(2025)
1. Theoretical Foundation of a Fictive Paul by Nina Livesey
2. Analysis
3. Plutarch and Paul
4. Conclusion: Noble Suicide Pacts
ABSTRACT: In this first of four articles, John MacDonald offers the suggestion that the historical Paul did not exist and was a literary creation of Acts in two ways. This then makes the Pauline letters fictive epistles like Seneca’s moral epistles. First, as a theoretical framework MacDonald summarizes Nina Livesey’s recent book arguing to this effect. Next, he uses that foundation to make the case that the converted Paul in Acts is a literary creation as the literary pair of the converted soldier at the cross in Luke—just as the forgiving dying Jesus is paired with the forgiving dying Stephen.
1. Theoretical Foundation of a Fictive Paul by Nina Livesey
Critical New Testament scholars have long sought after the historical Jesus. Now, another journey is underway to determine the historical nature of another prominent New Testament figure: Paul the Apostle. How do we weed out legend from history to get to the historical man? Did he even exist? In The Letters of Paul in their Roman Literary Context: Reassessing Apostolic Authorship, Nina Livesey rejects the authenticity of the seven letters traditionally attributed to Paul, and even doubts the historicity of Paul himself. This places her in the hermeneutic tradition of the Dutch Radical Critics and later scholars like Herman Detering and Robert M. Price. Her argument can be mapped out as follows.
The modern use of the Pauline letters to establish historical information about Paul or Jesus, like the “James the brother of the lord passage” use in Galatians 1:19 or the “Jesus as the seed of David” passage in Romans 1:3, was not the original way the letters were interpreted and utilized (contra Jesus mythicism). They were understood as authoritative and scripture-like. Whether their writer was pseudonymous, the attributed author didn’t exist, or the letters constituted genuine correspondence were not generally questioned:
Later in the enlightenment period questions of the authenticity of Pauline authorship came into view. The Enlightenment scholar de Wette’s concerns differed radically from the older readers…. While scholars such as Evanson and de Wette represent a shift in the understanding of the Pauline letters from authoritative teachings to that of historically relevant documents, Ferdinand Christian Baur—described as “the most important NT scholar of his time” and as one of “the most resolute advocates of the development of historical-critical research in the nineteenth century”—significantly advanced and seemingly entrenched the understanding of Pauline letters as historically reliable. (Livesey, 2024, p. 43)
Livesey argues that Baur’s assumption of an original rift between Christians and Torah followers relies on circular reasoning; he sees the rift in the “authentic” epistles with the result that he “posits a great rift between Judaism and Christianity from reading the Hauptbriefe, and then relies on those same letters to confirm his historical reconstruction” (Livesey, 2024, p. 46). For Bauer, the differences between what he saw as the four authentic letters of Paul and Acts was that the epistles were reliable, and Acts wasn’t, which is the perspective still held today—except with seven authentic letters instead of four.
Later commenters who looked at the letters often authenticated them through the general lens of a rift between Judaism and Christianity. Scholars have also appealed to what they saw as Paul’s style, “scholars assessed Pauline style subjectively, according to what they thought it was and according to their particular preferences…. Whether or not statements were sincere is, of course, a matter of authorial intent, something that is unknown to later readers. Moreover, similarities of style and language across letters do not provide evidence of the Apostle Paul as author” (Livesey, 2024, p. 52). Another criterion appealed to is later citations by authors like Clement, though we will see that this perhaps does not point to authenticity. Time and again Livesey argues that when we try to apply criteria to reveal Pauline letters as authentic, we runs into stumbling blocks, analogous to when Martin Heidegger famously failed to authenticate 2 Thessalonians. Heidegger wrote:
There are those in the congregation who have understood Paul, who know what is crucial. If the Parousia depends upon how I live, then I am unable to maintain the faith and love that is demanded of me; then I approach despair. Those who think this way worry themselves in a real sense, under the sign of real concern as to whether or not they can execute the work of faith and of love, and whether or not they will hold out until the decisive day. But Paul does not help them; rather he makes their anguish still greater (II Thess. 1:5: [evidence of the righteous judgment]). Only Paul himself could have written this. The overburdened nature (plerophory) of expression in the second letter has an entirely particular motivation, and is a sign of its authenticity. (1920-1921/2010, p. 76)
A final questionable lens is deeming a letter authentic when confirmed by Acts. Livesey writes: “Thus, Hilgenfeld assessed Thessalonians and Philippians historically reliable due to confirmation of Paul’s journeys into those regions as found in Acts” (2024, p. 53). Parallel with this research was the quest to determine if the letters of Paul were genuine correspondence and not literary fictions like the letters of Plato, employing such techniques as comparing Paul’s letters to other known ancient letters, though the result was Paul’s letters did not conform to those other letters. For example, consider Philemon: “While ancient Greco-Roman letters evince standard opening and closing formulae—as Exler’s findings confirmed none of the extant Pauline letters conform to that standard” (Livesey, 2024, p. 69).
Livesey further contends against a historical Paul:
[T]here is no evidence of the historical Paul. That the historical Paul was active in the mid-first century is likewise a characterization found largely in Acts and Pauline letters. Similarly, there is a distinct lack of archaeological evidence of ancient Pauline communities. The chapter argues that internal references to communities in home settings within well-known regions are best assessed rhetorically rather than historically. With the letters read together as a collection, distantly spaced regions function effectively to signify the far-reaching spread of the message into prominent areas. The lack of extant evidence for and references to Pauline letters as unities, as one would expect in the case of genuine correspondence, casts doubt on their status as genuine correspondence. In addition, sightings of Pauline letters in later sources indicate a mid-second century date of the collection. These combined arguments add to the thesis that the letters were from the start pseudonymous and fictional. (Livesey, 2024, chapter 2 summary)
For Livesey the Pauline communities are thus perhaps interesting fiction correspondence partners to provide the reader with a lively context for experiencing the letter. The great distance between the communities might then reflect the “far-reachingness” of Paul’s message, or if Marcion is the author, Marcion’s proclivity to travel. A supposed connection to the addresses in the seven genuine Pauline letters in Marcion’s ten letter collection also points to fictionality, since Marcion, who was known for his ship, originated as a neighbor to Galatia, and all the other cities were port cities that he could have traveled to.
One possible objection to Livesey’s fictive letter collection theory is that there may be lost Pauline letters, such as the one mentioned in 1 Corinthians 5:9, where Paul writes: “I wrote to you in my letter not to associate with sexually immoral people.” This implies a prior letter to the Corinthian Church, sent before 1 Corinthians, which is not preserved in the New Testament canon. The context suggests that it addressed moral conduct, but no manuscript of this letter exists. In 2 Corinthians 2:3-4 and 7:8-9, Paul refers to a letter written “with many tears,” meant to correct the Corinthians and express his anguish. This letter, distinct from 1 Corinthians, is often called the “severe” or “tearful” letter. It has been argued that this could be part of 2 Corinthians (e.g., chapters 10-13, which have a sharper tone), but most New Testament scholars conclude that it was a separate letter that is now lost, as the tone and content don’t fully align with 1 or 2 Corinthians.
