(2025)
The Quest for the Historical Paul with Nina Livesey (Part 2: The Dog Who Stopped the War)
1. Introduction
2. The Unnecessary Jesus and Paul
3. Lot’s Angels and Jesus as a Great Angel in Paul
4. From Jesus’ Mission to the Jews to Paul’s Mission to the Pagans
5. Directing Attention at a Late Date of Mark and Paul
6. Paul, Jesus, and the Resurrected “Body” of Christ
ABSTRACT: In this second of four articles, John MacDonald explores how Paul and Jesus are unnecessary to the biblical narrative. With Paul we seem to have a generic idea of a type prophesied in the Old Testament who would bring God’s word to the pagans at the end of the age. Similarly, Jesus (Joshua) seems to be one of a type of then-ubiquitous messianic claimants that tried to relive Joshua’s legacy. As with Plato’s prisoner who escaped the cave, the true issue wasn’t whether a prisoner watching shadows on the wall existed, but the appropriation of the story’s message.
1. Introduction
We’ve been thinking about how an early date for Mark or Paul’s writings would be useful for historical research, but could still just amount to wishful thinking. For example, the Gospel of Mark is generally dated no earlier than 70 CE because it speaks of the destruction of the Temple. But some argue that the gospel is much later than 70 CE, citing as evidence Mark 13 being indicative not only of the Temple destruction of the 70 CE war, but also later Bar Kokhba. (For example, given the Jewish cyclical understanding of history, Mark 13’s Abomination of Desolation could refer to the Roman construction of a pagan temple to Jupiter on the Temple Mount, or to related desecrations during or after the revolt’s suppression in 135 CE.) Matthew’s reception history of Mark also seems to point in this direction. (I’ll discuss this later.) Similarly, markers in Paul’s letters put them no earlier than certain dates, but this doesn’t tell us how late they are. Analogously, several Old Testament books contain historical markers suggesting specific time periods, but scholars argue that they were written or finalized much later (e.g., Daniel, Isaiah, Ezekiel, the Torah, and the Book of Esther).
In such texts there are terms, place names, or cultural references that didn’t exist at the time of the supposed setting (e.g., “Chaldeans” in Genesis, Greek loanwords in Daniel). Prophecies or descriptions are precise for events up to the author’s time, but become vague or inaccurate afterward, as seen in Daniel. Shifts in language (e.g., late Hebrew or Aramaic) or style often indicate later composition or redaction. Themes reflecting later historical contexts, like post-Exilic Temple restoration or Diaspora identity, suggest later editing.
2. The Unnecessary Jesus and Paul
I previously argued against Nina Livesey’s idea that Marcion penned the first letters attributed to Paul and the first Gospel. One piece of evidence to this effect is that Marcion mistakenly puts Galatians before 1 Corinthians in his collection of letters. That said, there do seem to be issues connecting Marcion to the letters, like him coming from an area adjacent to Galatia and all of the other cities of the letters being port cities, Marcion being known for his boat and travels. In this way we might look for authors to individuals who influenced Marcion, like Cerdo, or were from his school, like Apelles. There are a million potential scenarios to explain where and when Marcion’s gospel and ten-letter collection came from, so this must be disputed through other lenses.
On the other hand, one might object Marcion could have penned the seven “genuine” letters and decided to place them out of order with Galatians before 1 Corinthians because for circulation purposes he wanted to emphasize the importance of the theology in Galatians. (Galatians was his favorite and so a good or crucial introduction.) Modern churches do the same thing when they encourage new converts to read the Gospel of John first as a foundational lens through which to interpret the rest of the New Testament (e.g., ‘Mark “says” this, but it must be seen through the lens of the beloved disciple who knew what was really meant’).
Livesey’s overarching thesis that we will be exploring is that Paul was a literary character created in Acts, and the Pauline letters were developed out of this base. My thought is that if this is right, the converted Paul in Acts seems to be a literary pair with the converted soldier at the cross in Luke, just as the forgiving, dying Jesus in Luke is a literary pair with the forgiving dying Stephen in Acts. Bart Ehrman notes that the forgiving dying Jesus was edited out by later Christian scribes who couldn’t see God forgiving the Jews, but was probably there originally because it fits the theology of Luke well and is a perfect literary pair/fit/parallel with the forgiving Stephen in Luke’s second volume, Acts.
If Paul personified what a prophesied figure might be like who would bring God’s message to the pagans at the end of the age, an idealized figure (as argued in the previous installment), then who was the messiah Jesus? I will give some preliminary remarks here thinking of Jesus in the light of his (possible) namesake Joshua and what happened to contemporaneous messianic claimants who wanted to emulate Joshua. It is important to consider Jesus with Paul because Jesus preached to the Jews, so Paul fills a literary gap and succeeds his mission in bringing the message to the pagans. The two complete a salvation theme.
In Jewish history, certain periods saw heightened messianic expectations, ones that were often tied to political crises. During the Babylonian Exile (6th century BCE), some hoped for a Davidic king to restore Israel based on prophecies like Jeremiah 23. No such figure emerged, leading to reinterpreted expectations (e.g., a future hope rather than immediate fulfillment). In the second century BCE the Maccabean revolt sparked messianic fervor, but the Hasmonean rulers were not universally accepted as messianic figures. In the first century CE figures like Jesus of Nazareth were seen by some as fulfilling messianic prophecies, but most Jews rejected this interpretation, as Jesus did not restore Israel’s political sovereignty or fulfill the expectations of a triumphant king.
This raises the question: why was Jesus considered the Messiah? In Jewish theology being raised from the dead no more makes him a Messiah than it makes him a car mechanic. Being crucified and raised from the dead (like Lazarus) no more makes Jesus a Messiah than being humiliatingly killed makes John the Baptist a Messiah. Figures like Bar Kokhba (second century CE) were hailed as potential messiahs during the revolt against Rome (132-135 CE), but failed to deliver lasting redemption, leading to widespread disappointment. Scholars like John J. Collins (in The Scepter and the Star, 1995) argue that messianic expectations evolved over time, often in response to historical crises. Prophecies were not necessarily “failed” but were fluid, allowing for reinterpretation as circumstances changed. Some interpret the seventy weeks in Daniel as a timeline pointing to around the first century, which would explain the explosion of messianic claimants, such as Jesus, during that time. I will argue that Jesus’ life is a parable about what would have happened if God had sent an especially beloved and chosen Messiah into the world in the first century as predicted in Daniel—that he would be given an analogous but more horrific death than the arch enemy of the Jews, Haman. This is not Christ mythicism, which paints Jesus as a celestial deity who was later put in stories on Earth, like Osiris; rather, it is most like Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, or the example of the impaled just man in Plato’s Republic. Whether Plato’s prisoner actually existed is not important; what matters is how the reader appropriates the story and is changed by it. In the same way it is irrelevant whether Paul was merely a literary character, just as Shakespeare’s genius opus would not become lacking if we found out that Francis Bacon wrote it.
If, as discussed in the previous installment, Mark was written post-Temple-destruction in 70 CE, or even post-Bar Kokhba (as Matthew’s reception history of Mark’s Olivet discourse suggests[1]), and if Paul’s letters are likewise second century, then Jesus may be a “messiah-type” literary character retrojected into the early first century to say ‘No, the Messiah didn’t come, but this is what the world tragically would have done to God’s most beloved messenger (agapetos angelos) if he had come as predicted in Daniel and died in the first century.’ Hearers/readers would experience the story as just as transformative (somewhat analogous to Aristotelian catharsis). The key is to see yourself in the world that turned against Jesus. The literary corrupt Jewish elites and bloodthirsty crowd turning on God’s beloved would make sense of why God’s wrath was poured out on the Temple (70s CE) and the booting of the Jews from the land (Bar Kokhba). And this interpretation is found in antiquity. Eusebius frames the catastrophic defeat of the Jewish rebels, the fall of Bethar, and the subsequent Roman devastation of Judea—including mass killings, enslavement, and the banning of Jews from Jerusalem—as God’s judgment for their rejection of Christ and their persecution of early Christians (Ecclesiastical History 4.6.3-4). He notes the establishment of Aelia Capitolina (the Roman colony built on Jerusalem’s ruins) and the exclusion of the Jews from the city as part of this divine judgment.
Around the time of Jesus, when messianic fever would have been fueled by Daniel and the hopes of a new and greater Joshua (roughly first century BCE to first century CE), several individuals in Judea and surrounding regions were identified as messianic claimants or leaders of movements with messianic undertones (often tied to Jewish expectations of a deliverer from Roman oppression). Many of these figures were killed, typically by Roman authorities or in conflicts stemming from their rebellions. The Jewish historian Josephus is the primary source for most of these figures, though he does not always explicitly label them as “messiahs.” Scholars often infer messianic claims based on their actions, such as leading revolts, claiming kingship, or being associated with apocalyptic expectations.
Jesus was thus emblematic of these failed messianic claimants, with the exception that he was considered God’s most beloved agapetos that his death was the responsibility of a corrupt Jewish elite and a Roman ruler who thought him a nuisance most easily dealt with by execution. Jesus was portrayed as executed by crucifixion, the typical punishment for sedition, and as calling himself King of the Jews (though he never did this).
