding the Nag Hammadi discovery. I assumed the important questions began once the books were opened. Linjamaa persuaded me otherwise. How the manuscripts entered the modern world affects how confidently we can understand them today.

The importance of the find story

The discovery of the Nag Hammadi codices has often been presented as an exciting human-interest story. Yet Linjamaa argues that the “find story” is itself an important part of the scholarly evidence. Questions about the discovery raise larger issues concerning archaeology, the antiquities trade, historical memory, and even the assumptions modern scholars bring to ancient texts.

One practical concern is that ancient manuscripts command enormous prices on the black market. That creates incentives for looting, concealment, misleading stories, and the destruction of archaeological evidence. When the circumstances of a discovery are uncertain, historians lose valuable information that might otherwise help explain how the manuscripts were preserved and used.

The famous Nag Hammadi discovery illustrates these challenges. In the late 1940s, French scholar Jean Doresse interviewed the local farmer, Muhammad Ali al-Samman, who reportedly discovered the codices while digging for fertilizer near Nag Hammadi. According to Ali al-Saaman’s story, the books had been sealed inside a large jar. Fearing that a jinn might be trapped inside, he hesitated to open it. Eventually, hoping to find gold, he broke the jar open only to discover books instead. Some of the papyrus, he later claimed, was burned by his mother as kindling. At about the same time, he became involved in a family blood feud and spent time in prison before eventually selling the manuscripts—the reason given for the long delay between the discovery and the sale of the manuscripts.

It is certainly a memorable story.

But it changed repeatedly

Years later, in the 1970s, James Robinson, who directed the first international translation project of the Nag Hammadi texts, made extensive efforts to locate the original discovery site and interview al-Samman again. Despite Robinson’s careful work, important details remained inconsistent. Al-Samman could not identify the exact location where the books had been found, and later versions of his account differed from earlier ones. In a 1987 television documentary, for example, he described breaking open the jar immediately, contradicting earlier versions. When Robinson questioned these discrepancies, al-Samman reportedly shrugged them off, explaining that such details had seemed unimportant to him. “It was all just rubbish to us,” he claimed.

The inconsistencies in the find story led scholars to ask another question: Why did earlier researchers find certain versions of the story so believable? That question opened broader discussions about Orientalism, colonial assumptions, and the ways Western scholars have imagined both Egypt and the Nag Hammadi texts.

Orientalism involves more than simply believing that the West is superior to the East. It also refers to the tendency to construct an imagined picture of “the East” that reflects Western expectations and stereotypes. Some scholars therefore questioned whether elements such as the frightened peasant, the jinn in the jar, and the dramatic family feud revealed more about modern assumptions of Oriental culture than about what actually happened.

Others proposed entirely different explanations for the discovery, suggesting that the books may have been stolen from graves rather than buried in a sealed jar. The books could have been guides for the soul of the deceased to find heaven. The point is not simply to decide which version is correct. Rather, the competing stories demonstrate how uncertain archaeological evidence becomes once its original context has been disturbed.

Orientalism or heresy?

Linjamaa then broadens the discussion even further. He reminds readers that decades of scholarship have been influenced by the traditional distinction between orthodoxy and heresy. Yet some modern interpretations have replaced one simplified picture with another. Instead of viewing the Nag Hammadi texts as dangerous Christian heresy, some have portrayed them as expressions of timeless Eastern wisdom akin to Buddhism or Hinduism.

Linjamaa argues that this interpretation is also misleading. As he writes, “the form of Eastern religion that the Nag Hammadi texts have been thought to represent...is not Eastern religion per se but, rather, contemporary views of Eastern religion invented to fit a Western context” (64). The popularity of the Nag Hammadi texts during the religious experimentation of the 1960s and 1970s, particularly in North America, encouraged many readers to associate them with a generalized spirituality that tells us more about modern culture than about late antiquity.

His conclusion surprised me. The accusation of Orientalism by current scholars is not primarily about the dramatic find story itself. It is part of a much larger history of how modern readers have interpreted these writings—as heretical, countercultural, mystical, or “Eastern”—often reflecting their own cultural assumptions as much as the ancient texts.

Why this matters

For me, this chapter changes the way I think about the discovery story about the Nag Hammadi codices. It is not merely an entertaining introduction before the “real” scholarship unravels the meaning of the texts. It has become part of the evidence scholars must evaluate. Understanding these manuscripts requires not only reading the ancient texts but also examining the modern stories, assumptions, and historical circumstances through which they reached us. In that sense, the history of their discovery continues to shape the history we write about them today.

Josephus is probably the most indispensable historian for understanding the world of Jesus. Yet few ancient writers have been judged so differently. To some, he was a traitor. To others, he preserved the history that would otherwise have been lost. The fascinating question is not only who Josephus was, but why people have remembered him so differently.

Who was Josephus, and why do people disagree about him so strongly? The short answer is that although he was the most important historian of first-century Judea and the world of Jesus, he appears to have been speaking out of both sides of his mouth. He was a devoted Jew who fought against Rome before ultimately aligning himself with the Roman Empire. He is also one of very few prominent figures from the first century who can be remembered, at least to a degree, from his own writings. Yet, ironically, later generations remembered him in ways he probably never intended.

Josephus’s life story

His story begins with his upbringing in a priestly and royal Jewish family—and was probably educated within the Pharisaic tradition. He was born in Jerusalem in 37, shortly after the crucifixion of Jesus. According to his autobiography (Life), he studied the teachings of the Pharisees, Sadducees, and Essenes, and even spent time in the wilderness with an ascetic. Historians are uncertain how much he wrote was historically accurate and how much was rhetorical positioning—or even if later scribes significantly altered some of his writings.

Even so, historians generally agree on several major events of his life, and these may explain why his legacy is so controversial and why he wanted to present himself as he did.

When he was 26, Josephus traveled to Rome, ostensibly to encourage Roman authorities to release some Jewish priests who had been held prisoner there. Although he succeeded in securing their release, during his time in Rome, he learned of the immense power and wealth of the Roman Empire. His experience of Rome may also have reinforced his conviction that open rebellion against such a powerful empire would end disastrously.

Josephus becomes the Galilean military commander

Despite his reservations, within only a couple of years, Jewish resistance continued to mount and finally broke into open revolt. The revolutionary government of Jerusalem appointed Josephus military commander of Galilee, one of the most dangerous regions in the conflict. It may have been no surprise to Josephus, but the Roman soldiers quickly advanced through Galilee. After a forty-seven day siege, Josephus backed off and took refuge with thirty-nine other Jewish soldiers in a cave—or the fortress— of Jotapata. As he tells the story, in order to avoid surrender, they drew lots to kill each other in turn. Only Josephus and one other man remained, and the two finally chose to surrender to the Romans.

Josephus, the Jew, gains Roman favor

Was he to be admired for his ingenuity or denounced as a coward or traitor? His relationship with Rome became increasingly complicated. First, he claims that after his surrender to Vespasian, he predicted Vespasian would soon become emperor—an improbable scenario at the time. And while he was back in Rome—this time as a captive—he befriended Vespasian’s son, Titus. Whether Josephus actually made this prediction or not, within two years, Vespasian did become emperor. Second, after taking the throne, Vespasian granted Josephus his freedom, and Josephus then assumed the emperor’s family name of Flavius! By this time “Flavius Josephus” had become closely associated with the Roman imperial household and was even granted Roman citizenship.

Titus (Vespasian’s son) requested Josephus to accompany him during the final stages of the war he led against Jerusalem in 70 CE. In his privileged role, Josephus sometimes acted as an interpreter and negotiator for Titus. But the battle closed in on the Temple itself. Josephus was still a Jew. He was also an aide to the Roman military. And he wrote the story while living in Rome under imperial patronage.

Josephus witnessed the burning of the Temple

In his account of the burning of the Temple, Josephus claims that Titus actually hoped to preserve the Temple because of its extraordinary beauty. The crucial moment came when fighting intensified around the Temple and Roman soldiers became increasingly difficult to control. One of the soldiers—“moved by some divine impulse” (Josephus’s words)—threw a burning torch into the chambers adjoining the sanctuary, and the fire quickly spread beyond anyone’s control. Scholars are unable to discern exactly where the truth lies.

After the war, Josephus settled permanently in Rome. He devoted the rest of his life to writing history as he lived and perceived it. His major works include The Jewish War, an account of the revolt against Rome; Antiquities of the Jews, a sweeping history of the Jewish people from creation to his own time; Life, his autobiography and defense against critics; and Against Apion, a vigorous defense of Judaism against Greek and Roman misunderstandings.

Josephus and Jesus

In one of his writings—Antiquities of the Jews (Book 18, sections 63-64)—a brief passage refers to Jesus. Josephus himself had no interest in Jesus, so the passage lends another odd perspective on Josephus. It tells us that “about this time there lived Jesus, a wise man…who performed surprising deeds… He was the Messiah.” Most scholars believe the passage was later altered by Christian copyists. Many think Josephus originally referred to Jesus, but not in the explicitly Christian language found in later manuscripts.

Since Josephus was a Jew uninterested in Jesus, he most likely would never have referred to him as “the Messiah” almost nonchalantly. His interest was in Pilate, who was no friend of the Jews, and it was Pilate (not the Sanhedrin) who ordered the execution of Jesus.

Josephus remembering and remembered

Despite his multi-faceted approach to the historical events of his time, the writings of Josephus are invaluable because they describe the political, religious, and cultural world in which Jesus and the earliest Jesus movement emerged. He discusses the Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes, high priests, Herod’s family, Pontius Pilate, John the Baptist, James the brother of Jesus, and the Roman administration of Judea.

Josephus probably died around 100 CE, leaving behind the most extensive surviving history of first-century Judaism.

He wanted to be remembered as the man who tried to save Jerusalem and its Temple. But many later Jews remembered him as the man who defected and stood with the Romans while the Temple burned. Today, historians want to know how much of Josephus’s account reflects what actually happened, and how much of it reflects how he wanted to be remembered. Despite the questions, Josephus remains the single most important historian for understanding the world of Jesus. Without his writings, much of what we know about first-century Judaism and the earliest followers of Jesus would simply have been lost.

Every few weeks Shirley Paulson looks back over recent conversations in early Christian studies and shares some developments that she thinks curious readers might enjoy knowing about.

John D. Doss, “Diognetus, Paul, and John: The Pauline-Johannine Expression of Christianity in Diognetus,” Journal of Early Christian Studies, Vol 23, No. 2, 2026, 179-211.

We sometimes imagine the writers of the second century simply repeating what Paul or the Gospel writers had already taught. John D. Doss’s recent study of the Letter to Diognetus suggests something more interesting was taking shape. Rather than treating Pauline and Johannine ideas as separate theological streams, the author of Diognetus appears to weave them together into a fresh vision of Christian life suited to his own historical setting.