Given this, some scholars find it unlikely that Marcion penned the seven letters and forgot about or lost the two extra Corinthian letters, although perhaps this is assuming too much. We do have a historical analogy for such lost fictive letters in a collection of Seneca’s Moral Epistles. There is compelling evidence that Seneca wrote moral epistles beyond the 124 preserved in the Epistulae Morales, primarily based on Aulus Gellius’ quotation of a lost letter and the incomplete nature of the manuscript tradition. Internal references and Seneca’s prolific output further support the possibility of additional letters, though their exact number and content are unknown. The loss of these epistles is consistent with the challenges of ancient text preservation. And inauthentic Pauline letters can get lost, as has been speculated about a letter to the Laodiceans mentioned in the forged Colossians 4:16.
The communities of the letters may be idealizations of the length of Paul’s reach, not literal places, much like the seven communities of Revelation represents universality. For example, considering Corinth as a literary entity, the term “to Corinthianize” (Greek: korinthiazomai) was used in some Greek literature to mean to living licentiously, suggesting a stereotype of moral laxity associated with the city. Paul’s letters to the Corinthians address specific issues in the Church, including: factionalism (1 Corinthians 1:10-17); sexual immorality, including a case of incest (1 Corinthians 5:1-13); lawsuits among believers (1 Corinthians 6:1-11); misuse of spiritual gifts (1 Corinthians 12-14); confusion about the resurrection (1 Corinthians 15); and disorderly worship and social divisions (1 Corinthians 11). These issues contribute to the perception of Corinth as a morally troubled Church in a corrupt city.
Paul uses strong language to correct and exhort the Corinthian believers. Describing their behavior as scandalous (e.g., “such immorality as is not even among pagans,” 1 Corinthians 5:1) amplifies the urgency of reform, a common technique in ancient moral discourse. By framing Corinth’s issues as particularly egregious, Paul may be employing hyperbole to shame or motivate the Church to align with Christian ethics, contrasting their behavior with the ideal of holiness (1 Corinthians 6:19-20). The portrayal of Corinth as a corrupt backdrop could serve to highlight the transformative power of the Gospel in a challenging environment, a theme Paul emphasizes (1 Corinthians 6:9-11). Paul’s letters address specific problems reported to him (1 Corinthians 1:11; 7:1), which may not represent the entire Church or city. The focus on scandals like incest or lawsuits could exaggerate the perception of widespread corruption. Other Churches Paul wrote to (e.g., Galatians, Thessalonians) also faced issues, but Corinth’s letters are longer and more detailed, possibly giving a skewed impression of unique depravity.
A fictive Paul, portrayed as a well-educated Jew familiar with Greco-Roman culture, may have drawn on Corinth’s existing literary reputation as a decadent city to contextualize his critique. This would resonate with readers familiar with the stereotype, even if the reality was less extreme. The temple of Aphrodite and associated prostitution, while possibly overstated in earlier sources, could have lingered as a cultural trope, which Paul implicitly engages when addressing sexual sin (1 Corinthians 6:12-20). This all could imply the Corinth communications attributed to Paul are fictive.
Livesey notes that the earliest collection of Paul’s letters is Marcion’s in the mid-second century, which is odd: “While scholars have offered various collection theories to account for how the letters—addressed to communities widely dispersed among regions of the Ancient Eastern Mediterranean and Asia Minor—managed to be found together as a collection, many strain the realm of historical likelihood” (2024, p. 74). It is odd that our earliest sources are collections of Paul’s letters and not individual letters, given the great distance between the supposed destinations of the letters, though there are early manuscript fragments that may or may not have come from collections. The fact that the declared writer of a letter is Paul does not imply that he was actually the writer: We have, for instance, the pseudonymous letters of Plato. Fictive letters tend to appear in collections.
Writing in role, such as composing letters or speeches in the persona of historical or mythical figures like Plato, was an aspect of ancient education, particularly in Greek and Roman rhetorical training. This practice, often called ethopoeia or prosopopoeia, was a key exercise in the progymnasmata—a series of preliminary rhetorical exercises used in ancient schools.
Students were tasked with crafting speeches, letters, or dialogues that captured the voice, style, and perspective of a specific character, such as a philosopher, mythological figure, or historical person. This honed their skills in rhetoric, persuasion, and understanding of character, while also deepening their engagement with philosophical ideas, historical contexts, and literary traditions. For example, a student might write a letter as Plato addressing a contemporary issue, requiring them to mimic his dialectical style and ideas.
This method was especially prominent in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, as seen in the works of educators like Libanius or in the training of orators like Cicero. It fostered creativity, empathy, and intellectual versatility, aligning with the broader goals of ancient education to produce well-rounded, persuasive communicators. Livesey notes that Paul’s autobiographical claims need not be authentic due to how such statements functioned in ancient letters: “The major interest of most ancient biographers and autobiographers was not historical reality but human potentiality and idealization” (George Lyons, in Livesey, 2024, p. 76). The voice of the author doesn’t necessarily point back to the author, but “[e]pistolary discourse entails the construction of a self based on an assumption of what might interest the intended addressee, not on some unchanging vision of one’s ‘true’ self” (Patricia Rosenmeyer, in Livesey, 2024, p. 78).
There is reason to think that Paul is fictional. Livesey thinks that Acts precedes the letters, and so “his absence from contemporaneous Hebraic, Greek, and Roman sources is nonetheless telling. The Roman name Paulus, from which the name Paul likely derives is also largely unattested as a cognomen (a nickname) in the ancient world. As a nomen gentilicium (family name), it belongs to noble patrician families inside Italy. From the way in which we come to know Paul in canonical sources, there is reason to believe that he, like other characters named in Acts, is fictional” (Livesey, 2024, p. 83). Fictive letters as a genre suppose the pseudonymous writer is known, like the pseudonymous letters of Plato, and where do we know the character of Paul from? Acts. Edgar J. Goodspeed noted a general unawareness of Paul and the Pauline letters prior to 90 CE, but later Paul was everywhere, which makes sense if the publication of Acts was the catalyst. Livesey pushes this further back to post-Bar Kokhba given recent scholarship later dating such sources (e.g., 2 Peter).
Livesey argues that there are extensive parallels between the letters and Acts, which suggests borrowing, but the antagonism between Paul and Judaism in the letters suggests a later Christian writer—and pseudonymous letter collections usually followed on what was already thought about an ancient character. The Paul of Acts adhered to Judaism and its beliefs: “the topics Pauline letters address, namely, negative assessments of Jewish law and circumcision, appear for the first time only in the second century” (Livesey, 2024, p. 91). Livesey elsewhere qualifies this that the negative view of circumcision is most conspicuous second century, though present earlier. This gives us a new sense of dating the letters of Paul as post-Acts.
Because they connect Paul with known events and people, 2 Corinthians 11:32-33 and Acts 18:1-18 have traditionally been used to establish Paul at particular places and times in history, but Livesey argues that they are literary fiction: “By contrast, when understood as literary fiction rather than history, references to known historical figures function effectively for narrative effect, adding a sense of importance and verisimilitude” (2024, p. 99). We see something similar with apologists who argue that a Gospel story is real because it includes real people and places, and hence ignore the possibility of historical fiction. An analogous fallacy is seeing that a source can’t be earlier than a date (e.g., 70 CE for Mark with the Temple destruction), but then assuming that it is not much later than that date because an early date is needed for history-gathering (e.g., Mark as post-Bar Kokhba).
With the overall content of Paul’s letters “the topics adopted in Pauline letters make better sense in a social setting in which the Jerusalem Temple is no longer standing, in a post-Bar Kokhba era” (Livesey, 2024, p. 101). Also, Paul’s Churches taking place in homes likewise reflects a literary device: “That “Christian” disciples gather in homes for safety and rituals, and that special knowledge and insight takes place in homes suggests that the author of Acts was likewise exploiting positive associations related to the home for persuasive purposes, and to advance the narrative” (Livesey, 2024, p. 106).