Given the transformative power of the story, it’s not thematically necessary for God’s plan of a Kingdom of God on Earth that Jesus lived historically any more than it’s necessary for the point in Plato’s Republic to hold to literally be a prisoner in Plato’s cave or an impaled just man. And, if the letters are late as Livesey thinks, a lot of the evidence for the historicity of Jesus evaporates, like the James the brother of the Lord passage and the seed of David passage.
Socrates’ last words to Crito regarding his poison were: “let us offer a rooster to Asclepius for the pharmakon” (poison/cure). The meaning seems to be that just/noble Socrates, in being killed by society for silly reasons, un-covered (truth: “a-letheia”) the hidden vileness of society and hence acted as a catalyst for social change. Socrates’ death lifted the fog from people’s eyes and let them see their inner hidden vileness. Thus, as a result of what Socrates’ death showed about the hidden vileness of society, we no longer kill people for doing what Socrates did (being a gadfly). Analogously, the image of the just, impaled man is also a key image for Plato in book two of the most well-known book in the ancient world, the Republic—even though there was no such historical person. The soon-to-be future Pope Ratzinger commented in his Introduction to Christianity:
The Cross is revelation. It reveals not any particular thing, but God and man. It reveals who God is and in what way man is. There is a curious presentiment of this situation in Greek philosophy: Plato’s image of the crucified ‘just man.’ In Republic the great philosopher asks what is likely to be the position of a completely just man in this world. He comes to the conclusion that a man’s righteousness is only complete and guaranteed when he takes on the appearance of unrighteousness, for only then is it clear that he does not follow the opinion of men but pursues justice only for its own sake. So, according to Plato, the truly just man must be misunderstood and persecuted in this world; indeed Plato goes so far as to write: “They will say that our just man will be scourged, racked, fettered, will have his eyes burned out, and at last, after all manner of suffering, will be crucified.” This passage, written four hundred years before Christ, is always bound to move a Christian deeply. (Ratzinger, 1969, p. 292; cf. Plato, Republic, II.362a).
Socrates gives a prayer of thanks to Asclepius for the poison because it re-vealed the corruptness of society. This is all the more emphatic where tortured/executed Jesus is the uniquely chosen and favored Son of God, and so powerfully re-vealing (a-letheia) evil in order to bring about people seeing through Satan’s wiles tempting/influencing them (and thus can repent and be fairly judged at the imminent end of the age). This is the meaning of the impaled just man in book two of Plato’s Republic. Just as Socrates’ death dis-closed (“a-letheia”) the hidden corrupt nature of his society, infinitely more emphatic is this the case of Jesus as the specially chosen/beloved (agapetos) son and messenger (angelos) of God who continually demonstrates the power and wisdom of a paradigmatically holy man. The counterintuitive result of God sending his favorite is that Jesus is hated by the crowd and the Jewish elite, convicted as a criminal by a Roman who doesn’t even get a confession, and sees releasing Jesus as a nuisance. He executes him to placate the crowd, where Jesus suffers a horrific flogging and crucifixion, the most terrible of executions, and finally pleads to God asking why he has abandoned him. But the cross wasn’t just a revelatory ethical indictment of the hidden vileness of humanity; it was also a religious indictment of the satanic nature of man. For God had chosen Jesus as messiah to reinstate the throne of David—Jesus, who had continuously proved that he was specially chosen and favored (agapetos) by God through the signs and wonders that he performed, and through his authoritative and novel understanding of scripture—and humanity’s response to brutally torture and execute him as a criminal was basically a slap in the face of God.
The whole Jesus story reveals what even a failed messianic claimant could be if favored by God, which contrasts with Josephus, who valorized the Jewish military heroes but portrayed them as impotent in the face of Roman might. Recall that the soldier at the cross in Mark snubs Caesar as the Son of God and declares Jesus as the true one.
The Bible has numerous cases of acting to expose corruption and evil. In these examples individuals take actions to expose the wrongdoing or evil of others, often to bring truth to light or to uphold justice. The prophet Nathan uses a parable about a rich man stealing a poor man’s lamb to expose King David’s sin of adultery with Bathsheba and the murder of her husband, Uriah. By telling the story, Nathan leads David to condemn himself, revealing his moral failure. David repents, but the confrontation exposes his wrongdoing.
The prophet Elijah organizes a public contest on Mount Carmel to expose the falsehood of the prophets of Baal and demonstrate the power of God. By challenging them to call fire from their god, Elijah reveals their impotence and deception, leading to their downfall and exposing their false worship to the Israelites.
Jesus openly exposes the hypocrisy and corruption of the religious leaders, calling them “whitewashed tombs” and condemning their self-righteousness and legalism. His public teachings and rebukes highlight their moral and spiritual failings, warning others of their influence.
In Daniel and the Elders (Book of Susanna, Apocrypha) this story (found in some Christian traditions) has Daniel expose the corruption of two elders who falsely accuse Susanna of adultery to cover their own lustful intentions. Through clever questioning, Daniel reveals their lies, saving Susanna and exposing their wickedness.
Queen Esther risks her life to expose Haman’s genocidal plot against the Jews before King Ahasuerus. By revealing Haman’s scheme during a banquet, she uncovers his treachery, leading to his downfall and the salvation of her people. These examples show individuals, often guided by divine insight or courage, exposing the wrongs of others to uphold truth or justice.
It makes sense after the tragedies 70 CE and the post-Bar Kokhba 130s to have writers imagine and create a sinless son of God back in the 30s who was unjustly brutalized and killed by the Jewish elite to explain the judgment of God’s wrath on Israel with the destruction of the Temple and the later expulsion from Jerusalem, creatively using this as offering a way to salvation if the watchers/readers of the passion play underwent a change of mind or repentance (metanoia) by seeing themselves in the world that turned on Jesus. Later we will see this as one of the models that Paul has for salvation.
And we do have examples in antiquity of the unjust killing of a good man, such as Jesus, resulting in divine wrath like the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE, or the loss of a homeland post-Bar Kokhba. Mara bar Serapion, in a letter to his son broadly dated sometime between 70 CE and the third century, wrote (probably about Jesus):
What advantage did the Athenians gain from putting Socrates to death? Famine and plague came upon them as a judgment for their crime. What advantage did the men of Samos gain from burning Pythagoras? In a moment their land was covered with sand. What advantage did the Jews gain from executing their wise King? It was just after that their kingdom was abolished. God justly avenged these three wise men: the Athenians died of hunger; the Samians were overwhelmed by the sea; the Jews, ruined and driven from their land, live in complete dispersion. But Socrates did not die for good; he lived on in the teaching of Plato. Pythagoras did not die for good; he lived on in the statue of Hera. Nor did the wise king die for good; he lived on in the teaching which he had given.
The letter contains historical inaccuracies, such as implying that Pythagoras was killed by the Samians (he died in Italy) and conflating him with a sculptor named Pythagoras. Similarly, the timing of Socrates’ death and Athens’ misfortunes is muddled. These errors suggest that Mara was more concerned with rhetorical effect than historical precision, possibly drawing on earlier Stoic lists of persecuted philosophers (e.g., Chrysippus).
The ancient Jews often treated national tragedies, like the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE and the loss of their home after Bar Kokhba, as God’s judgment for their disobedience (e.g., the corrupt Jewish elite and the crafty trial of Jesus) rooted in their covenantal theology found in texts like Deuteronomy 28 (which links blessings to obedience and curses to rebellion, such as the Assyrian Exile of 722 BCE, the Babylonian Exile of 586 BCE, and the Siege of Jerusalem of 701 BCE). Some Jews, particularly those associated with the Essene sect and the Qumran community (as reflected in the Dead Sea Scrolls), viewed the Jewish elite—especially the Temple priesthood in Jerusalem—as corrupt due to political interference from Roman authorities, who appointed high priests through bribery rather than traditional lineage or merit. They criticized the priests for moral and ritual impurity, deviation from proper Jewish law, and exploitation, often referring to a “Wicked Priest” figure symbolizing this corruption, which led the Essenes to withdraw into isolated communities in anticipation of a purified future temple. This perspective was not universal among Jews, but it highlights internal divisions over religious authority during the Second Temple period.
Prophets like Amos (Amos 4:6-11) and Joel (Joel 1:4-20) interpreted natural disasters like famines and locust plagues as divine calls to repentance, signaling judgment for social injustices and spiritual unfaithfulness. Consider the Earth going dark at noon at the crucifixion, and the terror of the soldier at the cross in Matthew at the earthquake when Jesus dies.
3. Lot’s Angels and Jesus as a Great Angel in Paul
These interpretations were shaped by the belief that God actively governed history, using tragedies to discipline and restore His people. With the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE and the loss of their homeland after Bar Kokhba, it was ‘as though‘ God was punishing them for a horrific crime like torturing and killing God’s beloved innocent Son. Jesus was thus analogous to the two angels’ visit to Lot in Genesis 19, which serves as both an investigation and a catalyst/test for the people’s vileness to become conspicuous. The angels’ presence exposes the depth of Sodom’s sin through the inhabitants’ reaction, confirming the need for divine judgment. Jesus uses the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah as an example of divine judgment on sin, emphasizing its suddenness and severity. Jesus suggests that rejecting the gospel is a greater offense than the sins of Sodom and Gomorrah, indicating the high stakes of accepting or rejecting him or his message.