For example, in Diognetus, the antagonistic relationship between believers and the world surfaces because of identifying themselves as “in the world but not of it.” Johannine influence is clear because of the emphasis on loving others while yet being hated by a world that wages war on them. This is combined with the Pauline motif of dwelling in a temporal, corruptible tent-body on earth while waiting for an eternal heavenly home. “Together,” Doss notes, “the Pauline-Johannine combination expresses the paradox of the Christian life, which is their proper worship and the ‘important position to which God has appointed them’ in the world” (189).

This is a good reason for paying attention to writings outside the canon. They are not valuable merely because they preserve “extra” information about Jesus or early Christianity. They let us watch later generations wrestling with inherited traditions, combining familiar ideas in new ways, and expressing what discipleship meant in the circumstances they faced. Scholarship like Doss’s helps us see the second century as an era of thoughtful interpretation and creative theological reflection.

Isaac T. Soon, “The Devil as Perdix: The Origin and Development of the Satanic Partridge in Early Christianity,” Journal of Early Christian Studies, Vol 23, No. 2, 2026, 231-253.

I have long admired the innovation and creativity of early Christian thinkers and writers. While the innovation is usually inspiring, Isaac T. Soon describes a similar kind of original—but troubling—thinking based on the idea of bedeviling others during the same time period.

He traces the evolution of a metaphorical reference to a partridge from a mistranslation of Jeremiah 17:11 that culminates in a fifth-century “strange and troubling cocktail of ancient Christian anti-homoeroticism, misogyny, and anti-Judaism” (253). Beginning with fifth-century BCE Greek and Roman literature, the partridge (mentioned in Jeremiah) had become known for its clever ability to evade being hunted for food. Because of their use of sounds and calls to lure and distract their hunters, they were also known as wicked, sexually unrestrained, and violent toward one another.

Over the centuries, this metaphorical image of the partridge became a literary tool for Christians to describe their enemies. Isaac Soon notes a particular irony in that “while partridge was used to condemn heretics for departing from what Christian writers viewed as orthodoxy, orthodoxy…was being framed and influenced by pagan knowledge” (252).

The first known comparison of the partridge to an eschatological figure was Hippolytus of Rome, who identified the bird with the antichrist. From there, Origen explicitly associates the partridge with Satan, or the Devil, thereby demonizing heretics. Ambrose, Augustine, and Jerome pick up these themes until we find Origen’s innovations ultimately associating with heretics, violence, antagonistic speech, and same-sex behavior.

What strikes me with this evolutionary overview is its demonstration of how tempting it was for Christian leaders to distinguish themselves by disparaging others.

European Association of Biblical Studies (EABS), Leuven, Belgium (July 20-23, 2026)

Since the conference just finished, I am not yet able to summarize the findings, but it is worth noting the kinds of questions scholars are asking. Looking through the hundreds of sessions at this year’s EABS meeting, I’m intrigued with how many papers explored the lived experience of ancient communities. This is a trend I am noticing in the New Philology, manuscript culture, and living traditions.

Here are some of the research units of special interest for Bible and Beyond readers:

1) Biblical Reception in Eastern Christian Traditions (taking Coptic literature seriously);

2) Jews, Christians, and the Materiality of Mortuary Rituals in Late Antiquity (noting the fluid interaction between Jewish and early Christian communities);

3) Papyrology and the Biblical World (who copied them, who read them, what physical manuscripts tell us);

4) Scripture and Christian Theology (biblical scholars and theologians talking together again);

5) Medicine, Sciences, and Knowledge in Biblical and Talmudic Traditions (further exploration of healing traditions)

Before I read Linjamaa’s The Nag Hammadi Codices and Their Ancient Readers, I had pictured a few fourth-century monks living in a monastery near Nag Hammadi who possessed copies of some second-century Christian writings. They translated these texts into their native language, Coptic, perhaps to preserve them. Then, when Athanasius condemned such writings, these monks they buried the codices for safekeeping. When these Coptic manuscripts were discovered in 1945, scholars suddenly gained access to voices from early Christianity that had long been lost.

A different way of looking at Nag Hammadi

Linjamaa’s book dramatically shifts the spotlight for me. Instead of looking for what second-century Christians wrote, he asks a different set of questions: Who copied these manuscripts? Who read them? How were they used? What role did they play in the lives of the communities that preserved them? In doing so, he shifts attention from the origins of the texts to the people who treasured them.

As he acknowledges, scholars such as Hugo Lundhaug and Lance Jenott had already argued that Egyptian Christians continued copying and reading apocryphal literature despite Athanasius’s decree discouraging the practice. These monks produced codices that circulated among other monastic communities through a lively culture of borrowing and exchanging books. Linjamaa builds on this work by asking what a closer scrutiny of these surviving manuscripts themselves can reveal about the people who produced and used them.

Admittedly, I had not paid much attention to the fourth century. Like many readers, I was more interested in the followers of Jesus who lived closest to his own lifetime, assuming they would best reflect his original teaching. Yet Linjamaa convincingly demonstrates that studying the communities who preserved these writings opens an entirely different window onto their significance.

The manuscripts become historical witnesses

He accomplishes this through a meticulous study of the material history of the codices, always placing them within the lives of the monks who copied, read, and exchanged them. He reminds us that the manuscripts we possess are fourth-century Coptic translations produced within a different culture from that of the original authors. While we cannot simply read the second century through a fourth-century lens, we can learn a great deal by paying closer attention to the details in and on the manuscripts that have actually survived.

The result is a much richer picture of these books. They were not simply repositories of theological ideas. They provided a source of spiritual formation, personal edification, and education. Some even functioned as protective objects in “the continuous monastic warfare against evil spirits” (21). By paying attention to the material details, we see more than what the texts say. The lives of the people who read them become part of the meaning of the books.

What is ‘New Philology’?

One of Linjamaa’s most important contributions is his advocacy of what scholars call New Philology. Traditionally, scholars have treated ancient texts primarily as containers of ideas, attempting to reconstruct an original version of the text and interpret its theology. New Philology begins somewhere else. It asks what the surviving manuscripts themselves can tell us about the people who copied, read, altered, shared, and treasured them. The physical codices become historical evidence in their own right, revealing patterns of reading, teaching, devotion, and community life that would otherwise remain invisible.

This approach also broadens long-standing discussions about orthodoxy and heresy. By paying greater attention to the actual manuscripts rather than later theological categories alone, Linjamaa places the Nag Hammadi codices within a much larger story of religious change during late antiquity. This was a period when written books assumed increasing importance, literacy spread within Christian communities, and many believers devoted themselves to practices of spiritual formation and inward transformation. The codices were part of that world.

These concerns were not abstract theories reserved for philosophers. They mattered deeply to the inhabitants of the monasteries who devoted themselves to lives of prayer, study, and spiritual discipline. Studying how they copied, read, and used these books tells us not only what these communities valued but also why these manuscripts survived at all.

Reading the manuscripts on their own terms

It is within this monastic context that the presence of the texts underscores the significance of the forced dichotomy of ‘orthodox’ versus ‘Gnostic’ and ‘pure’ versus ‘syncretistic categories’. Neglecting the textual histories of writings labeled heretical has made them more difficult to study. At the same time, many early investigations of the Nag Hammadi codices, Linjamma notes, “were polluted by the negative connotations attached to the term ‘Gnosticism’” (43). Before the discovery of the Nag Hammadi codices, scholars depended largely on the polemical descriptions preserved by the Church Fathers. But, surprisingly, once the actual texts became available, many of them actually fit well with the very patterns the Church Fathers had rejected.

Like many students of these writings, I have welcomed this shift in scholarship. Yet Linjamaa also cautions against replacing one ideology with another. After the texts appeared in English translation during the 1970s, they were sometimes celebrated as a suppressed, progressive alternative to mainstream Christianity, championing modern ideals such as gender equality and female leadership. However appealing that interpretation may be, it too can become another cultural adoption.

Both approaches obscure the significance of the physical manuscripts we have. The communities who copied these books lived within the realities of the fourth century, with their own assumptions about orthodoxy, heresy, justice, gender, and spiritual life. If we hope to understand these codices on their own terms, we must begin there.

This introductory discussion serves as an essential gateway to the rest of Linjamaa’s study. Without it, readers might wonder why it matters to examine scribal practices in the first codex, the diple and coronis signs in Codices I and VIII, mysterious vowel sequences, sacred symbols, or textual variations among different copies. Yet Linjamaa devotes an entire chapter to each of these subjects, showing how every detail contributes to our understanding of the people who produced and used these remarkable books.

Rather than skipping over these technical discussions as meaningless to a modern world, he transforms them into windows onto the lived experience of the fourth-century communities that preserved the Nag Hammadi writings. Each chapter uncovers another piece of the story lodged right in the manuscripts themselves. Because these topics are so important for understanding both the texts and the people who treasured them, I plan to devote a separate Substack essay to each one. Walking alongside the readers who copied, exchanged, and cherished these books may prove to be one of the best ways of understanding not only the Nag Hammadi texts themselves, but also the communities that preserved them—and why they continue to matter today.

What are your most recent publications?

Forthcoming: An Abundant Bouquet: Narrative Variants in the Gospels.

Elizabeth Schrader Polczer’s dissertation monograph is currently in press with Society of Biblical Literature Press Text Critical Studies.

2025: “’An Image of Eternal Incorruptible Light’: P.Oxy 5577 as a Possible Fragment of the Gospel of Mary,” Journal of Early Christian Studies

The 2025 JECS article argues that P.Oxy. 5577 may be a piece of the missing “vision” section of the Gospel of Mary. Just a few months before, a very similar argument was published by Sarah Parkhouse; we wrote simultaneously and independently of one another, and arrived at very similar conclusions. Although we can’t be certain, the fact that two experts independently came to the same conclusion strengthens the likelihood that this papyrus fragment is indeed a section of the Gospel of Mary. The main difference between our arguments is that my JECS article argues that Wisdom of Solomon 7 (a hymn praising Lady Wisdom) may have been one of the primary inspirations for the composition of the Gospel of Mary.

Please share a little about the book.

An Abundant Bouquet: Narrative Variants in the Gospels is a close study of “narrative variants” preserved in copies of ancient New Testament gospel manuscripts. Narrative variants are textual variations in ancient manuscripts that create meaningful changes to the story itself (i.e. changes of word order, spelling, or substitution of similar words are not included). In antiquity every copy was made by hand, so even texts understood to hold sacred status were always susceptible to meaningful change.

Although New Testament textual criticism has traditionally sought to recover a singular text of the gospels, this study argues that early Christianity was in fact centered in an environment of interpretive expansions and editorial revisions, rendering such a recovery impossible in many passages. Gospel stories could be altered by a single letter, a single word, an added or omitted phrase, an altered phrase, a rewritten section, or the revision of an entire book.

The narrative variants highlighted here are limited to those preserved in gospel manuscripts copied no later than the fifth century.