The places listed in the letters also occur in Acts as regions that Paul traveled to, suggesting intertextuality. Yet the Paul of Acts was not a letter writer, perhaps suggesting that the letter-writing Paul came about post-Acts. The places were well known and far apart, suggesting a literary device indicating the far reach of the message. Though the letters were supposedly sent far and wide, we have no letter transmitted to us individually, but only in collections. We have early attestations to the Pauline letters such as 1 Clement, the Ignatian letters, the Letter of Polycarp to the Philippians, and 2 Peter, but Livesey points out that recent scholarship has reimagined these sources to be in the mid-second century: “A mid-second century date of these early witnesses allows for the assessment that the collected Pauline letters themselves emerge only later, with Marcion’s 144 CE Apostolikon” (2024, p. 128). For example, 1 Clement is unsigned and talks about the apostles being killed for jealousy, which seems to point to the apocryphal Acts of the Apostles from the second and third centuries. These late documents are the only place by which scholars can try to date the death of Paul because they have stories of his martyrdom under Nero.
The writer of the Pauline epistles leaves clues of their role in a fictional letter genre, such as Paul claiming to be able to be a paradigmatic Sophist, able to argue as a Jew to win the Jews, and as a pagan to win the pagans (1 Corinthians 9:20-22). Regarding fictive letters and Sophists, Livesey says:
Fictional or literary letters—our interest here—grew in popularity from approximately 100 BCE to 250 CE , a period marked by the presence of sophists, rhetors, and professional teachers. Fictional letters and the rise in freestanding pseudonymous letters collections appear to be “the product of sophistic schools.” C. Costa comments that fictional letters were “extremely popular” in the Greco-Roman world. Their popularity is attributed to early educational methods, as rhetors and their students practiced rhetorical exercises using the letter form. Michael Trapp comments that “the composition of stylish and/or contentful ‘fictitious’ letters was felt both as a stimulating challenge to a writer’s abilities and as a source of educated pleasure to the knowledgeable reader.” Patricia Rosenmeyer reviews in detail the late-second and early-third centuries collected fictional letters of Alciphron, Aelian, and Philostratus. The letters of these collections sketch short emotive scenes, invent scenarios, and provide “brief glimpses into the lives of (mostly) ordinary people dealing with momentary crises.” Philostratus, for instance, indicates that he can argue two sides of an issue, one of the hallmarks of the sophistic enterprise. (2024, p. 138)
Livesey also notes that the fictional letter format is common to Seneca and Paul’s authors, and is an ideal teaching tool, which is why it’s being employed:
[T]he letter genre is in many ways an ideal medium for the advancement of disciplinary teachings by an authoritative instructor. The benefits of adopting the letter genre for persuasive teachings include its friendly and trustworthy domain, its appeal to external readers naturally drawn to incidents seemingly meant for others, and that it easily permits and even anticipates the promotion of self. It likewise highlights the versatility of the genre, its historic use in philosophical teachings, and its easy accommodation to a wide range of subgenres, including biography, autobiography, dialog, and narrative. Similarity in the use of epistolary features across the two collections contributes to the book’s thesis that Pauline authors, like Seneca’s (Moral Epistles to Lucilius), exploited the genre for teachings to secondary readers. (Livesey, 2024, chapter 3 summary)
Livesey’s historical analogy of the authors of Paul’s literary fiction epistles with Seneca’s is a powerful argument and so nudges us to update our historical probabilities in favor of her thesis. Rather than oral discussions, Seneca wants his letters to inform not only current readers, but later philosophical communities. The context of friendship in letters provides a context from which to narrow focus on something more important than friendship:
[L]etter components—addressee, letter content, and addressor … show ways in which Seneca and the authors of Pauline letters exploit many of the known characteristics of the genre for the advancement of their teachings. I indicate how these authors fashion, deploy, and maintain sender—recipient engagement, construct plausible and engaging situational scenarios, and strategically employ the discourse of self for the promotion of their teachings. (Livesey, 2024, p. 144)
Livesey argues: “Like Seneca who with enargeia brings Lucilius to life (Ep. 49.1), the Pauline author of Philippians likewise deploys the same rhetorical technique, reifying the community with a vivid image of the Apostle and the Philippians holding each other in their hearts (Phil 1.7)” (Livesey, 2024, p. 155). Though fictive, Paul’s presence (parousia) shines through the letter, as I noted above with Heidegger. Interestingly, Jacob Berman notes that the only two places where the name Epaphroditus is mentioned with Clemens is in Philippians and Suetonius’ Life of Domitian, whereby if there is intertextuality, here Philippians would have to be post-95 CE.
Traditionally, it was thought that Philippians was written during Paul’s imprisonment in Rome (60-62 CE), likely under Nero, when Christians faced sporadic persecution. Suetonius’ Life of Domitian describes Domitian’s later reign (81-96 CE), one marked by harsher measures against perceived threats, including toward Jews and possibly Christians via the fiscus Iudaicus (Jewish tax) and charges of “atheism” (Life of Domitian 12.2). Both texts thus touch on environments hostile to certain religious groups, though Philippians focuses on Christian endurance and joy, while Suetonius details imperial cruelty.
Both texts are set partly in Rome. Philippians references Paul’s house arrest and interactions with the Praetorian Guard (Philippians 1:13), and Epaphroditus travels to Rome to aid Paul. Suetonius’ Epaphroditus and Flavius Clemens are figures in Rome’s imperial court. This shared setting ties them to the Roman world, though their spheres (Christian mission vs. imperial politics) differ.
Philippians emphasizes selflessness, humility, and devotion to Christ, as seen in Epaphroditus’ near-death service (Philippians 2:25-30). Suetonius, conversely, portrays Domitian’s moral decline, with the executions of Epaphroditus and Flavius Clemens illustrating his paranoia and cruelty (Life of Domitian 14-15). While Philippians uplifts sacrificial service, Suetonius critiques tyrannical governance, offering contrasting ethical lenses which might suggest intertextuality.
Beyond this, there is also literary cohesion between the communities by referring to members as brothers and the body of Christ, and the reemergence of characters across long divides such as Timothy, Barnabas, and Titus: “These instances of intertextuality, found by way of reference to a collection, instantiate a network of communities” (Livesey, 2024, p. 157). The occasional nature of the letters seemingly crafted to address specific needs and issues of the communities actually “appear instead to be cleverly crafted hooks and springboards for theological teachings” (Livesey, 2024, p. 158).
Romans, though, is highly impersonal and thus represents poor use of a fictive letter for teaching. As I will show in a later article, Romans as a Church that Paul did not create has its own unique function. The letters are not by Paul, but are him incarnate, reflecting especially Plato’s use of the term “parousia” (presence). And as for the communities, for instance:
Like Seneca’s treatment of Lucilius in Letter 32, the “Galatian community” is instantiated as an exemplum of improper behavior…. That Pauline letters are primarily occasional in content—an underlying assumption that signals genuine correspondence—is a mistaken notion, a desideratum, that is not borne out by evidence of the letters…. Rosenmeyer notes that the inscribed sender functions as a hero character: “The epistolary genre implies a focus on the inner life of the ‘hero,’ and the reader is then invited to identify with the ego of the letter. (Livesey, 2024, pp. 182-184)
Paul suffers in imitating Christ just as the community is to suffer in imitating the Apostle: “As mentioned, the discourse of self attracts external readers, who are drawn to the sender as a hero figure. In Pauline letters, the hero figure’s status is augmented, to make him more attractive to receptive readers” (Livesey, 2024, p. 192). Given his fame and ability, Seneca speaks self-deprecatingly as a teaching exemplar, and “It merits mention that the majority (if not all) of Seneca’s teachings of Stoic philosophy and all Pauline theological teachings are conducted through letters” (Livesey, 2024, p. 196).