Many Targums and nonbiblical sources imply that the angels’ presence acted as a catalyst to reveal Sodom’s sinfulness. The Sodomites’ aggressive and immoral reaction to the angels—especially their demand to “know/rape” them—serves to make their wickedness conspicuous, justifying God’s judgment. Rabbinic sources like Genesis Rabbah and the Talmud lean heavily on this idea by contrasting the Sodomites’ behavior with Lot’s hospitality. Hellenistic and early Christian sources, like Philo and Josephus, further suggest that the angels’ human appearance provoked the Sodomites’ sinful response, effectively exposing their moral failure—just as Jesus’ exceptionality brought the wrath of the Jewish elite. This would explain Paul using the category of “angel” to describe Christ. Ehrman notes:
In the context of the verse Paul is reminding the Galatians of how they first received him when he was ill in their midst, and they helped restore him to health. This is what the verse in question says: “Even though my bodily condition was a test for you, you did not mock or despise me, but you received me as an angel of God, as Jesus Christ (Gal 4:14).” I had always simply read the verse to say that the Galatians had received Paul in his infirm state the way they would have received an angelic visitor, or even Christ himself. In fact the grammar of the Greek suggests something quite different. As the aforementioned Gieschen has argued, and has now been affirmed in a book on Christ as an angel by New Testament specialist Susan Garrett, the verse is not saying that the Galatians received Paul as an angel or as Christ; it is saying that they received him as they would an angel, such as Christ. By clear implication, then, Christ is an angel. (Ehrman, 2020)
Paul seems clearly to be alluding to and contrasting the way that the angels were received by Sodom with how, exemplifying hospitality, the Church received Christ and how Paul was received. In the Old Testament, God repeatedly commands His people to receive and care for widows, orphans, and aliens, reflecting His concern for the marginalized. Jesus in this way is the Word incarnate because he extends this concept to include love of enemy in Q: “But I say to you who hear, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you” (Luke 6:27-28; Matthew 5:44). Paul, too, expresses this love of enemy sentiment (Romans 12:14, 17-21), which may suggest Paul knew Q because the notion is more thought through in Paul, drawing on Old Testament wisdom (Proverbs 25:21-22). By contrast, Matthew and Luke portray Jesus as the innovator: “You have heard it said …, but I say to you.” Q and Paul are thus fulfilling the meaning of the Law to love God with all of your heart by loving the other person as yourself, Jesus thus being the Law incarnate. I will compare Paul, Q, and the Gospel of John in the final two installments.
Philo, a Hellenistic Jewish philosopher, interprets the angels’ visit allegorically. He suggests that their human form was meant to engage with Sodom’s inhabitants, revealing their moral state. While Philo doesn’t use the term “test,” he implies that the angels’ presence exposed the Sodomites’ depravity, particularly their lust and inhospitality, as a prelude to divine judgment. The Jewish historian Josephus (first century CE) describes the angels as appearing as “young men” of extraordinary beauty, which incited the Sodomites’ lustful behavior. He frames their visit as part of God’s investigation into Sodom’s sins, with the Sodomites’ reaction serving to confirm their guilt. The angels’ attractiveness could be seen as a catalyst that provoked the city’s sinful response.
The Bible contains several instances where sin is exposed, made conspicuous, or tested, often to reveal the moral state of individuals or communities, sometimes with divine intervention or judgment. After the Israelites escaped Egypt, they grew impatient waiting for Moses to descend from Mount Sinai. They crafted a golden calf to worship, revealing their idolatry and lack of faith in God. This sin was made conspicuous when Moses returned, saw their revelry, and shattered the tablets of the Law. God’s judgment followed, with about 3,000 people killed by the Levites and a plague that struck the people, exposing their rebellion.
After the fall of Jericho, Achan secretly took forbidden items (gold, silver, and a garment) from the spoils, violating God’s command to destroy everything. Israel’s subsequent defeat at Ai revealed that sin was present. Through divine guidance, Achan’s act was exposed publicly when he was singled out by Lot, and he confessed. His sin brought judgment on himself and his family (who were stoned), highlighting the consequences of hidden disobedience.
In the early Christian community, Ananias and Sapphira sold property, but lied about giving the full proceeds to the Church, keeping some for themselves. Their sin was exposed when Peter, through divine insight, confronted them. Both fell dead instantly, revealing the seriousness of deceit and hypocrisy in the Church. This event made their sin conspicuous and instilled fear among the believers.
While camped near Moab, the Israelites were lured into sexual immorality and idolatry with Moabite women, influenced by Balaam’s counsel (Numbers 31:16). Their sin was openly displayed through their participation in pagan worship. God sent a plague, killing 24,000, and Phinehas’ zeal in stopping the sin (by killing an offending couple) highlighted the public exposure of their rebellion.
These examples show a pattern where sin is either revealed through divine testing, human failure, or direct confrontation, often leading to judgment or correction. Unlike Sodom and Gomorrah, where angels tested the city’s hospitality and morality, these cases vary in method—some involve divine insight (e.g., Ananias and Sapphira), others public failure (e.g., the Golden Calf) or hidden sin exposed through consequences. But all of them underscore the Bible’s theme that sin, whether overt or concealed, will ultimately be brought to light.
In Genesis 19, angels visit Sodom to assess its moral state, confirming its sinfulness through the inhabitants’ actions. This motif of divine or supernatural beings investigating human morality, often leading to judgment, appears in Greek and Roman mythology, too. In Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Book VIII), Zeus and Hermes, disguised as mortals, visit Phrygia to test human hospitality. They are refused by many but welcomed by the humble Baucis and Philemon. The gods reward the couple’s kindness by sparing them from a flood that destroys the inhospitable region. This mirrors the Genesis 19 theme of divine beings assessing human behavior, with hospitality (or lack thereof) as a key moral criterion.
The story of Paris of Troy being tasked by Zeus to judge the beauty of Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite indirectly involves divine scrutiny of human (or semidivine) actions. The gods observe Paris’ decision, which leads to catastrophic consequences (the Trojan War), reflecting a divine evaluation of human choices, akin to the angels’ assessment in Sodom.
In Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Book I), Jupiter (Zeus’ Roman counterpart) descends to Earth to investigate rumors of human wickedness. He visits the impious King Lycaon, who attempts to deceive and kill him. Jupiter’s test confirms humanity’s depravity, leading to a flood to wipe out mankind, except for the righteous Deucalion and Pyrrha. This closely resembles the Genesis narrative, with a divine figure directly evaluating human sinfulness and enacting judgment.
These myths share the theme of divine beings testing or observing human morality, often resulting in reward for the virtuous or punishment for the wicked, much like the angels’ visit to Sodom. The emphasis on hospitality, justice, or piety as measures of worthiness is a recurring element across these traditions. God sent Jesus to the world for a reason analogous as to why he sent the angels to Lot: a test.
4. From Jesus’ Mission to the Jews to Paul’s Mission to the Pagans
With Herman Detering and Robert M. Price we will see Paul as a parallel character to the historical Simon Magus, just as Jesus seems to be a character imitating John the Baptist, with John as the new Elijah and Jesus as the new Elisha (with a double portion of John’s power and his successor and superior). Mark says: “The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ as it is written in the prophets.” Mark immediately interprets John the Baptist as a forerunner of the Messiah (à la Elijah in 2 Kings 1:8). Mark then clothes John similar to Elijah (Mark 1:6. 2 Kings 1:8). He then says that John ate locusts and wild honey, the food of the wilderness in which Elijah lived (and so on and so on). Price notes that in view of parallels elsewhere between John and Jesus on the one hand, and Elijah and Elisha on the other, some (e.g., Miller & Miller, 1990, p. 48) also see in the Jordan baptism and the endowment with the spirit a repetition of 2 Kings 2, where, near the Jordan, Elijah bequeaths a double portion of his own miracle-working spirit to Elisha, who henceforth functions as his successor and superior. Jesus says of John that there are none greater, so Jesus’ constituting John’s successor and superior, with the heavens opening up and the spirit descending on Jesus at the baptism, shows that only God’s beloved could succeed John.