The book concludes that a wide variety of forms of gospel stories were understood as sacred in the first centuries of Christianity, that narrative multiplicity is inherent to the Christian gospels, and that this multiplicity should be embraced by Biblical scholars. The book also provides a comprehensive Appendix cataloguing the approximately 1,900 narrative variants in all extant gospel manuscripts from the 2nd-5th centuries.

Can you provide us with a summary of the article?

A previously-unknown Christian text published in the 2023 volume of the Oxyrhynchus Papyri series preserves a fragmentary dialogue where a woman named Mary is apparently instructed by Jesus. Although the fragment is brief and lacunose, it contains emphases on the “good,” the “mind,” and intertwined and dissolved elements, themes which are also prevalent in the extant portions of the Gospel of Mary. Due to this shared content, as well as narrative sensibility, this study explores the question of whether P.Oxy. 5577 might preserve a portion of Mary’s vision from the Gospel of Mary.

Regardless of whether P.Oxy. 5577 is a portion of the Gospel of Mary, this study underlines several intriguing parallels with second-century Christian beliefs preserved in Irenaeus, Clement of Alexandria, and Celsus. Moreover, the description of Mary becoming an “image of eternal incorruptible light” seems to reference Wisdom of Solomon 7, opening up the possibility that this fragment provides instructions for how Mary might become a “holy soul” who receives God’s “intelligent spirit” of wisdom.

Are there any reviews or responses you’d like to mention?

The book hasn’t come out yet, so no responses to that one.

As for the JECS article, thus far people have been quite receptive to the possibility that P.Oxy. 5577 is a piece of the Gospel of Mary. When I interviewed Mark Goodacre for The Christian Century, he did provide this important counterpoint: “The thing that makes me cautious is that it has the Matthean-sounding ‘Therefore I say to you’ twice, and for such a tiny fragment that is striking since the expression does not come anywhere else in what we have of the Gospel of Mary. Also, we have ‘incorruptible light’ and ‘incorruptible Father’ in the fragment, as well as a second ‘Father’ but we don’t have any of that vocabulary in what we have of Gospel of Mary. These are not decisive points, especially when dealing with such a small fragment, but they are enough to make me pause.”

What idea or question has most intrigued you lately?

I am really enjoying working with the concept of narrative variants. Gospel stories have always been pluriform, not just from Matthew to Mark to Luke, but sometimes even from manuscript to manuscript of the same gospel. Often people try to minimize them, but these variations can create real interpretive consequences (For example, in two of the oldest copies of Mark’s Gospel, Salome is not present at the empty tomb. What is up with that? Obviously multiple versions of the story were circulating from the very beginning).

For me, narrative pluriformity is not something to be avoided, it is something to be embraced. Narrative variants may be telling us something about the importance of multiple perspectives on stories about Jesus; there might even be something theological about communities altering the text to meet their own needs.

What would you like to explore next?

For my next book project, I am continuing to think about the ramifications of narrative variants. In particular I am interested in exploring the relationship between the differing versions of the Gospel of John that circulated in the second century and apocrypha like the Gospel of Mary and the Gospel of Philip. Alternate circulating text forms of John may explain some of the prominent characterizations of a disciple named “Mary” that we find in these apocryphal texts.

Any recent updates you’d like our readers to know about?

I’m pleased to share that my research on Martha’s inconsistent presence in John 11 and 12 has resulted in an update to the apparatus of the Nestle-Aland 29^th Novum Testamentum Graece. NA29 is scheduled to be available for purchase at SBL in Denver, and readers will see that the footnotes look very different in John 11. I will be discussing these updates to the NA29 apparatus at the Johannine Literature section.

Nobody really knows where Perpetua and Felicity were martyred—but Sarah Parkhouse argues that our certainty about where it happened tells us as much about modern Christian memory as it does about the third century itself. The grand amphitheater of the important Roman city of Carthage conveys a prestigious image of Christian triumph. If Perpetua and her companions were executed there, the Christian movement can easily be remembered as emerging victoriously from one of the empire’s most impressive public spaces.

Most scholars, Christians, and tour guides do identify this civic amphitheater as the site of the martyrdom, although two other possibilities are equally plausible: the military amphitheater in Carthage and the amphitheater at Thuburbo Minus.

Regardless of where the execution took place, we should first acknowledge the significance of the event itself. Perpetua and Felicity were early Christian martyrs executed in 203 CE under Emperor Septimius Severus. Perpetua, a twenty-two-year-old noblewoman and mother of a nursing infant, and Felicity, her pregnant enslaved companion, were arrested for their perceived opposition to Roman authority. Together with their companions, they refused to renounce Christ and were put to death in the arena.

Martyrdom itself became foundational to Christian identity because it transformed the experience of dying into an ultimate act of discipleship. Loyalty to Jesus in defiance of Roman authority established an early standard for spiritual authority and ultimately helped shape the church’s theology, identity, and communal resilience.

Identifying the location of Perpetua’s martyrdom, therefore, is not merely an archaeological question. Parkhouse argues that the way we imagine sacred space reveals which structures our historical narratives challenge—or reinforce. As she explains, “by situating the martyr group in an impressive imperial space, we run the risk of buying into fantasies of Christian exceptionalism and grandeur of martyrdom” (44).

She notes that most Christian scholars and historians have assumed the large civic amphitheater of Roman Carthage to be the location of Perpetua’s martyrdom. Yet, as she observes, “we do not know where Perpetua and her companions were executed—assuming they existed at all—and that the association with Carthage is not found in the textual record before the fifth century” (31).

In the fourth and fifth centuries, Perpetua and Felicity appear in martyr calendars simply as being “in Africa.” What is especially striking is that neither Tertullian, the influential presbyter of Carthage in the early third century, nor Augustine, the city’s famous bishop in the late fourth and early fifth centuries, nor even Quodvultdeus, the fifth-century bishop of Carthage, ever identifies Carthage as the place of their execution.

A second possible location is Thuburbo Minus, about fifty kilometers west of Carthage. This is the only place named in any manuscript available to us today. According to the Greek manuscript tradition, Perpetua and her companions were arrested there. Since this is the only geographical location actually identified in our surviving manuscripts, it deserves serious consideration as a possible site of the martyrdom.

Parkhouse presents several arguments both for and against Thuburbo Minus, including the long-standing confusion between Thuburbo Minus and the nearby city of Thuburbo Maius. Further complicating the investigation are two important literary traditions: the Passion of Perpetua and Felicitas and the Acts of Perpetua and Felicitas. Modern scholars are generally more familiar with the earlier Passion, but the Acts circulated more widely throughout late antiquity and the medieval period.

Although there are several indirect references connecting Perpetua with Thuburbo, most scholars continue to place the martyrdom in Carthage regardless of where the group originated. Yet even if Thuburbo is set aside, the question is still not settled in favor of Carthage’s grand civic amphitheater. In the “diary” section of the Passion, Perpetua writes that the prisoners were transferred to the military camp because they were to participate in military games. Although certainty remains elusive, the military garrison at Carthage may have possessed its own smaller amphitheater. If so, this introduces a third plausible location for the execution.

These debates have continued from antiquity into the modern period. Parkhouse’s purpose in examining these competing claims is not simply to determine which site is historically correct. Rather, she argues that the different traditions represent competing claims to prestige and power. Why have scholars, Christians, and tour guides become so confident that Perpetua died in Carthage’s grand civic amphitheater when at least two other sites remain plausible? Her answer is that “the explanation lies, in part, in the actions of twentieth-century archaeologists who had colonial and religious motives” (34).

Parkhouse illustrates this point with several examples of twentieth-century archaeology that elevated Christian prestige through claims to antiquity. She describes the efforts of Alfred-Louis Delattre, whose goal was to “resuscitate Christian life in these sacred ruins” (34, quoting McCarty, French Archaeology, 1926). As Parkhouse explains, when Delattre excavated the grand civic amphitheater, he concluded that “this was the place that the illustrious saints Perpetua and Felicitas were martyred, and he altered and utilized the space in order to demonstrate it” (35).

Following the elaborate celebration of the 1700th anniversary of Perpetua’s death, commemorations became increasingly spectacular. Carthage itself was reimagined as a distinctly Christian city. These public celebrations demonstrate how, in Parkhouse’s words, space has power. We should not underestimate the influence of presenting the large civic amphitheater of Roman Carthage as the definitive site of Perpetua’s martyrdom.

Parkhouse suggests that one reason Christians, scholars, and tour guides continue to identify this impressive amphitheater as the location of Perpetua’s death is that it reinforces longstanding narratives of Christian prestige. The grandeur of the site itself lends historical weight to the story, allowing the physical setting to strengthen an already powerful account of Christian origins.

This may simply be a matter of emphasis, but as I read Parkhouse’s argument, I wondered whether imperialism better captures the larger ideological framework than colonialism. If colonialism describes particular historical practices, imperialism names the broader ambition to extend power and influence. The uncertain identification of Carthage as Perpetua’s place of martyrdom may be one example of that larger ideological impulse. Whether one adopts Parkhouse’s terminology or not, her article offers an important reminder that the stories we tell about the past are shaped not only by texts and artifacts but also by the meanings we assign to the spaces in which we imagine those stories unfolding.

James occupies a unique place in early Christian history. He was neither the best-known disciple nor the most prolific writer. He did not travel the Mediterranean like Paul, nor did he leave behind a Gospel bearing his name. Yet after Jesus’ death, he emerged as the principal leader of the Jerusalem community.

However, it’s his relationship with his brother, Jesus, that remains so intriguing, and that memory is what fascinates me.

What would it have been like to be the brother of Jesus? James—often remembered as James the Just—is the closest historical figure who invites us to reflect on that question.

Scholars have long debated exactly how Jesus and James were related. Were they biological brothers? Was James an older half-brother from an earlier marriage of Joseph? Were they cousins? Or did the earliest Christians use the word “brother” in a broader sense that reflected family, community, or shared faith? Every position has thoughtful defenders, and the historical evidence is unlikely ever to settle the question. The precise biological relationship is not the most interesting one.

When we trace the many memories of James preserved in early Christian writings, a more nuanced picture begins to emerge. Again and again, Christians remembered him as someone who shared Jesus’ deepest commitments, understood his vision, and carried it forward after his death. More than historical information, their writings preserve an unexpected mutual respect.

An Unlikely Beginning

The earliest memories of James begin, somewhat surprisingly, with skepticism. The Gospels suggest that Jesus’ own family struggled to understand his public ministry. Mark tells us that members of his family attempted to restrain him because they believed he was “out of his mind.” John’s Gospel remarks just as bluntly that even Jesus’ brothers did not believe in him. Then, almost without explanation, everything changes.

After Jesus’s death—according to 1 Corinthians (15:7)—Jesus “appeared to James, then to all the apostles.” Whatever James had once believed about his brother, this resurrection encounter marked a decisive turning point.