Livesey notes that it is in the wake of the Bar Kokhba revolt that the issues that Paul addresses, and the takes that he has on them, make the most sense:
The Bar Kokhba revolt (132-135 CE) had tremendous social and political consequences for Jews and Romans…. During this period, writer-intellectuals immigrated to Rome, established schools, and produced various religious writings, some of which directly reflected on the consequences of the recent Jewish revolt. Marcion’s Evangelion, considered by some as the first gospel, stems from this social-political context. At this same time, political and religious discourse attests to the reassessment of the Jewish rite of circumcision. The devaluation and non-necessity of circumcision for gentiles found within Pauline letters parallels discussions in writings of the post-Bar Kokhba period. Marcion is known in sources for having a singular interest in the Apostle Paul. He is also credited with the earliest known collection of ten Pauline letters (the Apostolikon). These combined factors contribute to the sense in which Marcion’s second-century Roman school is the likely location of the origination of Pauline letters. (2024, p. 185)
Livesey zeroes in on the context for the Pauline letters most likely being mid-second century: Willem Christiaan “Van Manen had thought the Pauline letters were the product of a Pauline school following the 70 CE revolt,” but Livesey argues that Paul’s letters, with such themes as necessity of Jewish law and practices, reflect the later Bar Kokhba revolt period: “There is no evidence of a school focusing on Marcion prior to the last revolt, and ‘Christian’ teachers and schools emerge in Rome around the mid-second century CE, after the Bar Kokhba revolt, and as a consequence of it” (2024, p. 200). A climate of animosity to the Jewish scriptures and circumcision flourished after 100 CE: “Comparably dismissive and/or derogatory assessments of circumcision and Jewish law do not surface in texts dated prior to the end of the first century. Discussions of the rite of circumcision dated at or after the Bar Kokhba revolt parallel those found in Pauline letters” (Livesey, 2024, pp. 202-203). The Olivet discourse in the Synoptics also seems to point to the apocalypticism of the Bar Kokhba era, as I will show later with Matthew’s reception history of Mark 13.
Mark 13, often called the “Little Apocalypse,” describes a series of eschatological events, including wars, desolation, and the coming of the Son of Man. Detering argues that the chapter’s imagery and predictions align more closely with the Bar Kokhba revolt (132-135 CE) than the First Jewish-Roman War (66-73 CE), which is the traditional dating anchor for Mark (circa 65-70 CE). The Bar Kokhba revolt was a major Jewish uprising against Roman rule, triggered by Emperor Hadrian’s establishment of Aelia Capitolina on Jerusalem’s ruins and possibly a ban on circumcision. It led to catastrophic consequences, including mass killings and the near-depopulation of Judea. Detering points to Mark 13:14, which mentions the “abomination of desolation” (often linked to Daniel’s prophecy). He suggests this could refer to Hadrian’s plan to erect a temple to Jupiter on the Temple Mount, a key trigger for the Bar Kokhba revolt. The verse’s call to “flee to the mountains” might reflect the rebels’ retreat to caves in the Judean Desert, as documented in archaeological findings like the Cave of Letters.
The revolt was led by Simon bar Kokhba, whom Rabbi Akiva hailed as the Messiah, based on Numbers 24:17 (“a star shall come out of Jacob”). Detering argues that Mark 13’s eschatological fervor, particularly the expectation of a divine figure (the Son of Man, Mark 13:26), mirrors the messianic hopes surrounding Bar Kokhba, suggesting the text was written in or after this period to address those expectations. Detering contends that the Synoptic Gospels, including Mark, are not clearly attested in early Christian writings. He notes that Justin Martyr (mid-second century) refers to “Memoirs of the Apostles” but does not explicitly cite Mark, suggesting that the Synoptics may not have been widely circulated or authoritative by 150 CE. The first clear references to the Synoptic Gospels appear in Irenaeus (late second century), supporting a later composition date for Mark, potentially post-135 CE. Detering highlights the word “first” (prōton) in Mark 13:10 (“the gospel must first be preached to all nations”), arguing that it lacks context in Mark’s narrative. He suggests that this implies a later editorial layer or dependence on a source shared with Matthew, pointing to a post-135 CE composition when Christian mission activity was more developed.
Detering questions full Markan priority, suggesting that parts of Mark 13 may depend on Matthew or a shared source. Matthew 24, which expands and clarifies Mark 13, includes more detailed eschatological predictions and a stronger emphasis on the destruction of Jerusalem. For example, Matthew 24:15 explicitly references “Daniel the prophet,” which Detering might argue shows a later, more refined theological reflection on the “abomination of desolation,” possibly postdating the Bar Kokhba revolt’s failure. Matthew’s additions, such as warnings about false messiahs (Matthew 24:23-26), could be seen as a response to the Bar Kokhba revolt, where Simon was proclaimed the Messiah but ultimately failed. This suggests that Matthew was written after the revolt, with Mark as its source or contemporary, composed in a context aware of the revolt’s outcome. The increased clarity and specificity in Matthew might reflect a community grappling with the aftermath of 135 CE, when messianic hopes were crushed, and Judaism shifted toward Rabbinic, nonrevolutionary forms. Matthew’s emphasis on judgment and the end of the age (Matthew 24:3, 36) could be interpreted as a reaction to the catastrophic failure of the Bar Kokhba revolt, reinforcing Detering’s view that both Gospels were shaped by this event, with Mark as a slightly earlier but still post-135 CE text.
Mark can’t be later than 175-180 CE because Irenaeus is the first writer to show that he knows the four gospels. Marcion was writing early in the second century. Our earliest references to Jesus by the Church Fathers are sayings that they seem to recite from memory, not narratives. Students of Rudolf Bultmann thought that the gospels seemed apocryphal in nature. As previously noted, Detering points out that in the Olivet discourse heralding the end, Mark may have taken his apocalypse by revising some warnings (as Price indicates Eusebius notes) handed out before the second fall of Jerusalem from the Bar Kokhba revolt, which Matthew also had, and so revised Mark thinking that the warnings were more original. They said that there would be famines and pestilences, that nations would go to war, that earthquakes would occur, and so on. Mark and Matthew would then be late.
Price notes that it’s possible that the sociopolitical tensions reflected in Matthew’s gospel could resonate with the circumstances leading to the revolt. Matthew’s emphasis on Jesus as the fulfillment of Jewish prophecy can be seen in light of the messianic fervor surrounding Bar Kokhba. The Gospel of Matthew contains themes of persecution (like in the Beatitudes, Matthew 5:10-12), which could resonate with the experiences of Jews and Christians during and after the Bar Kokhba Revolt. The revolt led to severe repercussions for Jews, including Christians, in Judea. The failure of the Bar Kokhba Revolt might have been seen by some Christians as divine judgment or as a sign pointing to Christian interpretations of eschatology and messianic prophecy, themes prevalent in Matthew.