John the Baptist is portrayed in the New Testament as suffering a humiliating death for insulting the elites, and likewise the Jewish elites turn on Jesus such that Jesus attains an even more tortuous and humiliating death. This portrayal of John’s death parallels the portrayal of Jesus’ death in Mark, just as the forgiving death of Jesus in Luke parallels the forgiving death of Stephen in Acts. In contrast to the biblical account, according to Josephus in his Antiquities of the Jews (18.116-119), John the Baptist was executed by Herod Antipas because of the significant influence that John wielded over the people. Josephus states that John was a virtuous man who urged the Jews to practice righteousness and piety toward God, using baptism as a symbol of bodily purification for those already cleansed by just behavior. Because large crowds were drawn to John and “were greatly moved by his words,” Herod feared that John’s influence could spark a rebellion. To prevent potential unrest, Herod had John arrested, imprisoned at the fortress of Machaerus, and put to death. Josephus also notes that some Jews believed the subsequent destruction of Herod’s army by King Aretas IV was divine punishment for John’s execution, linking it to Herod’s divorce from Aretas’ daughter to marry Herodias. In contrast, the Synoptic Gospels (Mark 6:17-29; Matthew 14:3-12; Luke 3:19-20) emphasize a different motive: John’s public criticism of Herod Antipas’ marriage to Herodias, his brother’s wife, which John deemed unlawful. In Mark’s account this rebuke leads to John’s imprisonment, and his execution follows a dramatic episode where Herodias’ daughter (traditionally identified as Salome) dances at Herod’s birthday banquet and, at her mother’s urging, requests John’s head on a platter. Herod, reluctantly bound by his oath, complies.
Jesus’ death plays a double role. On the one hand, to parallel the account of John, Jesus is condemned by the Jewish elite who trick the Romans into killing him because these elites aren’t allowed to, and Jesus goes beyond the historical death of John in Josephu, so Pilate executes Jesus for proclaiming to be King of the Jews (though Jesus never confesses to this). John showed a way to remove sins as the end was near, and Jesus provided a greater way to deal with sins. Mark thus winks at the reader that Jesus is an augmented reiteration of John the Baptist: In the Gospel of Mark, there is a passage where Jesus is identified by some as John the Baptist. In Mark 8:27-28, Jesus asks his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” They respond, “Some say John the Baptist; others say Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets.” This is very similar to the account in Matthew 16:13-14, where the same speculation about Jesus’ identity is reported. Additionally, earlier in Mark 6:14-16, King Herod Antipas hears about Jesus’ miracles and says, “John the Baptist has been raised from the dead, and that is why miraculous powers are at work in him.” Others around Herod also speculate that Jesus might be Elijah or a prophet, but Herod specifically believes Jesus is John resurrected. So, just as we have a literary pair of the deaths of Jesus and Stephen in Luke-Acts, we have a literary pair of the deaths of John and Jesus in Mark.
In Acts the link between Jesus as a successor and superior to John is strengthened. Paul emphasizes that John’s baptism was preparatory and water-based, pointing to Jesus, while baptism in Jesus’ name fulfills John’s message, bringing the Holy Spirit and a new life in Christ. This is why Paul rebaptizes the Ephesian disciples in Jesus’ name to complete their initiation into the Christian faith.
Just as Jesus went beyond John in that not only did water baptism address sin, but Jesus’ death answered sin, Jesus’ ministry to the Jews was expanded by Paul to the pagans to fulfill the prophecy that God’s message would reach the nations, and then the end would come. Whereas Mark has the central event of the passion/cross with a pagan empty tomb apotheosis narrative almost tacked on as an afterthought, Paul stresses the importance of the Pharisaic end time resurrection of Jesus in dealing with sin: “If Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile, and you are still in your sins” (1 Corinthians 15:17).
Jesus’ earthly ministry primarily focused on the “lost sheep of the house of Israel” (Matthew 15:24), fulfilling the messianic promises to Israel (Romans 15:8). Paul’s calling as the “apostle to the Gentiles” (Romans 11:13, Galatians 2:8, Acts 9:15) extends Jesus’ ministry to include the nations, fulfilling prophecies like Isaiah 49:6 (“a light for the Gentiles”) and Genesis 12:3 (“all nations will be blessed”). In Acts, Paul’s missionary journeys (e.g., Acts 13-28) and his letters (e.g., Romans 1:5, “obedience of faith among all the nations”) emphasize this expansion, bringing the gospel to pagans who were previously outside the covenant. Paul’s mission to the Gentiles expands Jesus’ Jewish-focused ministry to fulfill the prophetic inclusion of the nations. Paul himself connects his ministry to Old Testament promises (e.g., Romans 15:9-12, citing Psalms, Isaiah, and Deuteronomy to show God’s plan for the Gentiles). This aligns with the eschatological expectation in Matthew 24:14, where the gospel’s global reach precedes the end.
If the Gospels, letters, and Acts are of a later date than normally assumed, then it is possible that a reader would have known that the account of the death of John in the Gospels is fictive, for Josephus was widely read and we looked at how the account in Josephus differed from the Gospels. For instance, Price argues that Matthew’s Jesus narrative imitates Josephus’ account of the nativity of Moses:
On the whole Matthew seems to have borrowed the birth story of Jesus from Josephus’ retelling of the nativity of Moses. Whereas Exodus had Pharaoh institute the systematic murder of Hebrew infants simply to prevent a strong Hebrew fifth column in case of future invasion, Josephus makes the planned pogrom a weapon aimed right at Moses, who in Josephus becomes a promised messiah in his own right. Amram and Jochabed, expecting baby Moses, are alarmed. What should they do? Abort the pregnancy? God speaks in a dream to reassure them.
One of those sacred scribes, who are very sagacious in foretelling future events truly, told the king that about this time there would a child be borne to the Israelites, who, if he were reared, would bring the Egyptian dominion low, and would raise the Israelites; that he would excel all men in virtue, and obtain a glory that would be remembered through the ages. Which was so feared by the king that, according to this man’s opinion, he commanded that they should cast every male child into the river, and destroy it…. A man, whose name was Amram, … was very uneasy at it, his wife being then with child, and he knew not what to do…. Accordingly God had mercy on him, and was moved by his supplication. He stood by him in his sleep, and exhorted him not to despair of his future favours…. ‘For that child, out of dread for whose nativity the Egyptians have doomed the Israelites’ children to destruction, shall be this child of thine … he shall deliver the Hebrew nation from the distress they are under from the Egyptians. His memory shall be famous whole the world lasts.’ (Antiquities, II, IX, 2-3)
(Price, 2005, p. 555 [quoting Josephus at the paragraph break])
For another example with Josephus, consider Price with the Ascension in Luke:
The Ascension (24:49-53): Luke’s ascension narrative (the only one in the gospels) is based primarily upon the account of Elijah’s ascension in 2 Kings 2 (Brodie, p. 254-264), though he seems to have added elements of Josephus’ story of Moses’ ascension as well (“And as soon as they were come to the mountain called Abarim…, he was going to embrace Eleazar and Joshua, and was still discoursing with them, [when] a cloud stood over him on the sudden, and he disappeared in a certain valley” Antiquities V. 1. 48, Whiston trans.). In 2 Kings 2:9, Elijah and Elisha agree on the master’s bequest to his disciple: Elisha is to receive a double share of Elijah’s mighty spirit, i.e., power. Likewise, just before his own ascension, Jesus announces to his disciples his own bequest: “the promise of my father” (Luke 24:49). It will be a “clothing” with power, recalling Elijah’ miracle of parting the Jordan with his own rolled-up mantle (1 Kings 2:12). Both Elijah and Jesus are assumed into heaven (1 Kings 2:11; Luke 24:50-53: Acts 1:1-1), the former with the aid of Apollo’s chariot, but both are pointedly separated from their disciples (2 Kings 2:11; Luke 24:51). After this, the promised spirit comes, empowering the disciples (2 Kings 2:15; Acts 2:4). And just as Elijah’s ascent is witnessed by disciples, whose search failed to turn up his body (2 Kings 2:16-18), so is Jesus’ after they find only an empty tomb (Luke 24:3; Acts 1:9-11). (Price, 2005, p. 561)
Scholars have proposed additional instances where the Gospels or Acts may reflect awareness of Josephus’ works. In Acts 5, Gamaliel mentions Theudas and Judas the Galilean as failed messianic figures. Josephus (Antiquities 20.5.1; 18.1.1) describes Theudas (c. 44-46 CE) and Judas (c. 6 CE) in a similar order and context. Some scholars, like Price and Richard Carrier, argue Luke-Acts’ author used Josephus’ chronology, as Theudas postdates Judas, and no other source aligns them this way. This suggests a post-94 CE date for Acts.
Steve Mason and others note that Mark’s geographical references to Judea and Galilee (e.g., Mark 1:5, 10:1) align with Josephus’ descriptions in Jewish War and Antiquities. For instance, Mark’s depiction of the Sea of Galilee and surrounding regions may reflect Josephus’ detailed accounts of the area’s sociopolitical landscape.
Luke’s mention of a census under Quirinius (c. 6 CE) aligns with Josephus’ account of the census sparking unrest under Judas the Galilean. Critics like Carrier argue that Luke’s details (e.g., a global census under Augustus) are historically inaccurate but reflect Josephus’ narrative, suggesting that Luke relied on Antiquities. This supports a later date (post-94 CE) for Luke.
Luke mentions Lysanias as tetrarch of Abilene during Jesus’ ministry (c. 27-30 CE). Josephus describes a Lysanias executed earlier (c. 36 BCE) but also mentions a later Abilene ruler. Some argue that Luke misread or adapted Josephus’ account, implying dependence. However, epigraphic evidence (e.g., inscriptions mentioning a later Lysanias) weakens this claim.