Within only a few years, James had become one of the acknowledged leaders—or “pillars,” (Galatians 2:9)—of the Jerusalem community. It is one of the most remarkable transformations in the New Testament. The skeptic becomes the leader.

James the Just

As James emerges into history, he does so not as someone who abandoned Judaism but as someone deeply devoted to it. Known as James the Just by ancient writers, he appears to have lived a life of rigorous prayer, devotion, and concern for faithful observance of the Torah. Seeking to live its deepest values, James recognized something new but consistent with his Jewish life had begun through Jesus.

That balance became especially important when increasing numbers of non-Jewish believers joined the movement. According to Acts, the question about whether or not Gentile followers of Jesus should be circumcised and observe full Mosaic Law reached its climax around the year 49 CE. James may have offered the concluding judgment that Jewish and Gentile followers of Jesus should be able to share life together, but that Gentiles would not be required to become Jewish before joining the community.

James’s relationship with Paul has often been described as a sharp theological conflict, especially because Paul’s letters emphasize justification by faith while the Letter of James famously insists that “faith without works is dead.” More recently, however, scholars see the situation differently. Paul and James were addressing different problems. Paul opposed those who insisted Gentiles must become Jews in order to belong to God’s people. James challenged the community members whose faith had become disconnected from compassion and care for others. Their emphases differed, but both assumed that authentic faith transforms the way people live.

As the decades passed, Christians continued to write about James. The memories differ in detail, yet together they reveal something surprisingly consistent about the kind of brother to Jesus they believed James had become.

Remembering James

As Christian communities spread throughout the Mediterranean world, they continued to write about James—imagining conversations with him and picturing him at decisive moments in Jesus’ life. These memories reveal what people cherished, what later generations found admirable, trustworthy, and worth passing on.

One of the earliest of these memories appears in the Infancy Gospel of James. Although the work is primarily concerned with the birth and childhood of Mary, it also presents James as an older son of Joseph from an earlier marriage—therefore, a half-brother to the infant Jesus. The historical claim is unlikely, but significantly, James is remembered as part of a loving family surrounding the arrival of Jesus. It is a gentle memory, not one of rivalry or competition but of shared family life.

Another community remembered James entirely differently. In the Gospel of Thomas, the disciples ask Jesus who will lead them after he is gone. Jesus answers with surprising directness: “Go to James the Just.” The statement goes even further, declaring that “for his sake heaven and earth came into being.” This is probably not a historical quotation. It is poetic, extravagant praise. Yet beneath the hyperbole lies an unmistakable conviction. This community remembered James as the one whom Jesus himself trusted to continue his work.

Other writings remember James less as an administrator and more as a conversation partner.

In the Apocryphon of James, Jesus appears after his resurrection and draws James aside for a private conversation. Peter is present as well, but James consistently emerges as the more perceptive listener. He asks thoughtful questions, listens carefully, and grasps the deeper meaning of Jesus’ teaching. The point is not that James possessed information hidden from everyone else; he is the one who understood.

The same theme appears in two other writings that focus on James’ final days.

The First Apocalypse of James imagines Jesus in a post-resurrection scene, preparing James for his own coming martyrdom. At one point Jesus tells him, “You are not my brother materially.” In a deeply moving way, Jesus is not denying their relationship; he is assuring James that what they share cannot be measured by physical kinship alone. Their shared understanding, their shared purpose, and their shared trust in God reach beyond the limits of earthly life.

The Second Apocalypse of James continues that memory. James stands before hostile crowds, proclaims what he has learned from Jesus, and faces death with remarkable composure. The emphasis is not on his suffering itself but on his unwavering confidence that the life Jesus revealed cannot be destroyed. Even in martyrdom, James is remembered as someone whose deepest relationship with Jesus remains intact.

James is remembered as the brother who understood, even when other struggled to see it. He understood the responsibility of leadership. And when his own life was threatened, he understood that faithfulness matters more than survival.

That portrait sheds light on the New Testament Letter of James. How much James was involved in the writing of this letter remains an open scholarly question. Yet the author presents a figure who sounds remarkably like the James remembered elsewhere: practical rather than speculative, compassionate toward the poor, deeply concerned with integrity, and thoroughly shaped by Jesus’ teaching.

Its many echoes of the Sermon on the Mount suggest someone who had listened carefully—not simply to Jesus’ words, but to the life those words called forth. Across centuries of Christian memory, James is consistently portrayed as someone who shared Jesus’ vision so completely that later generations could scarcely imagine one without the other. Whatever their biological relationship may have been, Christians remembered a bond built on mutual understanding, shared devotion, and a willingness to carry the same work into the world.

More Than Family

The many memories of James do not eliminate the historical questions surrounding his life. If anything, they remind us how much remains uncertain. Again and again, Christians remembered James not simply because he belonged to Jesus’ family but because he belonged to Jesus’ life.

He appears as the trusted leader who carries forward Jesus’ work. He listens when Jesus speaks. Jesus, in turn, entrusts him with responsibility, encourages him in moments of fear, and prepares him for the suffering that lies ahead.

The writings differ in date, place, theology, and literary style. Some tell imaginative stories. Others preserve remembered sayings. None allows us to reconstruct the daily conversations between Jesus and James. Yet together they preserve something that later Christians found too beautiful to lose. They remembered a relationship marked by trust; a relationship shaped by shared purpose; and two lives that had become deeply intertwined.

Jesus himself is remembered as redefining family. When told that his mother and brothers were looking for him, he answered that those who do the will of God are his true family. He was not dismissing his relatives. He was expanding the meaning of kinship. James is the kind of brother Jesus hoped for: the one who walked with him, learned from him, and faithfully carried forward the work they shared.

July 20 – 23, 2026: European Association of Biblical Studies Annual Conference

Leuven, Belgium (and hybrid)

A major international forum for research on the Hebrew Bible, New Testament, and early Christian traditions, often including sessions on apocryphal literature and early Christian history.

EABS is a registered scholarly society for the academic study of biblical and cognate areas that is open to scholars from all over the world, from senior scholars to graduate students. The society holds an annual conference and a separate annual student conference in Europe. EABS hosts research units and workshops that meet regularly at the annual conferences.

Research in the society particularly reflects European flavors of biblical studies from scholars whose expertise is in biblical and related areas. These scholars work in a range of settings and departments utilizing various disciplinary and interdisciplinary approaches. EABS is committed to reflecting this diversity. We particularly encourage interdisciplinary sessions and the active participation of scholars from a wide variety of disciplines and areas of study with an interest in biblical themes.

Almost from the society’s inception, scholars in areas such as archaeology, history, the Hebrew Bible, early Judaism, the Talmud, the New Testament, early Christianity, and Patristics have all worked together in the EABS. Recently we have also had sessions and multi-year research programs including social scientists, art historians, literary historians, and filmmakers. The range of research presented or developed by colleagues at the EABS is becoming constantly wider and, for that reason, more nuanced and more compelling at the same time.

Learn more here.

August 10 – 14, 2026: International Conference on Origen Studies (Colloquium Origenianum)

2026 Focus: Origen and the Development of Christian Thought

Boston College, USA

A major specialized gathering devoted to Origen of Alexandria and the development of early Christian theology, including scriptural interpretation and philosophical influences. This conference often includes research on Alexandrian theology, early cosmology, and Gnostic debates.

Origen of Alexandria played a crucial role in the development of Christian thought. It is possible to distinguish two aspects of his role. On the one hand, many early Christian doctrines achieved definitive formulation in the writings of Origen. In contrast, his teaching was the starting point for further development. For example, many early intuitions about biblical interpretation acquired a coherent theory in Origen’s writings; it is also possible to understand later theological controversies as struggles between competing versions of, or reactions against, Origen’s theology.

Therefore, the Colloquium Origenianum Quartum Decimum welcomes two categories of papers: those that examine the reception of earlier Christian thought in Origen and those that study the influence of Origen on later Christian thought. Consequently, the conference will not have a specific theme but rather a general perspective, namely, the place of Origen in the dynamic processes involved in the formation of Christian thought.

Learn more here.

Short Annotation

In The Many Faces of Adam and Eve, Bernard Batto demonstrates that the familiar Genesis story has never had a single, fixed meaning. Instead, Adam and Eve have been continually reinterpreted for nearly three thousand years as different communities wrestled with questions about human nature, suffering, evil, gender, and humanity’s relationship to the divine.

Beginning with ancient Mesopotamian myths, Batto shows how the biblical creation stories emerged within a larger cultural conversation about the origins and purpose of human life. He argues that neither Genesis 1 nor Genesis 2–3 originally contained a doctrine of “the Fall” or original sin. Rather, these stories explored the boundaries between divine and human existence and the realities of mortality, labor, and knowledge.

The book traces the evolution of Adam and Eve through Jewish, Christian, Gnostic, Islamic, and later Western traditions. Batto highlights how figures such as Paul, Irenaeus, Augustine, and John Milton reshaped the story to address their own theological concerns. Particularly valuable is his attention to alternative Christian interpretations, including Nag Hammadi writings in which Eve becomes a revealer of wisdom rather than the source of humanity’s downfall.

Batto ultimately reminds readers that myths remain powerful because they help every generation explore enduring questions about identity, morality, and meaning.

Complete Review

Most people who grow up in Jewish, Christian, or Islamic traditions assume they know the story of Adam and Eve. The opening chapters of Genesis seem so familiar that it is easy to imagine they have always carried the same meaning. We tend to read the text as though its message were obvious and unchanging.

Bernard Batto’s The Many Faces of Adam and Eve challenges that assumption from the beginning. His central argument is simple but profound: the story of Adam and Eve has never been a single story. Rather, it has been continually reshaped and reinterpreted for nearly three thousand years. Many modern readers miss the fact that the meaning of Genesis is the result of centuries of reflection, debate, theological innovation, and cultural adaptation.

As Batto observes, we tend to think we are reading Genesis itself, when in reality we are often reading the accumulated traditions that have grown around it. The great strength of this book is that it uncovers those layers and invites readers to see how each age reimagined Adam and Eve in light of its own concerns.

The result is not merely a history of interpretation. It is also a history of human attempts to answer some of life’s most enduring questions. What does it mean to be human? Why do suffering and death exist? What is the relationship between humanity and the divine? Why are men and women different? And what responsibilities do humans have within creation?

Ancient Beginnings

Batto begins earlier than the writing of Genesis itself. He places the biblical creation stories within the broader context of ancient Mesopotamian mythology. This section alone makes the book worthwhile.

For generations, many readers assumed that Genesis emerged largely in isolation. Yet since the nineteenth-century discovery of Mesopotamian flood stories that closely resemble the biblical flood narrative, scholars have increasingly recognized the deep connections between Israelite traditions and the cultures of the ancient Near East.

Batto demonstrates that the opening chapters of Genesis share important themes with earlier Mesopotamian myths. These stories explored questions about why humans were created, why human work is necessary, why death exists, and how humans relate to the divine world.