It makes sense that imagery from the little apocalypse could refer to both the tragedies of the First Jewish-Roman War (66-73 CE) and the Bar Kokhba Revolt (132-135 CE) since they shared key similarities. Both were Jewish uprisings against Roman rule, driven by religious and cultural resistance. Rebels used guerrilla tactics, leveraging Judea’s terrain. Rome deployed massive forces, leading to devastating Jewish defeats. Both involved prolonged sieges (e.g., Jerusalem in 70 CE, Betar in 135 CE). Outcomes included mass casualties, enslavement, and cultural suppression (e.g., Temple destruction in 70 CE, renaming Judea to Syria Palaestina after 135 CE).
Jews could have seen this as more cyclical history, with God pouring out wrath on the Jews for the corruptness of the Jewish elite. It was “as though” the Jews were being punished for an unimaginable crime like killing God’s especially beloved Jesus. Many Jews around when the Jesus story takes place (circa 30 CE) viewed religious leaders, especially the high priests, as corrupt and complicit with Roman authorities. The priesthood’s Roman appointments, economic exploitation via Temple taxes, and perceived betrayal of Jewish autonomy fueled this sentiment. Groups like the Zealots, Essenes, and early Christians (e.g., Jesus, John the Baptist) criticized leaders for greed and collaboration, as seen in Josephus’ histories, the New Testament, and the Dead Sea Scrolls. Mark’s corrupt satirical trial of Jesus by the Jewish high council on Passover Eve typifies this, which I will look at with John Hamilton’s reconstruction in my third installment later.
Beyond Roman collaboration and corruption, many Jews around Jesus’ time (circa 30 CE) disliked religious leaders for elitism. The wealthy, aristocratic priesthood and Sadducees were seen as disconnected from common Jews. There were religious disputes such as clashes over Torah interpretation and ritual purity (e.g., criticized by Essenes, Pharisees, and Qumran sects). There was a failure to resist Rome, seen as cowardice by groups like the Zealots. Power abuses were a problem with exploitative Temple practices (e.g., high sacrifice costs) and violent power plays by some priests. Leaders were viewed as complacent, ignoring messianic or apocalyptic expectations (e.g., John the Baptist’s critiques).
Galatians vehemently argues against a group who wants to adopt Jewish Law, especially circumcision: “According to the arguments in Galatians, justification/righteousness comes from faith/trust (ἐκ πίστεως), construed as hierarchically superior and positively, and not from works of law (ἐξ ἔργων νóμου; Galatians 2:15-16), assessed consistently negatively. The assessment of Jewish law found in Galatians finds no parallels in primary sources dated up through Josephus (100 CE)” (Livesey, 2024, p. 208). Circumcision is overwhelmingly seen as favorable in the Hebrew Bible and central to the covenant between man and God. Though there are also hints of this earlier, things change significantly in Christian writings post-Bar Kokhba, where circumcision is debased, such as in Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho:
Among these writings, Justin’s assessment is the most incendiary. According to him, circumcision is a sign (σημεῖον) of suffering and alienation, whose purpose was to separate Israelites from other nations. The reference to the land becoming desolate and cities ruined by fire unproblematically pertains to the aftermath of the Bar Kokhba revolt. Justin is clearly aware of the revolt, as he alludes to it here and elsewhere. Moreover, according to Justin, Jews suffer justly. It was “predicated by Scripture” and took place “by divine providence…. In Barnabas and the Dialogue a metaphorical circumcision of the heart is assessed as superior to a literal circumcision of the flesh. (Livesey, 2024, p. 219).
The author of Paul argues against circumcision and devalues Abraham’s circumcision, indicating circumcision to be a form of slavery: “The devaluation of circumcision found in the later writings resonates in a Bar-Kokhba context, in which Jews sorely suffered the loss of their lives, their temple, and their territory; when many were sold into captivity; and, importantly, when Roman legislation prohibited the practice of circumcision” (Livesey, 2024, p. 223).
It seems that during the Antonine period circumcision would be a liability. Christian schools emerged in Rome post-revolt and Paul’s letters and the Gospels likely (for Livesey) had their origin there. The Christian schools were understood as philosophical schools. Justin’s work employs the strategy of friendly exchange noted earlier. Livesey thinks that Paul’s letters come from the school of Marcion, which I will address later. The Bar Kokhba revolt played a significant role in Marcion’s relocation to Rome. Marcion published a gospel similar to abridged Luke and ten abridged letters of Paul as our first New Testament: “Marcion’s Evangelion, while very similar to the Gospel of Luke, lacks the latter’s birth narrative and begins only at canonical Luke 3:1, ‘In the fifteenth year of Tiberius Caesar, when Pilate was governing Judaea'” (Livesey, 2024, p. 243). Luke is generally seen as the basis for Marcion’s gospel. But there is no evidence of earlier gospels, so Markus Vinzent points to post-revolt Rome: “oldest firm witnesses for the first Christian writings we can attain surface during the time after that war [Bar Kokhba]—Marcion’s collection of Paul’s letters, his gospel, and with it those gospels ‘that have been ascribed to Apostles and disciples of Apostles,’ hence Matthew and John, Mark and Luke” (Markus Vinzent, in Livesey, 2024, p. 245). Livesey argues that Marcion did not receive earlier gospels, but created the first one.
There is no evidence for a Pauline collection prior to Marcion’s in 144: “If, as argued, Marcion created a gospel, anew literary genre, he—with the help of those in his school—could certainly have crafted and overseen the composition of mock letters in the name of the Apostle Paul, deploying a known and popular literary genre” (Livesey, 2024, p. 248).
2. Analysis
Vinzent has recently revised his position on scholars, such as Livesey, who claim that Marcion authored Paul’s letters in the second century post-Bar Kokhba. He notes that our first evidence of Paul’s letters is Marcion’s ten-letter collection because we don’t have the canonical collection by that time. There seems to be evidence of two collections Marcion was working with as earlier than him, the Deutero-Paulines and seven “genuine” Paulines. The order of the seven Pauline texts seems to be the same in the canonical ones, and so Marcion incorrectly puts Galatians before Corinthians. I’ll talk about that below, but Dutch Radical critic van Manen thus incorrectly argued that Galatians was originally drafted by Marcion and later padded and sanitized by the Catholics for their own use.
The canonical redactors put a Pauline letter between each of the Deutero-Paulines to make them seem like they fit together as part of the larger collection. Marcion’s collection has one section where women are to be subjugated to men: Ephesians. This contradicts his seven Pauline epistles, and so should be earlier than Marcion. The canonical redactors added the idea that women should be subjugated to men into Colossians—it’s not there in Marcion. For the Marcionite Paul, Paul says that the Law says that women are subjugated to and should be taught by men, but the Law is no longer valid. The authenticity of the seven Pauline letters of Marcion is disputed by Livesey following the critique of such readers as the Dutch Radical School and Hermann Detering, and she shows that certain Pauline attack points, like the critique of circumcision, more naturally fit post-Bar Kokhba revolt than mid-first century.
As previously noted, Vinzent points to the sequence of Marcion’s epistles that agree with the canonical letters as a reflection of the canonical Pauline interpretation. They are not without order. In Marcion’s Galatians 5:21 we have a reference to: “the flesh is not inheriting the kingdom of heaven as I have said before.” The reference is to 1 Corinthians 15:50. Galatians is first in the Marcionite collection, but this reference agrees with the canonical collection in taking 1 Corinthians to be earlier. This suggests that Marcion has reordered a collection that he received, one that reflected the traditional canonical ordering, not that Marcion authored the letters.