As noted, the mention of Theudas preceding Judas in Acts mirrors Josephus’ Antiquities but is chronologically problematic, as Theudas’ revolt (44-46 CE) occurred after Judas’ (6 CE). This suggests the author of Acts may have used Josephus’ text rather than independent sources, supporting a post-94 CE date.
Acts describes a Roman official mistaking Paul for an “Egyptian” who led a revolt. Josephus details a similar Egyptian prophet leading followers to the Mount of Olives (c. 50s CE). The shared details (e.g., leading followers to a mountain, expecting divine intervention) suggest Acts’ author knew Josephus’ account, reinforcing a later dating.
John describes the Pool of Bethesda (which I will address in the next installment) with five porticoes, a detail that some argue aligns with Josephus’ description of Jerusalem’s topography. While not a strong case for dependence, it suggests that John’s author may have had access to detailed sources like Josephus. Some scholars, like Price, propose that John’s apocalyptic elements (e.g., cosmic judgment) echo Josephus’ descriptions of Jewish sectarian expectations (Antiquities 18.1.1).
5. Directing Attention at a Late Date of Mark and Paul
A point that I’ll reiterate throughout these installments is that Paul seems to briefly summarize complex theological themes worked out in the Gospels and Acts that would baffle an average letter reader unless they had a sophisticated understanding of the Gospel story as a background. Consider the imitative nature of the crucifixion narrative throughout the Gospels (“Christ died for our sins according to the scriptures”), or the sophisticated, corrupt legal presentation in the trial of Jesus by the Jewish elite (“The commandment makes sin sinful beyond measure”). As we’ll see, Hebrews 5:7 does the same sort of commentary with the Gethsemane story in Mark.
The theology of the Resurrection is much more developed in Paul than Mark, suggesting a later date for Paul. For example, in Mark/Matthew we see Jesus as the resistor of Satan par excellence, and later we see that this is because Jesus is the Word incarnate. Not, for example, with the experts at the letter of the law and word with the corrupt trial before the Jewish elite, but with the spirit of the law refuting Satan with scripture. Paul develops this theme by proposing a resurrection where the mind of Christ/Christ in you indwells in the believer to supercharge you to resist sin. Paul thus has an indwelling divination base of the life of the believer, one similar to late sources like the Gospel of John.
In Matthew Satan is an expert in the Word and tries to use it for his own ends, but Jesus as the Word incarnate not only knows the letter of the law, but also knows the spirit of it. Satan takes Jesus to the pinnacle of the temple and says, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, lest you strike your foot against a stone.'” Satan quotes Psalm 91:11-12, twisting it to suggest that Jesus should test God’s protection by performing a spectacular act to prove his divine favor. The Jewish elite at the corrupt trial of Jesus do the same thing. Jesus responds to Satan, “Again it is written, ‘You shall not put the Lord your God to the test.'” He cites Deuteronomy 6:16, correcting Satan’s misuse of scripture by emphasizing that testing God’s faithfulness is contrary to trust and obedience. Matthew 4:5-7 is the key instance where Satan cites scripture, selectively using Psalm 91 to manipulate Jesus into a reckless act. Jesus refutes it with another scripture, clarifying that true faith does not demand God prove himself through unnecessary tests. In this way Jesus fulfills the law, replacing the letter of the law with the spirit of the law, ultimately leading to the circumcising of a wicked heart with Jesus’ death re-vealing the Law written on the heart.
I noted with Luke that the theme of the cross is getting people to be brought face to face with their vileness in the unjust death of God’s beloved, which would transform your disposition from worldly/fleshly to godly. Paul too emphasizes this theme to transform his congregation, perhaps placing the letters after Luke:
For although I grieved you with my letter, I do not regret it. Although I did regret it (for I see that that letter caused you grief, though only briefly), 9 now I rejoice, not because you were grieved but because your grief led to repentance, for you felt a godly grief, so that you were not harmed in any way by us. (2 Corinthians 7:8-9)
2 Corinthians 7:8-9 highlights how godly sorrow, though painful, is “holy” because it leads to repentance and spiritual growth. This theme is woven throughout the Bible, from David’s repentance to the Ninevites’ turnaround in the Old Testament, and from Peter’s restoration to the prodigal son’s return in the New Testament. Each example shows grief as a catalyst for transformation when it aligns with God’s redemptive purposes. Price gives the example that the widow exclaims that Elijah must have come to disclose her past sins (“You have come to me to bring my sin to remembrance,” 1 Kings 17:18), which is a literary backdrop for when the Samaritan admits that Jesus has the goods on her as well (“He told me all that I ever did,” John 4:39).
Pointing out someone’s inconspicuous faults shames them to grow and improve, like having a reader see themselves in the people that turned on Jesus, a literary experience that functions like Aristotle’s catharsis but more like shame. Works like Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter (1850) use shame as a central mechanism. Hester Prynne’s public shaming (via the scarlet “A”) and Dimmesdale’s internal shame evoke a complex emotional response in readers, who may feel both empathy and discomfort. This can lead to a reflective process, akin to catharsis, where readers confront their own moral values or societal complicity in judgment. Similarly, Franz Kafka’s The Trial (1925) or Metamorphosis (1915) elicits shame by placing characters in absurd, degrading situations, prompting readers to grapple with existential guilt or societal alienation. The emotional weight of shame may not “purge” in the same way as catharsis, but it can provoke a transformative reckoning.
Satirical works, such as Jonathan Swift’s A Modest Proposal (1729), use shame strategically to expose societal flaws. By presenting a grotesque solution to poverty, Swift shames readers into recognizing their complicity in social neglect. This differs from catharsis’ emotional release but serves a parallel function in stirring moral awakening through discomfort. In theater (the core of Mark is a Passion Play, which were popular in antiquity), works like Bertolt Brecht’s Mother Courage and Her Children (1939) employ alienation techniques to make audiences feel shame for societal complicity in war or greed, rather than just pity for characters. Brecht’s “epic theater” avoids cathartic resolution, instead using shame to provoke critical reflection and action. Public shaming rituals in drama (e.g., the pillory scene in The Scarlet Letter or the trial in Arthur Miller’s The Crucible) mirror the communal exposure of tragedy, but the emotional effect is less about purging and more about confronting moral failure.
In ancient Greek culture, shame (aidos) was a moral emotion tied to honor and social expectations, as was discussed by philosophers like Plato and in the Homeric epics. However, it wasn’t framed as a dramatic effect like catharsis. Instead, shame was a social regulator, encouraging adherence to norms. In medieval Europe, literature like Dante’s Inferno placed real figures in Hell to shame their actions, evoking a moral response in readers. This shares catharsis’ aim of emotional impact, but focuses on judgment rather than purification. Works like St. Augustine’s fourth-century Confessions or modern memoirs (e.g., Tara Westover’s 2018 Educated) expose personal failings to evoke shame in both the writer and reader, encouraging reflection on shared human flaws.
The concept of shame—encompassing disgrace, moral failure, or modesty—is prevalent through terms like bosh (Hebrew) and aischynē (Greek). These reflect themes similar to aidos in classical Greek thought, such as social propriety, moral correction, or reverence. While not directly analogous to Aristotle’s catharsis, biblical shame serves a transformative role, often prompting repentance or humility rather than emotional purging. In Genesis 3:7-10, after eating the forbidden fruit, Adam and Eve feel shame because their eyes are opened (implied by their awareness of nakedness and hiding from God), which aligns with aidos as a response to violating divine norms. In Ezekiel 16:36-63 Jerusalem’s unfaithfulness is likened to a shameful act, with God promising restoration after shame (bosh). This reflects aidos as a corrective emotion. With Proverbs 13:18 “Poverty and shame (qalon, disgrace) come to him who ignores instruction.” Here shame serves a social and moral function, similar to aidos in Greek culture. Shame in the Old Testament often contrasts honor, mirroring aidos as a virtue tied to social respectability (e.g., Job’s loss of honor in Job 19:9 evokes shame).
Shame is both a negative consequence of sin and a positive call to humility or modesty, echoing aidos. In Romans 6:21 Paul speaks of things of which believers are now “ashamed” (aischynomai), reflecting moral shame. 1 Timothy 2:9 notes aidos as modesty aligns with Greco-Roman ideals of propriety, showing cultural overlap with classical Greek thought. In Hebrew culture, shame (bosh, qalon) was a social and moral regulator, often tied to covenant fidelity (e.g., Israel’s shame for idolatry in Hosea 10:6). This parallels aidos as a communal virtue but is more explicitly tied to divine judgment.
By the time of the New Testament Hellenistic culture influenced Jewish thought, and terms like aidos (1 Timothy 2:9) or aischynē reflect Greco-Roman concerns with honor and shame, akin to classical aidos. Biblical shame often serves a didactic or corrective purpose, urging repentance or adherence to God’s will (e.g., 2 Chronicles 7:14: humility and repentance after shame). Another related term is entropē (ἐντροπή), meaning “respect” or “shame before others,” used in 1 Corinthians 6:5 and 15:34 to urge moral reflection.