One particularly fascinating theme concerns labor. In an important Mesopotamian myth, the lower gods become weary of serving the higher gods. Humans are then created to perform the work that the gods no longer wish to do. Human existence is therefore explained through a cosmic division of labor. While Genesis develops these ideas differently, understanding this broader mythological background allows readers to see familiar biblical themes in a new light.

What emerges from Batto’s discussion is not dependence in a simplistic sense but conversation. The authors of Genesis inherited ancient questions and cultural assumptions, then reshaped them to express their own theological convictions.

Reading Genesis Anew

One of Batto’s most intriguing arguments concerns the relationship between Genesis 1 and Genesis 2–3. He contends that the garden story likely predates the majestic creation account of Genesis 1. Because the two stories are now placed with the earlier account after the later one, many readers read Genesis 2- 3 as a description of humanity’s fall from the perfection of Genesis 1.

However, Batto argues that neither story, when read independently, contains a developed doctrine of “the Fall.” This observation may surprise many readers, but it highlights one of the book’s recurring themes: later theological ideas are often projected backward onto earlier texts.

The famous Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil takes on new significance in this context. Rather than functioning primarily as a test of obedience, the tree becomes part of an ancient reflection on the boundary between divine and human knowledge. Once humans gain access to knowledge that belongs to the divine realm, they can no longer remain within the protected environment of the garden.

Similarly, the expulsion from Eden is not simply punishment. It marks the establishment of a permanent distinction between divine and human existence. Outside the garden, life becomes characterized by labor, pain, mortality, and struggle—the realities that define ordinary human experience.

The serpent also plays a more nuanced role than many later interpretations allow. While the serpent contributes to humanity’s predicament, the narrative does not yet contain the later Christian doctrine of original sin. Instead, the story explores what it means to be human in a world where knowledge, mortality, and suffering are unavoidable realities.

The Many Faces of Adam and Eve

From this foundation, Batto traces the remarkable evolution of Adam and Eve across Jewish, Christian, and Islamic traditions.

One of the most illuminating aspects of the book is the way Batto shows that each community adapted the story to address its own theological concerns. The Adam and Eve of one generation and religious orientation often differ significantly from those of another.

In Jewish texts such as 1 Enoch and Jubilees, new questions emerge. The focus shifts toward explaining evil, understanding human responsibility, and defining proper relationships between men and women. In Jubilees, in particular, Eve is thought to bear a larger share of the blame for humanity’s troubles, reflecting increasingly patriarchal social structures.

Early Christian writers continued this process of reinterpretation. Paul famously presents Christ as a “second Adam.” His concern was not primarily the details of Eden but the relationship between humanity’s condition and God’s saving work through Christ. Adam becomes a theological figure through whom Paul explains both the universality of death and the significance of resurrection.

Later Christian thinkers expanded these themes. Irenaeus developed the parallel between Adam and Jesus, while also pairing Eve with Mary. Just as Adam’s sinful actions affected humanity, so Jesus became the solution to Adam; just as Eve played a negative role in the first story, Mary (mother of Jesus) played a role in the story of redemption.

Augustine pushed the tradition in yet another direction. His reflections on sin, sexuality, and gender profoundly shaped Western Christianity. Batto shows how Augustine’s assumptions about male and female relationships and sex, in particular, influenced his reading of Genesis, leaving a legacy that would endure for centuries.

Alternative Christian Voices

One of the features I especially appreciated was Batto’s willingness to explore the creative interpretations found among Christians often labeled “Gnostic.”

Readers familiar with the Nag Hammadi texts will recognize many of these alternative perspectives. Rather than treating Eve as the source of humanity’s downfall, some of these writings portray her as a revealer of wisdom or even as a savior figure who awakens Adam from his dream of ignorance.

These interpretations remind us that early Christianity was far more diverse than later orthodoxy sometimes suggests. The story of Adam and Eve became a vehicle through which different communities explored questions about knowledge, salvation, creation, and gender.

Whether one agrees with these interpretations or not, they demonstrate the extraordinary flexibility of the Adam and Eve narrative and its capacity to generate new meanings in changing historical circumstances.

From Rabbis to Milton

Batto’s survey extends beyond the first century into rabbinic Judaism, Christianity, Islam, and eventually the literary masterpiece that may have shaped modern perceptions more than any other work: John Milton’s Paradise Lost.

His discussion of Milton is especially valuable because he argues that many contemporary Christians unknowingly derive their understanding of Adam, Eve, Satan, and the Fall more from Milton than from Genesis itself.

Milton transformed the biblical story into a sweeping cosmic drama. Satan became a fully developed character with motives, personality, and history. The rebellion in heaven, Satan’s fall, and his determination to corrupt humanity became central features of the narrative. So influential was Paradise Lost that its themes have become deeply embedded in Western imagination. Even readers who have never opened Milton’s poem often assume that its details come directly from the Bible.

Batto’s treatment of Milton serves as a fitting conclusion to his larger argument. Stories do not remain static. They evolve, accumulate new meanings, and shape the assumptions of later generations.

Why This Book Matters

The Many Faces of Adam and Eve is particularly valuable for its historical scholarship as well as its relevance for contemporary readers. Batto concludes by identifying several questions that continue to emerge from these ancient stories. What is the source of evil? Are humans fundamentally capable of choosing good? What responsibilities do we bear toward one another and toward the earth? How should we understand human dignity? And what can we know about the ultimate origins of existence?

These questions remain as urgent today as they were in ancient Mesopotamia.

Perhaps the book’s greatest contribution is its reminder that myths are not falsehoods. They are stories that carry enduring truths. Their power lies not in providing scientific or historical explanations but in helping human communities make sense of life, suffering, identity, and hope.

Batto offers a rich and engaging guide for readers interested in the Bible, early Judaism, the various forms of early Christianities, or the history of interpretation. More importantly, he teaches us to read familiar stories with fresh eyes.

This book feeds my interest in learning why different communities have found such different meanings that emerged from them. By tracing three thousand years of interpretation, Batto helps us recognize that every generation—including our own—continues to add another face to the ever-changing story of Adam and Eve.

David Brakke is a professor of history and holds the Joe R. Engle Chair in the History of Christianity at The Ohio State University. He specializes in Gnosticism, Egyptian Christianity, and ancient monasticism.

Brakke’s most recent publications include:

Forthcoming – “The Power of Magic in the Study of Ancient Christianity: Two Recent Works” (listed as “in press” for the Journal of Religion).

2026 - “Monks, Soldiers, and Barbarians: Monastic Communities and Armed Conflict in Late Ancient Egypt, Palestine, and the Sinai.” In War and Community in Late Antiquity, 119–150. Ed. Susanna Elm and Kristina Sessa. Cambridge, Eng.: Cambridge University Press, 2026.

2026 - “Visionary Experiences, Textual Expertise, and Discernment of Spirits in the Career of Shenoute.” In Coptic Studies from Egypt to Los Angeles: Essays in Honor of Hany N. Talka, 481–493. Ed. Lisa Agaiby, Lillian I. Larsen, Arsenius Mikhail, and Tamara L. Siuda. Texts and Studies in Eastern Christianity 40. Leiden: Brill, 2026.

2025 - “Presidential Address: Navigating Separation and Reunion with Athanasius of Alexandria’s Festal Letters.” In Proceedings of the Twelfth International Congress of Coptic Studies (Brussels, 11–16 July 2022), Volume 1. Plenary Papers, 25–32. Ed. Alain Delattre, Elodie Mazy, Perrine Pilette, and Naïm Vanthieghem. Bibliothèque d’histoire des textes; Collection de l’Institut de recherche et d’histoire des textes. Aubervilles/Paris/Orléans: Institut de recherche et d’histoire des textes, 2025.

2024 - “Shenoute and Military Men: Now Many Words and Things I Said (Discourses, Volume 4).” Coptica 23 (2024): 1–11.

The first of the listed essays is a look at how two recent books study ancient Christians in relation to ‘magic,’ a category that many historians of religion criticize.

The second and fifth of the listed essays have to do with how monks and monastic communities in the eastern Mediterranean during the fourth, fifth, sixth centuries coped with living in a militarized border region, which made them vulnerable to violence from so-called barbarians and put them in close proximity to Roman soldiers and their officers. Monks and monastic leaders adapted their buildings for defensive purposes, formed complicated relationships with both Roman military men and their “barbarian” foes, memorialized monks who were killed, and offered services to refugees, among other things. War, violence, and the military shaped early monastic life in ways that historians have not fully explored.

Brakke’s two current book projects:

1. One is a new translation and study of the Secret Book of James from Nag Hammadi Codex I.

2. The second is a history of early Christian scriptural practices and the formation of the New Testament from the first century to the fifth. Both projects address how Christians created and organized their own scriptures to supplement the Jewish scriptures they adopted.

Brakke’s Bible and Beyond appearances:

April 3, 2024: What Texts Did the Early Jesus People Read? (podcast interview)

May 4, 2022: What Kind of Person Was Judas Really? (podcast interview)

February 16, 2026: The Gnostic and Magical Solomon (archived discussion)

“Victim Blaming and Slut Shaming in Exegesis on the Soul (NHC II,6)”
By Chance E. Bonar, University of Virginia (read the article here)

Readers new to the Nag Hammadi writings often expect to encounter a unified body of ideas that stands in sharp contrast to the biblical tradition. Studies such as Chance Bonar’s, however, demonstrate the value of examining individual texts within their specific literary and historical contexts. By focusing on a single work among the Nag Hammadi codices, Bonar sheds light on the diversity of early Christian thought and raises important questions about the communities that may have produced, preserved, and interpreted these writings.

The text at the center of Bonar’s study, Exegesis on the Soul, is one of seven works contained in Codex II of the Nag Hammadi collection. The narrative traces the soul’s journey from a divine origin, through its descent into the material realm, and ultimately toward spiritual restoration.

A distinctive feature of the work is its portrayal of the soul as female. After descending into the body, the soul experiences a series of sexual encounters characterized by exploitation and violation. She bears children through relationships with figures described as robbers, violent men, and adulterers. Eventually, the soul repents, calls upon the Father for deliverance, and undergoes a process of purification that includes baptismal imagery and a symbolic marriage to a heavenly bridegroom. Through this restoration, she is reborn and returns to the divine realm, leaving behind her experiences in the material world.

Unlike the better-known texts in Codex II—such as the Secret Book (Revelation) According to John, Nature of the Rulers, Gospel of Philip, and Book of Thomas—Bonar argues that Exegesis on the Soul presents a particularly troubling depiction of sexual violence and divine intervention. In his words, the text “offers a less forgiving portrayal of divine intervention (or lack thereof) in moments of sexual violence and risks the revictimization of survivors.”