In this regard, Livesey seems mistaken that the Pauline epistles originated with Marcion, but if so, this fact doesn’t tell us how close to or far from Marcion the letters originated. We usually assume an early date for history-gathering reasons, and so analogously conclude that because Mark isn’t earlier than 70 CE, Mark is near 70 CE. There is no basis for this assumption, as Mark 13 beyond the destruction of 70 CE can also be read to indicate the Bar Kokhba revolt, especially with how Matthew expands on Mark here in Mark’s Olivet discourse reception history.
If we push the New Testament into the second century, what we seem to have, though, is the creation of Paul in Acts (as Livesey argues), through parallelism with the Gospel of Luke. In Plutarch’s Parallel Life of Cleomenes III we have a dead crucified Cleomenes converting onlookers. We see the same motif in Mark, Matthew, and Luke with the soldier looking up at the crucified Jesus and declaring Jesus the Son of God/an innocent man.
Jesus has a forgiving in death in Luke. Bart Ehrman (2019) suggests that this was later edited out by Christian scribes who couldn’t see God forgiving the Jews, but we have good reason to think that it was original to Luke because we have a parallel forgiving death of Stephen in Acts. Similarly, we seem to have the literary origin of the converted Paul in Acts as a parallel of the converted soldier in Luke.
Stephen’s martyrdom is described in Acts 7:54-8:1, and Paul’s conversion on the road to Damascus follows in Acts 9:1-19. Acts 8 describes intervening events, including Philip’s ministry in Samaria and the conversion of the Ethiopian eunuch, which suggest that some time passed. However, the text doesn’t specify weeks, months, or years. Paul’s conversion in Acts follows him overseeing the death of forgiving Stephen, which could have ranged from weeks to a year, but the events were closely linked and so the death could have been viewed as a catalyst for the vision of Jesus by Paul. The letters augment this possibility that in Romans 16:7, Paul refers to Andronicus and Junia, who are described as “my kinsmen/cousins” and “outstanding among the apostles, who were in Christ before me.” This indicates that some of Paul’s relatives or close associates were part of the Jesus movement before his conversion. Paul (in his words “violently”) persecuting a movement where he has a man who forgives him for killing him (Acts) or his own relatives (Romans) could certainly connect to having a vision of Christ, which now secular psychology would call a hallucination due to cognitive dissonance, a psychological term that describes the discomfort you feel when your beliefs don’t line up with your actions, which was also present in a theological interpretation historically. The ancients knew divination was made possible during unusual events and physical states. Oracles like the Pythia at Delphi were thought to enter a trance state through the influence of volcanic vapors, allowing them to deliver prophecies. Many religious and spiritual traditions emphasize the importance of aligning one’s actions with their beliefs. The concept of sin, for instance, often involves a violation of one’s moral code, leading to guilt or shame, which can be seen as what we now call a form of cognitive dissonance.
Paul seems to be an idealized figure, the one prophesied in the Old Testament who would bring the message of God to the world at the end of the age (Isaiah 42:1-6; Isaiah 49:6; Isaiah 66:18-2; Zechariah 8:20-23; Malachi 1:11), and a powerful example of the truth of the Christian religion with an arch persecutor becoming a great champion, which explains the apparent typology in Acts (9:1-21) of Paul’s conversion recapitulating 2 Maccabees 3’s story of Heliodorus and perhaps Euripides’ the Bacchae.
The mentioned connection with Plutarch’s Cleomenes I seems to anchor the Gospels and Acts securely in the second century. Acts is thus not just a history of the early Church, but rather a historical fiction narrative prophesying (like Isaiah or Daniel) about a “Paul-like” figure who was soon to come:
Among these writings, Justin’s assessment is the most incendiary. According to him, circumcision is a sign (σημεῖον) of suffering and alienation, whose purpose was to separate Israelites from other nations. The reference to the land becoming desolate and cities ruined by fire unproblematically pertains to the aftermath of the Bar Kokhba revolt. Justin is clearly aware of the revolt, as he alludes to it here and elsewhere. Moreover, according to Justin, Jews suffer justly. It was “predicated by Scripture” and took place “by divine providence…. In Barnabas and the Dialogue a metaphorical circumcision of the heart is assessed as superior to a literal circumcision of the flesh. (Livesey, 2024, p. 219)
If we think of Jesus on the cross converting the soldier (This was God’s Son/an innocent man) regarding Cleomenes from Plutarch in connection to Jesus and Paul (and Ali Ataie notes this passage in a different context at time 2:42:47-2:44:15), the key passage from Plutarch’s Parallel Lives (Cleomenes) reads:
And a few days afterwards those who were keeping watch upon the body of Cleomenes where it hung, saw a serpent of great size coiling itself about the head and hiding away the face so that no ravening bird of prey could light upon it. 2 In consequence of this, the king was seized with superstitious fear, and thus gave the women occasion for various rites of purification, since they felt that a man had been taken off who was of a superior nature and beloved of the gods. And the Alexandrians actually worshipped him, coming frequently to the spot and addressing Cleomenes as a hero and a child of the gods. (39.1)
Cleomenes III was a king of Sparta from the Agiad dynasty, reigning from approximately 235 to 222 BC. In Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, he is paired with the Roman reformers Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus, and his biography is compared alongside that of his predecessor, Agis IV. Plutarch, writing in the early second century AD, focuses on Cleomenes’ character and reforms, emphasizing moral and ethical lessons over strict historical accuracy. The Cleomenes III depicted in Plutarch’s Parallel Lives was a courageous and idealistic reformer who sought to restore Sparta’s glory, but met a tragic end. Like Jesus, he was known for challenging elites, inspiring followers, and facing opposition. Unlike Jesus, the veneration of Cleomenes was stamped out by opponents, the reverse of Paul as an opponent who was responsible for the success of Christianity. In Cleomenes we read:
And the Alexandrians actually worshipped him, coming frequently to the spot and addressing Cleomenes as a hero and a child of the gods; but at last the wiser men among them put a stop to this by explaining that, as putrefying oxen breed bees, and horses wasps, and as beetles are generated in asses which are in the like condition of decay, so human bodies, when the juices about the marrow collect together and coagulate, produce serpents. And it was because they observed this that the ancients associated the serpent more than any other animal with heroes. (39.2-3)
By contrast, Jesus is the new and greater Cleomenes, where in Mark the soldier hears Jesus’ cry from the cross of terror, but ultimately trusting God (as with the Gethsemane plea), and the soldier seems to see Jesus as an exemplary soldier following his commanding officer’s (God’s) orders even unto death. Jesus is thus superior even to the son of God Caesar in this regard. Here we can begin to build a case that it is unlikely that Mark dates to the first century due to a turn of the second century dating of Plutarch’s Parallel Lives. In Mark the soldier looks up at the crucified Jesus and sees Jesus as a paradigmatic soldier following orders despite terror (“truly this was God’s son;” the cry of dereliction, this verse in Psalm 22 begins with the same expression of anguish, reflecting a sense of abandonment, though the psalm later turns to trust; Gethsemane). Mark uses the same word schizomai for the tearing of the heavens in Jesus’ baptism, where God calls Jesus his beloved son, and at Jesus’ death where the curtain between God and man tears and the Roman soldier declares Jesus the son of God, snubbing the divine sonship of Caesar. The New Testament writers compose in a Plutarch-inspired parallel style where all story units are paralleled with a silent Old Testament model (see Price, 2005). For example, John the Baptist/Jesus modeled on Elijah/Elisha and the important figures are written in pairs, and the humiliating death of John the Baptist is the forerunner of the even more torturous and humiliating death of Jesus analogous to, but more horrific than, the death of the arch enemy of the Jews, Haman.