When we think of ancient Passion Plays such as Christ’s passion or the death of Osiris or Romulus, such plays/dramas are aimed to evoke intense emotions—grief, awe, joy, or fear—through vivid portrayals of divine struggles or triumphs. For example, the suffering and resurrection of Osiris in Egyptian rituals mirrored human experiences of loss and hope, fostering emotional release (a concept that Aristotle later called catharsis in Greek tragedy). Many performances conveyed moral or cosmological lessons, illustrating the consequences of hubris, the importance of honoring the gods, or the inevitability of natural cycles. For example, Greek tragedies often explored human flaws and divine justice, prompting reflection. In some cases, audiences were encouraged to emulate the virtues or sacrifices of mythic figures. Audiences were meant to feel a shared connection to the divine narrative, purging personal sorrows or anxieties through collective experience. In the Bible we have a somewhat related case of the ritual mourning of the Jewish women for the slain divinity Tammuz.
A transformational story about a wrongly tortured and crucified hypothetical 30s CE Jesus who was God’s most beloved (agapetos) messenger (angelos) would thus make sense with the destruction of the Temple 70s CE, or even later in the wake of the horror of Bar Kokhba in the 130s CE. It would be invented/narrated “as though” God’s beloved messenger was unjustly tortured and killed by the Jews, and so God’s wrath was poured out on the Temple in 70 CE, booting the Jews from their land after failed Bar Kokhba.
Assuming a late date, Price notes that the Gospel of Mark was probably written in Rome. It contains Latinisms like “centurion” even though it was written in Greek. It makes sense that it was the venerated gospel of Rome since it is 90 percent preserved in Matthew and 60 percent preserved in Luke, so if it was not venerated by the big-time church in Rome, it doesn’t make sense that it was preserved (unlike the Q document).
Like Livesey, Price thinks that the original version of Mark seems to be Ur-Mark, which was penned by Marcion, and the gospel itself was circulated and expanded by his students into what we have today. Marcion thought some of the additions were okay, so he thought it was fine for publication. Marcion’s materials often seem to be a rewrite of Old Testament stories. Excluding the Torah commandments, Marcion thought that a lot of the Old Testament stories weren’t that bad and so retooled them for Jesus—which reflects the general Greco-Roman imitation practice of mimesis/haggadic midrash.
Most biblical scholars think that Mark is written in 70 CE, citing such evidence as the Olivet Discourse in Mark 13 predicting the destruction of the Temple during the Roman-Jewish war. Apocalypses which predicted the future because they were actually written after the fact were common in ancient literature. That tells us that Mark is probably not pre-70 CE, though an apocalyptic Jesus “may” have made such a prediction, and this correct prediction could have inspired post-Temple Mark to write about Jesus. But while all of this suggests that Mark is probably after 70 CE, it doesn’t tell us how much later, though apologists like an early date because it is closer to the historical Jesus. Apocalypses as a genre can be much later than the events predicted. As noted, Mark’s “Abomination of Desolation” may point to Bar Kokhba events.
Similarly, with a late date of 1 Corinthians (following Willem Christiaan van Manen and Price), we seem to have a collection of “Pauline-sounding” ideas from a school by different writers writing in role where each page seems to contradict the argument on the previous page. Likewise, in Galatians, Paul says that he didn’t get the core of the gospel through human sources but through revelation, whereas in 1 Corinthians 15 he received the foundation of the faith (crucifixion/resurrection) from the apostles who came before him. In Corinthians, Paul seems first to be trying to prove that Jesus rose from the dead, but then assumes that the reader does believe that Jesus rose, so what’s the problem in thinking we will rise, too?
Price notes that 1 Corinthians is always arguing against itself. Can women speak in the public assembly? Sure, as long as they’re veiled. / No, they should keep quiet and ask their husbands at home. Should there be speaking in tongues? Yes (e.g., chapter 12), I (Paul) do it more than you do. / No (e.g., chapter 14), it’s a cause of stumbling for outsiders who think you’re crazy and is nothing much compared to love, go in that direction. Can you eat food originally sacrificed to idols? Yes, because if you’re as smart as I (Paul) am, you know it’s just steak. / No, even though these gods aren’t real, demons are, and this food is demon-steak, and God killed thousands of people for doing that. Is it good to be celibate because the time is so urgent? Paul says yes, but he then he says it’s good to be married. The resurrection discussion in chapter 15 seems to have 3 different agendas. Price comments:
Though it is a patchwork quilt drawn from many sources and has suffered numerous interpolations and redactional glosses, the book as a whole is an attempt to provide a church order, much like the Didache, or Teaching of the Twelve Apostles to the Nations. Titus and 2 Timothy are likewise not real letters but church manuals with Paul’s name attached. Walter Schmithals (Gnosticism in Corinth, 1971) observed how virtually everything in the document would make sense if the unifying thread of the issues addressed in 1 Corinthians was Gnosticism. Christian Gnosticism was a second-century phenomenon, but Schmithals argued that it must have begun already in Paul’s day, since 1 Corinthians seems to refer to it. But it seems more likely to me that 1 Corinthians itself stems from the late first or early second centuries. (Price, 2012, p. 324)
This would make sense of the letters originating in a religious school like Marcion’s. In a passage that I will further address in later installments, Price comments that all of this reflects well the Old Testament notion of a school:
And though Schenke himself does not invoke the analogy of the schools of the Old Testament prophets, I believe the comparison is a helpful one. It invites us to understand the Pauline corpus, as Marcion did, as the private canon, the sectarian scripture, of a particular Christian body, the Pauline School in this case. This is much like the composite book of Isaiah, which contains not only the oracles of the original Isaiah of Jerusalem but also the deutero- and trito-Isaianic supplements of his latter-day heirs. As in the case of the Isaiah canon where (à la Paul D. Hanson) we find intra-canonical collisions (cf. Ernst Käsemann), so we find Pauline versus deutero-Pauline clashes here and there…. Van Manen saw no reason to doubt the existence of Paul as an early Christian preacher, whose genuine itinerary he thought had been preserved in Acts, but he judged the so-called Pauline epistles to have as little direct connection to this early apostle as the so-called Johannine and Petrine writings have with their historically obscure namesakes. The epistles, Van Manen argued, display a universalizing and philosophizing tenor unthinkable for the apocalyptic sect pictured in Acts or the Gospels. Their greatest affinity was with Syrian Gnosticism. Nor did they represent the thinking of one theologian (the “Paulus Episcopus” of Pierson and Naber). Rather, in the Pauline epistles, we overhear intra-scholastic debates between different wings of Paulinism. Has God finally cast off the Jewish people or not? Does grace imply libertinism, as some hold? Do some preach circumcision in Paul’s name? Can women prophesy or not? (Price, 2012, pp. 77-78)
As I said in the previous installment, Markus Vinzent points to the sequence of Marcion’s epistles that agree with the canonical letters as being reflective 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 as 1 Corinthians being earlier. This suggests that Marcion has reordered a collection that reflects the traditional canonical ordering. But if Marcion altered the canonical order of the texts on purpose, why? It’s interesting Paul that references Corinthians in Galatians without saying where/that he is doing so, as though he assumes the Galatian audience would just know that he is talking about the Corinthians letter. In other words, this seems to suggest an intended reader who has the entire seven-letter collection of Marcion and has a sophisticated understanding of them, which could point to fictive correspondence. The presence of the Paulines and Deutero-Paulines, though they contradict each other at points, reflects well the Old Testament notion of a school.
Walter Schmithals and others similarly noted that Philippians is a patchwork of three fragments, and so it would make sense (as Livesey thinks) that the letters were born in a school and an assignment for students of writing in role as the character Paul from Acts, which a teacher later circulated as a single document.
To recap, 1 Corinthians also seems composite because we see what seems to be different authors writing in role as Paul. For one thing, Paul says “I decided to know nothing among you but Christ and him crucified” (1 Corinthians 2:2) and that the cross deals with sin (1 Corinthians 15:3). But alternatively, Paul says that “if Christ is not raised then your faith is futile and you are still in your sin” (1 Corinthians 15:17). On the one hand, the crucified Christ is the basic concept, whereas elsewhere the Resurrection trumps it, for if Christ is not raised, then God has not vindicated him against the charges of the world. More importantly, the biblical idea is reflected that “if the dead are not raised we should eat, drink, and be merrily sinful for tomorrow we die” (inferable from Ecclesiastes 8:15, Isaiah 22:13, and Matthew 11:19/Luke 7:34-36). By contrast, Paul says: “So, whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do everything for the glory of God (1 Corinthians 10:31).” Similarly, Romans 9-11 (which Marcion lacks) seems to have three different themes/topics. We might think of the analogy of the Sermon on the Mount, which likewise was never an individual sermon, just an organizational principle.