The central claim of Bonar’s article is that Exegesis on the Soul provides a striking example of the ways ancient Mediterranean literature could reinforce patriarchal assumptions about women. Such texts, he argues, may not only reflect cultures shaped by gendered violence but also participate in systems that normalize victim blaming and shame women for the violence committed against them.

Bonar develops his argument in four stages: (1) an overview of the text; (2) an examination of scenes involving coerced sex and victim blaming; (3) an analysis of slut shaming within the narrative; and (4) a consideration of how late ancient Egyptian ascetics may have interpreted and appropriated the text.

In his overview, Bonar notes that Exegesis on the Soul has often been regarded as something of an anomaly within the Nag Hammadi corpus. Its authorship, date, and original social setting remain uncertain. Nevertheless, the fact that it was preserved and read by Egyptian monastic communities is significant. The text’s allegorical account of the soul’s descent, violation, repentance, and restoration provides an important window into attitudes toward gender, sexuality, and salvation in late antiquity.

The heart of Bonar’s argument appears in his discussion of victim blaming and slut shaming. Although the term “victim blaming” was coined only in the twentieth century, Bonar argues that it offers a useful analytical lens for understanding ancient texts. He defines victim blaming in the context of sexual violence as the tendency to shift responsibility away from the perpetrator and onto the victim, suggesting either that the victim invited the abuse or bears responsibility for its occurrence.

According to Bonar, the narrator of Exegesis on the Soul repeatedly oscillates between depicting the soul as a victim of coercion and portraying her as a willing participant in her own exploitation. At several points, the soul’s experiences are described in unmistakably violent terms. Her descent into the material world is framed as falling “into the hands of many robbers,” and some of the male figures are said to “use her forcefully.” These descriptions suggest coercion and exploitation rather than consent.

Yet the narrative simultaneously implies that the soul bears responsibility for her circumstances. This tension lies at the center of Bonar’s critique. While the text acknowledges the violence committed against the soul, it also shifts blame onto her, thereby reproducing patterns of reasoning that modern scholars identify as victim blaming. In Bonar’s view, the narrative not only reflects patriarchal assumptions but also risks reinforcing them for its readers.

Bonar’s study therefore invites readers to engage critically with Exegesis on the Soul rather than viewing it simply as a spiritual allegory. By drawing attention to the text’s treatment of gender, sexuality, and violence, he challenges scholars to consider how ancient religious literature could simultaneously offer theological insight and perpetuate harmful social attitudes. His analysis demonstrates that careful attention to gendered language and power dynamics can deepen our understanding of both the Nag Hammadi writings and the cultural worlds in which they were read and interpreted.

Bonar’s analysis reflects a broader trend in contemporary early Christian studies. Rather than reading ancient texts solely for their theological ideas, scholars increasingly ask how those ideas intersect with lived experiences of power, gender, and social hierarchy. His study of Exegesis on the Soul fits squarely within this movement. Like his previous work on slavery, divine possession, and authority in early Christian literature, Bonar encourages readers to consider not only what ancient texts meant but also how they may have shaped the lives of those who read and interpreted them. Whether one ultimately agrees with all of his conclusions or not, this article demonstrates how new questions can reveal dimensions of familiar texts that earlier scholarship often overlooked.

When people think about the intellectual roots of Christianity, they usually turn first to the Hebrew Bible, the teachings of Jesus, or perhaps the letters of Paul. But standing quietly in the background of all these developments is a remarkable Jewish thinker from Alexandria: Philo.

Philo never became a Christian. In fact, he died before Christianity had fully emerged as a distinct movement. Yet his influence on Christian thinking may be difficult to overstate. He helped create a bridge between Jewish scripture and Greek philosophy that later Christian writers would eagerly cross.

Born in Alexandria, Egypt, around 20 BCE and dying about 50 CE, Philo lived in one of the most intellectually vibrant cities of the Roman world. Alexandria was famous for its libraries, philosophical schools, and religious diversity. Jews, Greeks, Egyptians, and Romans all interacted there. Philo himself was deeply devoted to Judaism, especially to Moses and the interpretation of Genesis, but he was equally immersed in Greek philosophical traditions, particularly Plato and the Stoics.

His great project was ambitious: to show that Jewish scripture and Greek philosophy ultimately pointed toward the same truths.

To accomplish this, Philo interpreted biblical stories allegorically. Rather than reading Genesis simply as historical narrative, he treated it as a spiritual and philosophical text that concealed deeper truths about humanity, the soul, and God.

This method became enormously important for later Christian interpreters.

Reading Genesis Through Philosophy

One of Philo’s most influential ideas involved the opening chapters of Genesis. He noticed that Genesis contains two different creation accounts. Rather than seeing these accounts as a contradiction, he interpreted them as descriptions of two different levels of reality. In his reading, Genesis 1 describes the creation of a heavenly or ideal human being made in the image of God, while Genesis 2 describes the earthly human formed from dust.

That distinction between heavenly and earthly humanity later became central in several Christian, including gnostic, traditions. Scholars have long noticed parallels between Philo’s interpretation and writings such as the Secret Revelation of John, where Genesis is reread as both material and spiritual descriptions of creation.

Philo was also fascinated by the human nous, or higher mind. For him, the divine breath placed into Adam was not merely biological life but a spiritual capacity for perceiving God. As Esther DeBoer summarized Philo’s interpretation of Genesis 2:7, God transformed humanity “from a dull and blind soul into a spiritual and truly living being by blowing the life-giving Spirit into his nous” (Gospel of Mary: Listening to the Beloved, 2004).

This language sounds strikingly familiar to readers of later Christian spiritual/mystical writings. Early Christians would increasingly speak about spiritual rebirth, illumination, and awakening to divine reality. Philo helped prepare the intellectual framework for those ideas.

The Logos and the Gospel of John

Perhaps his most famous contribution was his development of the concept of the Logos.

The Greek word “logos” can mean “word,” “reason,” or “principle.” Philo used it to describe the intermediary between the utterly transcendent God and the material world. God, in Philo’s understanding, was too exalted and incomprehensible to interact directly with matter. The Logos therefore became the divine instrument through which creation and revelation occurred.

It is impossible not to think here of the opening of the Gospel of John: “In the beginning was the Word [Logos].”

Whether the author of John directly depended on Philo remains debated. But both emerged from the same Alexandrian and Hellenistic intellectual environment where the Logos had already become a powerful theological concept.

Philo’s influence extended even further. Christian writers such as Justin Martyr later adopted his allegorical approach to scripture, reinterpreting Jewish texts in increasingly Christ-centered ways. Other Christian thinkers also inherited Philo’s interest in ascent to God (Clement of Alexandria), the purification of the soul (ascetics), and the pursuit of divine knowledge (Origen).

Ascent, Mysticism/Spirituality, and the Soul

Yet Philo himself was not a visionary mystic in the same sense as later writers with gnostic views. As Harvard scholar Harold Attridge observed, Philo was fundamentally an interpreter. He was interested in how human beings could perceive the unknowable God through contemplation, virtue, and disciplined understanding.

Still, his writings often move close to mystical/spiritual experience. He described moments in which the soul ascends beyond ordinary perception and encounters divine reality through vision and insight. He drew on stories such as Jacob’s ladder, Moses on Sinai, and Abraham standing before God as symbols of humanity’s longing to approach the divine.

For Philo, however, the ultimate divine reality always remained partly beyond human comprehension. God could be approached through his “powers,” but never fully grasped.

Another fascinating aspect of Philo’s thought is the way he combined Jewish scripture with Platonic philosophy. Plato had described a world of eternal Forms or Ideas beyond the changing material world. Philo used this philosophical framework to reinterpret Genesis itself. The earthly realm became transient and unstable, while the higher spiritual realm represented enduring truth.

This distinction profoundly influenced later Christian spirituality. It shaped ideas about immortality, heavenly ascent, the soul’s liberation from passions, and even the contrast between flesh and spirit found throughout early Christian literature.

Some later Christian writers (again, including those who wrote on gnostic goals) pushed these ideas much further than Philo himself likely intended. While Philo emphasized the spiritual dignity of the human mind, he stopped short of identifying the human self as fully divine. Later gnostic thinkers would cross that line much more boldly.

A Forgotten Architect of Christian Thought

Even so, Philo’s fingerprints remain everywhere.

His allegorical reading of Genesis influenced Christian theology. His Logos theology shaped discussions of Christ and creation. His understanding of spiritual ascent informed later mystical traditions. His attempts to unite Jewish scripture with Greek philosophy helped create the intellectual environment in which Christianity itself developed.

Ironically, Philo—the Jew—had relatively little lasting influence within Judaism. Rabbinic Judaism moved in different directions after the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in 70 CE. Christians, however, eagerly preserved and copied his writings for centuries.

In many ways, Philo became one of the great forgotten architects of Christian thought: a Jewish philosopher whose ideas quietly helped shape the theology, spirituality, and biblical interpretation of generations to come.

July 27 – August 1, 2026: 13^th International Congress of Coptic Studies (Hosted under International Association for Coptic Studies umbrella)

Göttengen, Germany

https://events.gwdg.de/event/712/

This is the premier international gathering for Coptic and Nag Hammadi scholarship worldwide this year, and it occurs only once every four years. It will feature scholars who are working directly on Coptic manuscripts, Nag Hammadi translations, codicology, digital editions, early monasticism, and extracanonical Christian literature.

The numerous specialists who attend this congress will generate many extra public lectures and online sessions throughout the following months.

July 5 – 9, 2026: SBL International Meeting

Adelaide, Australia

https://www.sbl-site.org/meetings/international-meeting/

Includes dedicated sessions on Christian Apocrypha, including early Christian literature, Gnosticism, and Nag Hammadi. These meetings serve as a forum for international scholars, often featuring topics like the Gospel of the Ebionites, Arabic Infancy Gospel, and Apocryphal Acts.

by Candida Moss

Short Annotation

Candida Moss’s God’s Ghostwriters challenges readers to reconsider the origins of the New Testament by highlighting the hidden role of enslaved people in its production, transmission, interpretation, and performance. Moss argues that enslaved workers were not merely background laborers but essential contributors whose experiences shaped early Christian meaning itself. Through vivid storytelling grounded in historical evidence, she reconstructs the lives of enslaved children, secretaries, copyists, messengers, readers, martyrs, and other largely invisible figures behind the Christian tradition.

The book progresses from the education of literate enslaved workers and the association of crucifixion with slavery to broader reflections on how Jesus traditions, apostolic missions, and textual transmission were embedded within the realities of enslavement. Particularly powerful are Moss’s discussions of Blandina, the enslaved martyr whose endurance transformed her into a model of Christian faithfulness, and the terrifying punishments endured by enslaved people whose suffering later shaped Christian images of hell.

Moss ultimately argues that continuing to erase enslaved workers distorts our understanding of Christianity itself. By recovering their labor, pain, intelligence, and endurance, God’s Ghostwriters offers a compelling reexamination of who made the Bible possible and whose experiences shaped its meaning.