Regarding Paul, this Markan-soldier Jesus getting the centurion to his side, away from the son of God Caesar, fits Paul nicely, as well as Jennifer Eyl’s analysis of martial imagery in Paul, where Paul wants his followers to exemplify in pistis/faith/trust/fidelity/faithfulness/loyalty in the traits of a Roman soldier’s allegiance and obedience, such as in 1 Thessalonians’ motifs of struggle, opposition, fortification, and armor. Like the Stoics, in Plato’s Apology Socrates likens philosophical life to not breaking rank in a military formation that was allotted to him by a god. Paul talks a parakaleo in pistis/faith of the flock, a word meaning marshalling an army in Plutarch. The idea of being a soldier in Christ surfaces again later in 2 Timothy 2:3.
Stephen Young notes that what is often overlooked is Paul’s list of virtues reflects masculinity, such as mastery and self-control over the passions, and so Paul wanted to re-masculinize the (in a broad sense) effeminate pagans. Paul thus encourages his flock in 1 Corinthians to become manly, Plutarch also noting the Roman word for manliness and virtue are the same, and through this lens we can see avoiding pleasure. The manliness of virtue and courage is very present in Greco-Roman writers analyzing “andreia.”
As we will see, Paul seems to assume the Gospels and Acts because he just throws out what seem to be simple summaries of complex theological portraits, like Jesus as a figurative soldier in Mark, which would hardly make sense to his average reader unless the reader had in mind the theology/philosophy of the conversion of the soldier and the crucified Jesus in Mark, Matthew, or Luke. In other words, as Livesey’s persuasively argues, the Pauline letters are late and presuppose the Gospels and Acts.
Matthew pairs Jesus being called the Son of God by the soldier at the cross with supernatural events that terrify the soldier. Ancient writers like Suetonius (The Twelve Caesars, “Augustus,” 100) and Dio Cassius (Roman History, 56.46) mention omens and portents surrounding Augustus’ death, which were interpreted as signs of his divine favor or transition to godhood. For example, Suetonius notes that a senator, Numerius Atticus, claimed to have seen Augustus’ soul ascending to Heaven, similar to the story of Julius Caesar’s comet. The Roman concept of apotheosis (becoming a god) was Roman deification that relied on visions, omens, state decrees, and public rituals.
Luke, by contrast has the soldier declare Jesus innocent because what is at issue for Luke is not just Jesus’ divine sonship, but that the world turned on and horribly executed God’s beloved (agapetos)—causing people to see themselves and their corrupt hearts in the ones who wrongly killed Jesus, and so had their Adamic eyes opened like Paul following the death of forgiving Stephen, resulting in metanoia (a change of mind/heart) repentance. This follows an occasional Old Testament theme that sometimes God doesn’t want sacrifices, but a contrite heart (Psalm 51:16-17). Ehrman comments:
It is easy to see Luke’s own distinctive view by considering what he has to say in the book of Acts, where the apostles give a number of speeches in order to convert others to the faith. What is striking is that in none of these instances (look, e.g., in chapters 3, 4, 13), do the apostles indicate that Jesus’ death brings atonement for sins. It is not that Jesus’ death is unimportant. It’s extremely important for Luke. But not as an atonement. Instead, Jesus death is what makes people realize their guilt before God (since he died even though he was innocent). Once people recognize their guilt, they turn to God in repentance, and then he forgives their sins. Jesus’ death for Luke, in other words, drives people to repentance, and it is this repentance that brings salvation. (Ehrman, 2017)
If the Apostle Paul was a fictional character and Acts predated the letters, certain details in the Book of Acts could emphasize his fictional nature by aligning with literary tropes, exaggerated characteristics, or narrative conveniences often found in fiction rather than in historical accounts. Some elements from Acts could contribute to this perception: dramatic conversion story (Acts 9:1-19); larger-than-life resilience (Acts 14:19-20, 16:22-24, 27:41-44); convenient escapes and miracles (Acts 16:25-28, 12:6-11); eloquent speeches and rhetorical skill (Acts 17:22-31, 26:2-23); symbolic role as a bridge between Jews and Gentiles (Acts 13:46-47, 15:12); vague or missing personal details; and exaggerated influence and reach (Acts 19:10, 28:30-31). These elements could be interpreted as literary flourishes if viewed through a fictional lens. They emphasize drama, symbolism, and narrative convenience, which are common in storytelling, but less so in unembellished historical records.
3. Plutarch and Paul
Seeing the influence of Plutarch on the New Testament above, with Cleomenes compared to the Gospels and Paul, follows the trend of recent biblical scholarship using this lens (such as Chantziantoniou, Fredriksen, & Young, 2025). Beyond this general pagan context for understanding Paul, we seem to have allusions to Plutarch in Acts. For example, in the Paul within Paganism anthology Matthew Sharp argues that in New Testament studies there is the usual distinction between pagan divination vs. Jewish prophecy. The distinction doesn’t seem to be that divination is not god-inspired, but that the wrong god is doing the inspiring. In Acts 16:16 we see the only case in the New Testament where the traditional term for divination occurs, with a girl who has a “python spirit” allowing her to perform divination, a reference to Apollo having slayed the great python and started the Pythian games. From Plutarch we know of the “Pythons,” people who had gods or Daimons inside of them allowing them to speak oracles (On the Decline of Oracles, 414E). This aligns with Paul’s idea of “the mind of Christ/Christ in you” of the Christian, which supercharges you to outwit Satan with God’s word, just as Jesus does in the Gospels. Paul of the letters also claims that he has a spirit that enables him to speak with divine authority in various contexts. As is common in ancient divination, Paul claimed divine visions and inspiration interpreting sacred texts as predicting Christ’s arrival and Paul’s gospel. Paul also saw God as sending signs and omens, a mainstay of ancient pagan divination.
Paul would say that “Jews ask for a sign, whereas Greeks seek wisdom.” But the crucified messiah confounds them both. Paul clarifies that it is a wisdom, but not the wisdom of this age, and that it is a sign of God’s disposition and activity in the world. This true wisdom is only possible through divination, through the indwelling of God’s spirit. For Plato and Posidonius divination was an inherent capacity of the human soul that happened either in sleep or near death or in moments of inspiration by divine breath: communicating from divine souls to human souls. Plutarch wrote extensively about divination and adopted much from Plato and Posidonius, but added that the divine spirit/breath/pneuma had a similar nature to the soul, and so when it touched the soul, it created a disposition in it for divination.
This is how Paul sees the world being implicated in the horrific torture and death of God’s especially beloved Jesus, creating a situation ripe for a change of disposition toward life/metanoia. The logic of salvation here will be explored later in the participation model of redemption vs. the judicial model in Romans. Briefly, if the law is love of God demonstrated by loving widow, orphan, stranger, and enemy as more important than self, and if Paul argues that righteousness comes through the law, then Christ died for nothing, and then the issue isn’t just loving Jesus (the demons also believe), but how the cross transforms you in seeing yourself implicated in the humanity who killed Jesus—to make you open for Christ to indwell within you to boost your defenses against the temptations of the Devil (Christ being the temptation resister pare excellence). Paul thus says in 1 Corinthians 15:17: “And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sin.” This speaks strongly against penal substitution readings that limit themselves to the cross and thus can’t say what the Resurrection’s role is in overcoming sin.