Jacob Berman notes that different people seem to be conflated as Paul: in Philippians Paul is a Benjamite, but in Romans 16 he’s a Herodian. Paul claims to have fled from King Aretes in 37 CE, but in 1 Corinthians 15 he says that he was born out of time, perhaps not a contemporary of Cephas, James, etc. As I said, there are seeming contradictions, such as Paul in Galatians saying that he did not learn the core of the gospel from the other apostles, but through revelation from Jesus; yet in 1 Corinthians, he says that he received the core of the religion from the apostles. In 1 Corinthians Paul is trying to convince people that Jesus rose from the dead, but then assumes that people believe that and tries to convince them that they, too, will rise. In 1 Thessalonians we have the absurdity of Paul trying to explain to people the Resurrection and life after death, as though he never taught that to them before.
In 1 Thessalonians 2:14-16 Paul mentions the Jews who “killed the Lord Jesus and the prophets” and currently face God’s wrath, which some scholars see as an allusion to their spiritual displacement or judgment, possibly linked to the destruction of Jerusalem or Bar Kokhba. This makes sense when addressing a pagan audience about the Jews that Paul thought killed Jesus, and it agrees with Matthew’s point that Jesus’ blood is on Jewish hands. Moreover, in John 8:44 Jesus declares that the Jews have the Devil as their father.
Similarly, we read:
Now if anyone builds on the foundation with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, straw— the work of each builder will become visible, for the day will disclose it, because it will be revealed with fire, and the fire will test what sort of work each has done. If the work that someone has built on the foundation survives, the builder will receive a wage. If the work is burned up, the builder will suffer loss; the builder will be saved, but only as through fire. Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you? If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy that person. For God’s temple is holy, and you are that temple. (1 Corinthians 3:12-17)
As Jacob Berman notes, this idea of the temple within and setting fire to buildings seems to make the most sense if the Temple is gone post-70 CE.
6. Paul, Jesus, and the Resurrected “Body” of Christ
In this series I have tried to show why I am not convinced that Paul was a historical person, and am persuaded that rather he was a literary creation in Acts paralleling the converted soldier in Luke who realizes the dead Jesus’ innocence following similar pericopes in Matthew and Mark (ultimately going back to Plutarch’s Cleomenes III). Paul was not created out of whole cloth, but appropriated details about such figures as Simon Magus into his portrait (as we I will argue). Likewise, the Jesus of the Gospels is highly fictive and employs the model of the failed messianic claimant, but then incorporates the more primitive philosophical/religious school Q source.
It’s interesting to note that treating Jesus or Paul as historical figures seems to reflect the ancient idea of a superficial exoteric level of a religion that must then be passed over to the esoteric truth. Regarding Plutarch, Carrier comments:
Near the end of the first century, around the same time the Gospels were being written, the Greek scholar Plutarch honored Clea, a priestess of the mysteries of Isis, with a treatise about her religion entitled On Isis and Osiris. In this he explains why her cult had adopted a certain belief about the life and resurrection of Osiris, in the “true” account reserved for those who, like her, were initiated into its secrets. He said the real truth was that Osiris was never really a historical person whose activity took place on Earth, as public accounts portrayed him to be. Osiris was, rather, a celestial being, whose trials and sufferings took place in outer space just below the moon, where death and turmoil reign. Thence Osiris descends every year, becomes incarnate by assuming a mortal body of flesh, and is killed by Set (in Greek, Typhon, the Egyptian analog to Satan). Then he is resurrected—literally undergoing, Plutarch says, an anabiôsis, a “return to life,” and a palingenesia, a “regeneration” (the same word used of the resurrection in Matthew 19:28). From there Osiris ascends back to heaven in glory. That means there were public stories that portrayed the death and resurrection of Osiris as taking place on Earth, in human history; these also imagined him descending to rule the underworld. But, Plutarch explains, those stories disguised the true teachings reserved for those of sufficient rank. “You must not think,” he says, “that any of these tales actually happened.” No, we “must not treat legend as if it were history at all.” Gods like Osiris were never really “generals, admirals, or kings, who lived in very ancient times” only to become gods after death; to the contrary, they were always celestial deities in some form, whether living as gods far above, or as demigods invisibly “in the space about us,” carrying “the prayers and petitions of men” up from Earth into outer space, and transporting divine “oracles and gifts” back from those same stellar reaches to the earth below. Accordingly, Plutarch reminds Clea, “the holy and sacred Osiris” does not rule “beneath the earth” as the ignorant public thinks, but “is far removed from the earth, uncontaminated and unpolluted and pure from all matter that is subject to destruction and death.” (Carrier, 2020, pp. 31-32)
We see this in Paul, too. For Paul (as noted) the Resurrection was the key because if the dead are not raised, we might as well enjoy blissful wickedness for tomorrow we die. But there is a further point. Besides the crucifixion, Pauline theology focuses on the Parousia, Jesus’ return. Ehrman notes that Paul doesn’t call believers “saved,” but only says that they will be on Christ’s return. But this isn’t quite right, for in the authentic letters Paul doesn’t talk about a Second Coming, just a coming.
First appearing in Plato’s Greek, “Parousia” refers to the becoming incarnate of something, for example, the beautiful mansion may be encountered as (i) Houseness and (ii) Beauty incarnate: now that’s a house! Aristotle gives the examples of a great painting as “Art” or the majestic circling bird of prey as “Nature.” We mean something similar when we read a particularly incisive passage in one of the authentic letters and react “Now that’s Paul!” Paul is present. By the same token, Jesus is present in the Holy Scriptures, not literally, but every time that we read, he reappears pointing us to reexamine ourselves and do better in light of what the world did to Jesus. This teaches us about ourselves and our sinful hearts, which need to be circumcised to reveal the law written on them (Romans 2:15).
Paul doesn’t speak of the Second Coming of Christ in his seven authentic letters, but rather of a coming Parousia or presence of Christ. In 1 Thessalonians 4:17 we see this idea of union between man and divine in the air (which has an antecedent in Jacob’s ladder) with the image of believers meeting Christ in the air, which may not be a rapture to Heaven since Paul is clear that the faithful will remain and rule on Earth in the next age. It refers to the maturing and fruit-bearing of the Church as the “true body of Christ” being the hands and feet of Jesus in the world. We thus again see an example of Plutarch’s message to the priestess of Isis that there is an esoteric meeting over and above the exoteric meeting. Similarly, Jacob’s ladder is not about a literal ladder, but the union of divine and person in covenant.
In his authentic letters (Romans, 1 Corinthians, 2 Corinthians, Galatians, Philippians, 1 Thessalonians, and Philemon), Paul’s eschatological vision focuses on the role of the faithful in the “next age” or the Eschaton, which he associates with Christ’s “presence/arrival” (Parousia) and the establishment of God’s kingdom. While Paul doesn’t provide a detailed blueprint for the faithful’s role on Earth specifically in the next age, his teachings emphasize their “participation” in a transformed existence under God’s reign. Paul teaches that the faithful will be resurrected or transformed at Christ’s arrival. In 1 Corinthians 15:42-54 he describes the resurrection body as imperishable, glorious, and spiritual, contrasting it with the perishable, physical body. The faithful will share in Christ’s resurrection, living in a renewed state.
Paul and other New Testament writings describe the Church as the “body of Christ,” with the metaphor of “hands and feet” often implied in Paul’s teachings about the Church’s role and function. He explicitly uses the “body of Christ” metaphor in his undisputed letters to describe the Church as a unified, diverse community that embodies Christ’s presence and mission. Paul compares the Church to a human body with many parts (e.g., hands, feet, eyes), each with distinct functions but united as one body under Christ, the head. He writes, “Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it” (1 Corinthians 12:27).
The “hands and feet” imagery is implicit here, as Paul emphasizes the active roles of members (e.g., apostles, prophets, teachers) working together for the body’s purpose. The diversity of gifts (e.g., serving, teaching) suggests members act as Christ’s hands and feet in practical service. This metaphor underscores unity, interdependence, and the active role of believers in embodying Christ’s work through love and service (1 Corinthians 13).
Paul again describes the Church as “one body in Christ” with many members, each having different functions. The implication is that believers collectively serve as Christ’s presence/parousia in the world, performing His work through their actions (e.g., generosity, mercy, leadership; see Romans 12:6-8).
The “hands and feet” concept is inferred from the call to active service, as members use their gifts to extend Christ’s ministry. Paul doesn’t explicitly say “hands and feet of Christ,” but the body metaphor includes members acting as Christ’s agents in the world. For example, in 2 Corinthians 5:20 Paul calls believers “ambassadors for Christ,” suggesting that they carry out His mission through actions, akin to hands and feet performing practical tasks. In Galatians 6:2 Paul urges believers to “carry each other’s burdens,” fulfilling the law of Christ, which aligns with the idea of being His hands and feet through service.
The “body of Christ” image appears in other New Testament texts, particularly in letters attributed to Paul but whose authorship is disputed, and the “hands and feet” idea is reinforced through teachings on the Church’s active role. Ephesians, possibly written by a Pauline disciple, calls the Church “the body” with Christ as the head, emphasizing growth and unity through love. Members are equipped for ministry (Ephesians 4:11-12), implying that they act as Christ’s hands and feet in building up the community and spreading the gospel.