Full Review

Candida Moss boldly asserts that “it is not just enslaved work that made the Bible possible: it is enslaved personhood that gave it meaning and brought it to life” (16). For Bible readers who conceive their sacred scriptures as a direct message from God to the written page—or even solely through the apostles of Jesus—Moss’s assertion that enslaved people contributed so much to the making of the Bible can be jarring.

Yet through vivid storytelling supported by historical documentation, Moss makes a compelling case for rethinking both the nearly invisible enslaved people of antiquity and our assumptions about sacred scripture itself. The arrangement of the chapters contributes to the persuasive force of her argument. Each chapter moves the reader deeper into the hidden world of enslaved workers—not only as producers of texts, but also as interpreters, messengers, performers, and even embodiments of the Christian message.

Her opening story introduces Alexamenos, an enslaved child whose classmate mocked him with a drawing of a donkey-headed man on a cross (i.e. a mockery of Jesus). Part historical reconstruction and part imaginative retelling, the episode illustrates the first chapter’s larger point: enslaved children were often educated in order to become literate workers for their enslavers. Contrary to later American assumptions that literacy threatened systems of slavery, education in antiquity could increase an enslaved child’s economic value and usefulness.

The drawing of Alexamenos’s classmate also highlights another major theme running throughout the book: crucifixion and danger belonged to the world of enslaved people. Crucifixion was a Roman punishment especially associated with the lowest social classes, and the classroom scene poignantly illustrates how naturally crucifixion and enslavement were linked in the ancient imagination.

From this point onward, Moss steadily immerses the reader in the visceral realities of enslaved life. Yet, as she notes, “enslaved literate workers are everywhere and nowhere in our sources” (49). They were essential for taking dictation, copying manuscripts, transporting texts, and interpreting them, even while remaining largely invisible in historical memory.

The next chapter, focused on Paul and his secretaries, pushes the argument further. Moss explores the paradox of educated enslaved workers who moved among Christian communities while possessing no agency of their own. Their literacy existed for the benefit of their enslavers, not themselves. Here Moss adds another layer to the discussion of physical labor and raises the unsettling suggestion that enslaved workers may also have shaped the interpretation and transmission of Christian texts.

The following chapter, “Rereading the Story of Jesus,” expands the argument further by examining Jesus traditions through the social realities of enslavement. Moss asks provocative questions about the vulnerability of Jesus’s family within the Roman world and demonstrates how deeply Jesus’s teachings and parables reflect familiarity with servile life. The suggestion that Jesus himself was remembered in language associated with servitude becomes increasingly uncomfortable for readers accustomed to emphasizing divine majesty over social degradation.

As I allowed myself to identify with Moss’s stories, I recognized how my own life, in a world far safer and with a large degree of my own agency, has blinded me to this image of Christianity born in the context of enslavement.

As the book progresses, Moss broadens her focus from the production of texts to their missionary circulation and performance. Part II introduces “messengers of God,” “curators of the Word,” and “faces of the Gospel”—enslaved workers whose contributions shaped not only the spread of Christianity but also the meaning of its scriptures.

In the chapter on messengers, Moss turns to the apostle Thomas, who according to later tradition was sold by Jesus as a carpenter to an Indian merchant. Whether historically factual or not, the story from the Acts of Thomas reflects the lived realities of trafficking, displacement, and vulnerability familiar to enslaved people throughout the Roman world. Thomas becomes a “slave of God,” carrying the Christian message without social protection, financial independence, or security from abuse. Moss argues that such stories resonated because they reflected recognizable social realities.

The chapter on textual curators brings copyists out from the shadows. Although ancient elites often disparaged copyists, Moss demonstrates that they functioned as important textual interpreters. These enslaved workers constantly made decisions about wording, spelling, placement, and meaning. The theological controversies later generated by textual variants often obscured the fact that the earliest interpretive decisions may have been made by workers whose names were never preserved.

Similarly, the chapter on the “faces of the Gospel” reminds readers that people usually experienced Christian manuscripts publicly rather than silently and privately. Educated enslaved readers performed texts aloud before communities, and their success—or failure—depended upon the accuracy and persuasiveness of their delivery. In this sense, enslaved readers became living mediators of scripture itself.

Throughout these chapters, the emotional and physical realities of enslaved existence become increasingly vivid. Modern readers can recognize the crushing exhaustion, lack of personal autonomy, constant vulnerability, and absence of hope that shaped everyday life for many enslaved people.

At this point, Moss turns toward two especially painful chapters: “The Faithful Christian” and “Punishing the Disobedient.” Here the book reaches its emotional and theological climax.

The chapter on faithful Christians centers on Blandina, the second-century enslaved martyr. By now, readers have become accustomed to the dehumanization and brutality inflicted upon enslaved workers, but Blandina’s story gives profound emotional depth to the earlier discussions. Regular verbal abuse and casual beatings had already conditioned her body and spirit long before her public torture began. Yet her tormentors underestimated her endurance. After surviving unimaginable torture throughout an entire day, she was suspended in cruciform form before finally dying in the arena. Moss writes, “She whom society had deemed worthless was now a model for others—an enslaved Christian who led other Christians, an enslaved woman who was filled with power” (204). Blandina becomes one of Moss’s clearest examples of how people considered socially disposable helped define Christian ideals of faithfulness, endurance, and spiritual authority.

Reading of the injustice of Blandina’s mistreatment in her young years of servitude, followed by every abuse humans can manufacture, roused moral indignation in me.

Moss’s final brief chapter is perhaps the most disturbing. She traces how the suffering of enslaved people eventually shaped Christian imaginations of hell itself, influencing later writers such as Dante. As throughout the book, she combines historical evidence with literary traditions rooted in recognizable social realities. One especially horrifying story concerns Euclia, likely a young enslaved girl caught in the tensions of her enslaver’s failing marriage. Tortured, mutilated, and abandoned in darkness, her story exposes the terrifying vulnerability of enslaved people whose suffering could be interpreted as justified punishment for disobedience.

Moss’s epilogue helpfully restores the broader focus of the book. Readers have long been conditioned to imagine the New Testament primarily as the work of apostles, evangelists, and church leaders. Moss does not deny their importance, but she insists that continuing to erase invisible workers ultimately distorts our understanding of how Christian scripture came into being. By recovering the experiences of servile workers—their labor, pain, intelligence, and interpretive contributions—she challenges readers to rethink not only who made the Bible possible but also whose experiences shaped its meaning.

God’s Ghostwriters is ultimately more than a history of enslaved labor behind biblical texts. It is a powerful reconsideration of whose voices have been hidden within Christianity from the very beginning.

Read more reviews:

The Guardian

The Christian Century

Available on Amazon or order from your local bookstore.

Lance is a senior lecturer at Washington University in St. Louis, in classics and religious studies, with a focus on early Christianity and classical civilizations.

Jenott’s research interests include New Testament and Christian origins, second temple Judaism, and religions of antiquity.

Jenott’s most recent publications include the following:

Forthcoming – Hermeneia Series commentary on the Gospel of Judas, Fortress Press

Forthcoming – “The Letter of Peter to Philip: Texts and Translations from Codex Tchacos and Nag Hammadi.” Coptic Apocrypha: New Frontiers—New Perspectives, ed. Hugo Lundhaug et al., Mohr Siebeck, 2026

2023 – “Peter’s Letter to Philip: Textual Fluidity in a New Testament Apocryphon.” The Nag Hammadi Codices as Monastic Books, ed. Hugo Lundhaug and Christian Bull, Morh Siebeck

2020 - “The Book of the Foreigner from Codex Tchacos.” Bulletin of the American Society of Papyrologists 57 (2020): 235-76.

2020 – Translation: “John of Parallos, Homily Against Heretical Books” and “The Investiture of the Archangel Gabriel.” Pages 553-79 in New Testament Apocrypha: More Noncanonical Scriptures, vol. 2, ed. Tony Burke. Eerdmans, 2020.

2016 - “Reading Variants in James and the Apocalypse of James: A Perspective from New Philology.” Pages 55–85 in Snapshots of Evolving Traditions: Jewish and Christian Manuscript Culture, Textual Fluidity, and Material Philology, ed. Liv Ingebord Lied and Hugo Lundhaug. Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur. De Gruyter, 2016.

2015 - The Monastic Origins of the Nag Hammadi Codices, co-authored with Hugo Lundhaug. Studies and Texts in Antiquity and Christianity 97. Mohr Siebeck, 2015.

Jenott is acknowledged as an expert in the Nag Hammadi Codices and Codex Tchacos, including such New Testament apocrypha as the Letter of Peter to Philip, the Gospel of Judas, James, and the Book of Allogenes. His work focuses on understanding the original composition of such texts in the history of Christian sectarianism without using the lens of Gnosticism, and also focuses on how the texts were later received, read, and revised by Christians in Egypt who produced the only surviving copies. He is recognized for his work challenging the traditional, narrow view of the Nag Hammadi Codices, which holds that they were merely hidden in monasteries. Instead, he argues that they were copied and read by monks for their ascetic and demonological teachings.

He specializes in bringing together different scholarly fields such as the New Testament, church fathers, monastic rules, papyri, and archaeology for the purpose of understanding the social and religious world of late antiquity.

Jenott’s Bible and Beyond appearances:

January 26, 2026: The Fate of the Apostles in the Gospel of Judas (archived discussion)

August 1, 2021: How Adam the Original Sinner Became Adam the Victim, then Adam the Glorified (podcast interview)

Recently I came across an article by Albert Roland Haig titled “Gnostic and Catholic Appropriations of Platonism” that explores one of the most fascinating intellectual tensions in early Christian thought: how to reconcile Plato’s philosophy with the Hebrew scriptures. Somewhat surprisingly, Haig argues that the Gnostic solution to this problem may actually be more philosophically coherent than the one that eventually became Christian orthodoxy. That claim alone makes the article worth examining more closely.

To put this in context, we need to realize how immensely popular Plotinus was in the third century CE. His Neoplatonic philosophy offered a comprehensive, spiritually satisfying, and intellectually grounded alternative to what most of the Roman world believed.

Haig approaches the issue by comparing the system associated with Sethian Gnostic traditions with what became Catholic orthodoxy. Plotinus himself had little interest in the Hebrew scriptures and regarded the Gnostics primarily as philosophers who distorted Platonism. For him, the cosmos was an ordered and beautiful expression of divine reality.

The Philosophical Problem

The problem both traditions—Gnostic and Catholic orthodoxy—faced was profound. How can we explain the God in Genesis from the popular Platonic standpoint? The Platonic first principle—often called the One—is utterly transcendent, beyond being and beyond description. It is not even properly a “person.” By contrast, the God of the Hebrew scriptures, Yahweh, appears vividly personal and anthropomorphic: jealous, emotional, and actively engaged in the creation and governance of the world. Reconciling these two conceptions of divinity required significant reinterpretation.