God and man are in continuity by sharing pneuma, and Paul and Plutarch both see a soul that needs to be unencumbered by the body in order to do this. The ordinary soul can only know human things, and so needs a fresh breath from God. Like Plutarch’s holy divinatory breath that enters you and permits divinatory knowledge, Paul’s pneuma from God serves the same function but is more powerful. The Stoic pneuma held the cosmos together, while Paul’s pneuma held one body of Christ together with different roles. The Stoic sage and Pauline Christian had the divine power of interpretation of things generally and divine signs in particular.
Paul thought that the Corinthians had the pneuma, but the element of the fleshly was stopping pneuma from being used properly, which was precisely Plutarch’s innovation in On the Daimon of Socrates over Plato and Posidonius on this issue. For Paul, the fleshly could only be combatted by letting the mind of the risen Christ inside you take over. The language of death and pneumatic transformation are common to Paul and Plutarch.
4. Conclusion: Noble Suicide Pacts
The later we date the New Testament, the more we can bring in (traditionally ignored) later popular sources to contextualize what we are reading, such as by taking into consideration Josephus’ account of the nativity of Moses to understand the beginning of Matthew. Let’s now consider the famous two mass suicide pacts in Josephus.
The story of the mass suicide at Masada is recounted by the Jewish historian Flavius Josephus in his work The Jewish War (Book VII, Chapters 8-9), written around 75 CE. It describes the dramatic final stand of Jewish rebels against Roman forces during the First Jewish-Roman War (66-73 CE) at the fortress of Masada, located in modern-day Israel. Josephus, writing for a Roman audience while being Jewish himself, portrays the rebels’ act as both heroic and tragic, emphasizing their defiance but also the futility of resisting Rome. Jesus is also heroic in death but is successful in resisting Rome.
Flavius Josephus was also involved in an incident during the First Jewish-Roman War that involved a suicide pact, which he ultimately did not follow through on. Some view Josephus as a traitor for not following through on the pact and aligning with Rome.
This seems to be a key context for understanding the portrayal of Jesus, Paul, and Christians in general. As we know, Jesus made a suicide pact with God to suffer and died for noble reasons, and like Josephus, Jesus tried to get out of it (Gethsemane), though he is greater than Josephus because he submitted to God’s plan despite terror (Mark/Psalm 22 cry of dereliction in Mark). This is classic imitative writing (Jewish Haggadic Midrash/pagan mimesis). Just like Josephus is rewarded with a new royal Roman name and Roman citizenship by Rome for his actions and words, Christ in Paul’s Philippians letter (Philippians 2:9-11) is given the highest name and an exaltation that he didn’t have before. I’ll discuss this more later.
Paul, too, will suffer and die in imitation of Christ, Christ’s words to Ananias about Paul and figuratively Christians generally being, “I will show him how much he must suffer for the sake of my name” (Acts 9:16). Being a Christian is essentially a suicide contract with God that you will do anything, even suffer and die (which will then inspire others and convert new Christians), in imitation of Jesus and Paul, to further God’s plan of realizing the next age of the Kingdom of God on Earth. Sins are thus not simply once and for all wiped clean (as the ultimate blood sacrifice), as substitutionary atonement theology maintains, and that is why we get the image in Hebrews of Jesus needing to continually intercede for us (Hebrews 7:25). The choice of the Christian life is taking on a life of service/suffering, Paul being an example of someone who was, as the earlier Saul, evil, then as Paul living a life of never-ending atonement for his earlier sins. Of course, the actualizing of such a Kingdom of God utopian second Eden on Earth can be taken literally, although as I will show, it does not require there ever having been a historical Jesus or Paul beyond ideals to strive after. (This is similar to Plutarch teaching the Priestess of Isis that the being of Osiris on Earth was just a story for the masses that must be passed through to a more essential meaning.)
The idea of dying to further a god’s will is reflected in ancient Greek thought through stories where mortals make deals with gods involving death or sacrifice, often with transformative or divine consequences. In Greek mythology, Alcestis, wife of King Admetus, agrees to die in the king’s place after Apollo grants Admetus the chance to avoid death if someone else takes his place. This isn’t a pact directly with the god Apollo, but involves a mortal’s self-sacrifice facilitated by divine intervention. Alcestis is later rescued from the underworld by Heracles, and her act is celebrated, suggesting a form of exaltation through her sacrifice.
In some versions of the Trojan War myths, Agamemnon is required to sacrifice his daughter Iphigenia to appease Artemis for favorable winds. While not a voluntary pact, some retellings (e.g., Euripides’ Iphigenia at Aulis) portray Iphigenia accepting her death willingly for the greater good of the Greeks, with hints of divine favor or transformation (in some versions, Artemis substitutes a deer and saves her, implying divine reward). This is a sacrificial deal.
In the Bible, Samson, a judge of Israel, prays to God for strength to destroy the Philistine temple of Dagon, despite knowing that it will lead to his own death. He says, “Let me die with the Philistines!” and brings down the temple, killing himself and his enemies. While not a formal pact, his willingness to die in service to God’s purpose (destroying Israel’s enemies) results in a heroic act, and the text implies divine approval through the restoration of his strength. His death is portrayed as a fulfillment of his divine mission, though exaltation is not explicitly promised.
Jephthah makes a vow to God that if he is granted victory over the Ammonites, he will sacrifice “whatever comes out of the door of my house to meet me” as a burnt offering. Tragically, his daughter is the first to emerge. She accepts her fate, asking only for two months to mourn, and the text suggests that she willingly goes to her death to fulfill her father’s vow to God. While this is not a direct pact between her and God, her sacrificial death is tied to a divine agreement, and her story is commemorated, hinting at a form of honor or remembrance.
God commands Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac. Isaac’s willingness to comply (though not explicitly detailed in the text) and Abraham’s obedience suggest a surrender to divine will. God intervenes, providing a ram instead, and blesses Abraham for his faith, promising exaltation through his descendants. This is a near-sacrifice with divine reward.
Echoing Jesus trusting God despite terror in Gethsemane, the widow trusts Elijah’s prophecy from God, giving her last food to him despite her and her son’s impending starvation. Her act of faith, risking death, results in God’s provision (her food supplies miraculously persist) and the resurrection of her son.
References
Chantziantoniou, Alexander, Fredriksen, Paula, & Stephen L. Young. (Eds.). (2025). Paul within Paganism: Restoring the Mediterranean Context to the Apostle. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press.
Ehrman, Bart. (2017, September 24). “Did Luke Have a Doctrine of the Atonement?” The Bart Ehrman Blog. <https://ehrmanblog.org/did-luke-have-a-doctrine-of-the-atonement-mailbag-september-24-2017/>.
Ehrman, Bart. (2019, March 24). “Did Jesus Pray ‘Father Forgive Them’ from the Cross?” The Bart Ehrman Blog. <https://ehrmanblog.org/did-jesus-pray-father-forgive-them-from-the-cross/>.
Heidegger, Martin. (2010). The Phenomenology of Religious Life (Kindle Edition). Bloomington, IA: Indiana University Press. (Originally delivered as lectures 1920-1921.)
Livesey, Nina E. (2024). The Letters of Paul in their Roman Literary Context: Reassessing Apostolic Authorship. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.
Price, Robert M. (2005). “New Testament Narrative as Old Testament Midrash.” In Encyclopaedia of Midrash: Biblical Interpretation in Formative Judaism (Vol. 1, pp. 534-573), ed. Jacob Neusner and Alan J. Avery-Peck. Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill.
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