The imagery of a body working together suggests practical, active roles for believers. Colossians, also possibly deutero-Pauline, identifies the Church as Christ’s body, with Christ as the head. Paul’s suffering “for the sake of his body” (Colossians 1:24) implies the Church continues Christ’s work, with members serving as His instruments.
The Gospels and Acts don’t use the “body of Christ” phrase but support the idea of believers as Christ’s hands and feet. In John 20:21, Jesus says, “As the Father has sent me, I am sending you,” commissioning disciples to continue His mission. Acts portrays the early Church acting as Christ’s agents (e.g., healing, preaching; see Acts 3:6, 4:32-35). 1 Peter 4:10-11 (though not Pauline) urges believers to use their gifts to serve, effectively acting as Christ’s hands and feet in the world.
The “body of Christ” metaphor emphasizes the Church as the living, active presence of Christ on Earth, with members collectively embodying His love, service, and mission. When we participate in the Church, such as works of love or reading scripture, Christ too returns and shines (Parousia) through it.
Exoterically the dead body of Christ translates into his glorious resurrection body (pneumatikos) as believers will one day translate, esoterically meaning that the Church will one day fully mature and bear its fruits: the presence of God incarnate. The “hands and feet” phrase is more common in modern Christian rhetoric than in the New Testament itself, but it captures Paul’s emphasis on the Church’s active, diverse roles.
If the esoteric meaning was the presencing (Parousia) of Christ through the one day mature body of Christ (the Church), an exoteric physical coming of Jesus for the faithful would answer the problem that many saints had died. (What would happen to them?) Paul’s key point is that Jesus is the first fruits of the general resurrection harvest of souls at the end of the age and that believers would share in this Pharisaic-type mass resurrection (1 Corinthians 15:20-23). After all, what good is the apotheosis of Christ if there is no resurrection for the dead in Christ? In fact, Paul notes if there is no resurrection, believers’ faith is in vain and people are still in their sin (1 Corinthians 15:17).
Paul writes 1 Thessalonians in part in order to assuage their fears. And the passage on which the modern “rapture” doctrine is based is the key. Read it for yourself (again 4:13-18). Now if possible!
In it Paul indicates that the Thessalonians should not grieve about those who have “fallen asleep” (a euphemism for “died”). Jesus is in fact coming back on the clouds of heaven, with great celestial sights and sounds accompanying him, and then “the dead in Christ will rise first.” They will meet Jesus in the air. Then “we who are left, who are alive at his coming” will also be taken up to meet Jesus in the clouds. And then all the believers will be reunited with one another, and with Christ, to receive their eternal reward.
And so, Paul concludes, the Thessalonians should comfort one another with these words. It’s a fascinating passage. Paul really did think Jesus was coming back overhead, and those who believed in him would join up with him in the clouds.
How desperately we wish we could know what he thought would happen next. What’s going to happen once the reunion in the clouds occurs? Would everyone then descend back down to earth? Would everyone continue on up into heaven? What would happen to those left behind? What would happen to the earth? Where would the kingdom be? What would eternal life be like?
I’ve got a million questions, and Paul doesn’t give the answers. The reason is almost certainly because Paul is writing to people to whom he has already preached these views and they know the answers. He goes on to tell the Thessalonians to remember the things that he taught them, and then there follows another intriguing passage in which he stresses one (but just one) of his earlier teachings, that the end of the age brought by Jesus’ return was going to come suddenly and without advanced warning. Meaning: it could happen any time now. And so Paul urges his readers to “keep awake and stay sober.” They don’t want to miss the big event, and they don’t want to be caught unawares (or doing something they shouldn’t be doing) like everyone else would be (1 Thess 5:1-11). (Ehrman, 2015)
But perhaps, appropriating Plutarch, a literal homecoming of Christ is unnecessary if the figurative “church/Body of Christ” fully matured (Parousia) and transformed the world (the Great Commission) to be Christlike, since this would be God’s kingdom on Earth realized (Matthew 28:16-20; Romans 15:15-21; Galatians 1:15-16). Compare pointing to the esoteric in Mark 4:11-12.
A big theme in the Bible is that not just intrinsic motivation, but threats of punishment or hopes of reward were powerful motivators of moral conduct. Apocalyptism augmented this: The End -Time judgment is imminent, so you better start loving God and neighbor! As Paul says, “For all of us must appear before the judgment seat of Christ, so that each may receive due recompense for actions done in the body, whether good or evil” (2 Corinthians 5:10). Absent a final judgment and reward/punishment, we might as well indulge in the sins of the flesh, like gluttony and fornication, for tomorrow we die (1 Corinthians 15:32; Luke 12:19; Isaiah 22:13). In 1 Corinthians 15 Paul uses this logic to highlight the futility of such a worldview. He argues that the resurrection of Christ and believers gives life eternal significance, countering the idea of living only for temporary pleasures. He emphasizes that because the dead are raised, Christians should live with hope and purpose, not indulging in the pleasures of the flesh as if there’s no tomorrow.
In terms of bringing about the Kingdom of God on Earth, the issue isn’t so much that there is a next life, but that you believe that there is a next life, for then you will act nobly. That’s how we get kids to behave with an all-knowing Santa Claus. Luke thus clarifies (17:21) that the Kingdom of God is within (ἐντὸς, entos / compare usage in Matthew 23:26), even in the hearts of the hard-hearted Pharisees; it’s just that in Paul’s language, the heart which is vile must be circumcised to reveal the Law written on it. A big part of this is the spell that is broken when we see ourselves in the world that brought about the unjust torture and death of God’s most beloved messenger. Socrates’ last words in the Phaedo are to offer a prayer of thanksgiving for the poison. On the one hand this is thankfulness for release from the prison (sema) of the body (soma), and on the other hand it is a moral influence death. And it worked. Civilized society no longer executes someone for being a gadfly. The death of Socrates according to Plato is like the impaled just man in the Republic, whose death is preferable to an unjust life because it makes society’s inconspicuous sinful nature conspicuous, and hence is the catalyst to transform society. This is like the plot of the children’s movie The Dog Who Stopped the War (1984).
This is a Canadian children’s film set in a small Quebec town during Christmas break. A group of kids, led by “General Luc,” a bossy boy, and Marc, who owns a St. Bernard named Cléo, split into two rival gangs for an epic snowball fight. Luc’s team attacks a massive snow fortress designed by the genius François and defended by Marc’s group. Tensions escalate as the “war” consumes the children, with strategies like ink-filled snowballs causing chaos. The conflict culminates in tragedy when Cléo dies in a fort collapse, prompting the kids to end their rivalry, mourn together, and dismantle the fortress, realizing the futility of their conflict.
The film illustrates that it sometimes takes a tragedy to reveal the destructive nature of vices like pride, rivalry, and aggression. The children’s obsession with their snowball war mirrors adult conflicts, driven by ego and competition. Luc’s domineering leadership and Sophie’s reckless tactics (e.g., ink snowballs) escalate tensions, leading to Cléo’s death. This loss shocks the kids into recognizing the senselessness of their feud, uniting them in grief and teaching them that “war, war, that’s no reason to hurt one another.” The tragedy exposes the harm in their actions, fostering peace and friendship, and it serves as an allegory for the vanity of war. The dog is a type of Christ who is killed though innocent/sinless amidst the vices of the children.
Note
[1] 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 (132-136 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 that 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 that 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-136 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-136 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 common 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-136 CE text.
References
Berman, Jacob. (forthcoming). “The New Chronology of Paul.” Journal of Higher Criticism.
Brodie, Thomas L. (1981). “Luke the Literary Interpreter: Luke-Acts as a Systematic Rewriting and Updating of the Elijah-Elisha narrative in 1 and 2 Kings.” [Doctoral dissertation, Pontifical University of St. Thomas Aquinas].
Carrier, Richard. (2020). Jesus from Outer Space: What the Earliest Christians Really Believed about Christ. Durham, NC: Pitchstone Publishing. (Kindle edition).
Detering, Hermann. (2000). “The Synoptic Apocalypse (Mark 13 par): A Document from the Time of Bar Kochba.” Journal of Higher Criticism Vol. 7, No. 2 (Fall 2000): 161-210.
Ehrman, Bart. (2015, August 6). “The Return of Jesus (Rapture?) in 1 Thessalonians.” The Bart Ehrman Blog. <https://ehrmanblog.org/the-return-of-jesus-rapture-in-1-thessalonians/>.
Ehrman, Bart. (2020, February 4). “Was Christ an Angel, According to Paul?” The Bart Ehrman Blog. <https://ehrmanblog.org/was-christ-an-angel-according-to-paul/>.
Miller, Dale, & Patricia Miller. (1990). The Gospel of Mark as Midrash on Earlier Jewish and New Testament Literature. Lampeter, UK: Edwin Mellen Press.
Price, Robert M. (2012). The Amazing Colossal Apostle: The Search for the Historical Paul. Salt Lake City, UT: Signature Books. (Kindle edition).
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.
Ratzinger, Joseph. (1971). Introduction to Christianity. New York, NY: Herder and Herder.
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