The roots of the debate reach back even before Christianity itself. The Jewish philosopher Philo of Alexandria had already attempted to reconcile Platonic philosophy with the Hebrew scriptures. Philo introduced the idea of a mediating divine power through whom God creates the world. This “second power in heaven” functioned as a kind of demiurgic agent—faithful to God but distinct from the ultimate divine source.

The Gnostic Interpretation

Haig defines a rather narrow, but helpful sense of Gnosticism, referring to movements that share specific defining features: the belief that the creator of the material world is not the highest divine principle, the identification of that creator with both the biblical Yahweh and the Platonic demiurge, and a metaphysical framework shaped by Platonism.

Instead of viewing the creator of the material world as a faithful servant of the highest God, Gnostic thinkers interpreted the material creator as ignorant or even malevolent. In their view, the physical cosmos—including human suffering—was not the direct work of the ultimate divine principle but the product of a lower power. Human beings nonetheless contained a spark of the higher divine reality that could awaken through spiritual insight.

From a Platonic perspective, this move was not entirely unreasonable. Platonism insists that the first principle must remain absolutely transcendent and untouched by the imperfections of the material world. The Gnostic interpretation, still in relation to Genesis, therefore preserved the purity of the highest divine reality.

The Emerging Orthodox Response

While Plotinus was arguing with Gnostics, emerging Catholic theologians were also influenced by Greek philosophy. But they headed in a different direction. Thinkers such as Tertullian and Origen tried to describe the relationship between the Father and the Son in the context of this Platonic philosophy, presenting the Son as subordinate to the Father.

Although such subordinationist ideas were later rejected by Catholics, the concept of a mediating divine figure shaped both Gnostic and proto-orthodox thought. A deeper philosophical question kept driving the debate: how can there be one perfectly good God while the world of suffering humans exists?

Catholic theology eventually addressed this tension through “telescoping.” In Plotinus’s metaphysics, reality unfolds through three levels or hypostases: the One, Intellect, and Soul. Catholic theologians gradually compressed these distinctions into the doctrine of the Trinity, effectively collapsing the hierarchy into a unified conception of God.

However, according to Haig, this solution introduced new philosophical difficulties. By identifying the biblical creator directly with the highest divine principle, Catholic theology risked compromising the radical transcendence that Platonism required. The doctrine of the eternal generation of the Son raised further difficult questions about how multiple distinctions could exist within a single divine being.

The Problem of Evil

To add to the difficulties, in classical Platonism, the Good stands above ‘Being’ altogether. But with biblical language such as God’s declaration “I am who I am,” Christian theology gradually came to identify God with Being itself. This shift altered the philosophical framework in significant ways, and the problem of evil became increasingly difficult. Bad things were reinterpreted as God’s benevolent purpose.

Haig argues that with the Gnostic advantage of holding to the supremacy of the Good, the problem of evil found a more rational answer. Some forms of Gnosticism proposed two levels of providence: the transcendent guidance of the One and the lesser governance of the demiurge. In weaker versions of Gnosticism, the demiurge ultimately serves the purposes of the higher divine reality. Stronger versions, particularly Sethian traditions, maintain a sharper opposition between the two principles.

Plotinus rejected both of these Gnostic solutions, accusing them of despising the universe. Yet the harsh realities of the natural world—violence, struggle, and suffering—make the new orthodox position difficult to affirm. How could every event of the natural world serve a benevolent cosmic purpose?

A Debate Worth Revisiting

Haig concludes that the ancient Gnostic attempt to reconcile Platonism and the Bible deserves renewed attention. Although rejected by emerging orthodoxy, it represents a philosophically coherent effort to preserve the transcendence of the highest divine principle while accounting for the imperfections of the material world.

Whether anyone agrees with Haig’s conclusion or not, his article highlights the remarkable philosophical creativity of early Christian thinkers. This discussion reminds us that the intellectual landscape of the early centuries was far more diverse than later doctrinal boundaries have told us.

Access the full-text PDF on ResearchGate.

Article citation:
Haig, Albert. (2025). Gnostic and Catholic Appropriations of Platonism. Gnosis. 10. 77-107. 10.1163/2451859X-01001003.

A Christian Teacher from Egypt

Valentinus was one of the most creative and influential Christian thinkers of the second century. Born around 100 CE in Egypt—likely in the Nile Delta—he grew up in a world shaped by the cultural and intellectual vibrancy of Alexandria. At the time, Alexandria was one of the greatest centers of learning in the Mediterranean world. Greek philosophy, Jewish biblical interpretation, Egyptian religious traditions, and emerging Christian thought all interacted in this cosmopolitan environment.

Within this setting Valentinus developed as a Christian teacher deeply interested in the spiritual meaning of scripture and the nature of salvation. Later writers report that he studied under a teacher named Theudas, who was said to have been a disciple of the apostle Paul. Whether historically accurate or not, the tradition suggests how Valentinus and his followers understood their own work: not as a break from Christianity, but as a continuation of apostolic teaching interpreted in a more philosophical and spiritual or mystical way.

Teaching in Alexandria and Rome

Valentinus first taught in Alexandria before eventually traveling to Rome in the early second century, probably around the 130s CE. At the time, Rome was rapidly becoming the most influential center of Christian activity in the empire. Teachers from across the Mediterranean came there to share ideas, debate interpretations of scripture, and attract followers.

Ancient reports suggest that Valentinus quickly gained a reputation as an eloquent teacher and interpreter of Christian texts. Some later sources even claim that he came close to being chosen as bishop of Rome, though the story may reflect the high regard in which he was held rather than a literal historical event.

What is clear is that Valentinus attracted a substantial following. His teaching was sophisticated and intellectually compelling, drawing on scripture, philosophy, and symbolic interpretation to explain the relationship between humanity and God. Rather than presenting himself as the founder of a new religion, Valentinus appears to have seen his work as offering a deeper understanding of the Christian message.

The Search for Spiritual Knowledge

Valentinus is often described as a “gnostic” thinker, though the term can obscure the complexity of his ideas. Central to his teaching was the concept of gnosis, or spiritual knowledge. This knowledge was not merely intellectual information but a transformative insight into humanity’s divine origin and ultimate destiny.

Valentinian texts describe the divine realm as a spiritual fullness—often called the pleroma (‘fullness’)—from which the visible world ultimately emerged. Human beings, according to this understanding, contain a spiritual element that originates in this divine realm. The goal of salvation is therefore not simply forgiveness of sin but awakening to one’s true identity and returning to the divine source.

Valentinus interpreted Christian scriptures—especially the Gospel of John and the letters of Paul—through this spiritual framework. In doing so he offered a vision of Christianity that emphasized inner transformation, knowledge of God, and the restoration of humanity to its divine origin.

A Movement That Spread Across the Empire

Valentinus’s ideas proved remarkably influential. During his lifetime he gathered a circle of devoted students, and after his death these followers continued developing and expanding his teachings. Their movement—often called Valentinian Christianity—became one of the most significant intellectual currents within second-century Christian thought.

Valentinian teachers established communities in major cities across the Roman Empire, including Rome, Alexandria, and Asia Minor. Some groups emphasized philosophical interpretation of scripture, while others produced visionary texts exploring the cosmic story of creation and salvation.

The discovery of the Nag Hammadi Library in 1945 revealed several writings that reflect ideas closely associated with Valentinian Christianity. Some of them include The Gospel of Truth, The Tripartite Tractate, and the Gospel of Philip. These texts show that the movement was far from marginal; it represented a vibrant and creative expression of Christian thought during the early centuries.

Conflict with Emerging Orthodoxy

Much of what we know about Valentinus comes from the writings of his opponents. As Christian leaders began to consolidate authority in the second century, they increasingly attempted to define which interpretations of Christianity were legitimate and which were not.

One of Valentinus’s most determined critics was the bishop Irenaeus of Lyons, who wrote a lengthy work titled Against Heresies attacking Valentinian teaching. Irenaeus portrayed Valentinus and his followers as dangerous distorters of Christian truth. Yet the energy he devoted to refuting them suggests that their ideas were widely known and taken seriously.

For many Christians of the time, Valentinus represented a compelling intellectual alternative to emerging forms of institutional Christianity.

Why Valentinus Still Matters

Today Valentinus is often remembered simply as a “heretic,” but modern scholarship paints a more complex picture. Rather than standing outside Christianity, Valentinus appears to have been part of the rich diversity of early Christian thought.

The second century was a time when Christian identity had not yet been standardized by creeds, councils, or centralized authority. Teachers like Valentinus explored philosophical, mystical, and symbolic interpretations of the Christian message, offering visions of salvation that emphasized spiritual insight and transformation.

Valentinus reminds us that early Christianity was not a single, unified tradition. It was a vibrant intellectual landscape filled with competing interpretations of what it meant to follow Jesus. Understanding figures like Valentinus helps us see that the boundaries of “orthodoxy” were not inevitable—they were the result of centuries of debate, creativity, and struggle.

Read more articles on the Early Christian Texts website for more information:

Index of posts on the Bible and Beyond website about Valentinus

Hyatt Regency, Chicago

This annual meeting includes a varied set of more than 70 sessions over three days: book review panels, thematic sessions, and talks ranging from canon to apocrypha, orthodoxy to heresy, text to artifact, life to death and beyond, across a half dozen ancient languages and more than a thousand years.

Two invited plenary speakers include Samuel Fernández and Sabrina Inowlocki.

Fernández will speak on “Rethinking Eusebius of Caesarea and the Origins of Arianism.” Inowlocki will speak on “Satire and Sanctity: Humour in Early Christian Literature.”

David Brakke, President, will deliver the Presidential Address: “Rufinus and the Order of Christian Books: Canon, Apocrypha, and the Records of the Fathers.”

There will be over 70 sessions including review panels, thematic sessions, talks ranging from canon to apocrypha, orthodoxy to heresy, life to death and beyond, and more.

Six of the session will be online, and there will be a book exhibit, and business meeting.

Registration is open now: Click here for more information.

Access event program here.

July 8 – 10, 2026: Early Christian Apocalypticism Workshop (2^nd to 5^th centuries) “Contours, Contexts, and Social Functions”

Regensburg, Germany

This special workshop, organized by NASSCAL AELAC, and Beyond Canon, is a scholarly, multi-part collaborative event. It explores apocalyptic literature in early Christianity, including texts from Nag Hammadi and other extracanonical traditions.

Contours: The literary and theological shapes of apocalyptic texts such as 1 Enoch, Daniel, and Apocalypse of Paul.

Contexts: How these texts were embedded within their ancient Mediterranean social and cultural environments.

Social Functions: The role of apocalyptic discourse in defining community boundaries, resisting imperial power, and addressing internal social complexities.

For further information, those interested are directed to contact Tony Burke.

tburke [at] yorku [dot] ca

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