Conclusion

3

The Writing of Canon

Were Early Christians Averse to Written Documents?

There is more than a suggestion in the early Church of a reluctance to write.

C. F. EVANS

“The New Testament in the Making,” in The Cambridge History of the Bible: From the Beginnings to Jerome

Throughout this volume, we have been arguing for more of an “intrinsic” model of canon, namely that the canon was not an artificial, ecclesiastical creation imposed on books written for another purpose, but was something that would have arisen naturally from the matrix of theological beliefs held by the earliest Christians. However, not all scholars are convinced that a corpus of authoritative writings would have emerged so naturally. The primary reason for this resistance is that some scholars view early Christianity as a predominantly, if not exclusively, oral religion that would have been hesitant to place value on written documents. James Barr argues against an early emergence of a Christian corpus of Scripture on precisely these grounds: “The cultural presupposition [of early Christianity] suggested that committal to writing was an unworthy mode of transmission of the profoundest truth.” Robert Funk uses this same argument to push the emergence of the canon further back: “The aversion to writing persisted in the early [Christian] movement well into the second century.” Even when it comes to the apostle Paul, we are told that he was “suspicious of texts” and only wrote letters because he was “forced” to do so in response to false teachers. This sort of argument—that early Christians had an aversion to written texts, which would have prevented the early emergence of a canon—constitutes the third major tenet of the extrinsic model.

As a result of this conviction, some scholars have offered a rather negative portrayal of writing within the history of early Christianity. The act of writing is now receiving the blame for many of early Christianity’s social ills. Not only are we told that it is responsible for making Christianity a “centralized” and “hierarchical” religion, but it is also characterized as a weapon of oppression used for the “marginalization of perceived deviant groups.” Writing is guilty of taking a “diversified” and “egalitarian” religion and corrupting it into a religion where the power was in the hands of a “small educated male elite.” Thus, it is now blamed for the suppression of women, discrimination against the poor, and the exclusion of the uneducated. As a result, the written text is described as “dead,” “despiritualized,” “mute” and “a move away from the free expression of the spirit.” In contrast, spoken/oral words are given a glowing appraisal, as we are told that they “breathe life,” “carry a sense of presence and intensity” and are “endowed with a special quality of presentness and personal authority.”

Now, this idea that early Christianity was “a culture which tended to frown upon the writing of books” can be largely traced back to the work of form critics (and their predecessors) in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Particularly influential was the work of Franz Overbeck, who downplayed the value of early Christian writings as Urliteratur (preliterature) that lacked the artistry and sophistication of Greco-Roman writings. Thus, he portrayed early Christianity as an inherently unliterary movement that would have placed no real value in texts. According to Overbeck, Christianity did not become a literary movement until the mid-second century—only then would texts have begun to have any real authority. Early form critics were influenced greatly by Overbeck and argued that earliest Christianity was a fundamentally oral culture that would have been disinclined to put the message of Jesus in written form. Martin Dibelius is representative of this approach when he argues that Christians were “an unlettered people which . . . had neither the capacity nor the inclination for the production of books.”

However, the roots of this modern scholarly polemic against the written word go beyond just the influence of form criticism. Francis Watson traces it also to the existentialism of scholars such as Friedrich Schleiermacher and Rudolf Bultmann, who insist that “the reality of religion can only be immediately experienced” and that “textuality is a barrier to immediacy.” If true religion must always be an immediate spiritual encounter, then one can see how written texts would be disparaged as obstacles to such encounters. Watson argues that the negative appraisal of writing among these existential scholars is actually a neo-Marcionite rejection of Judaism: “Textuality is identified with Jewishness, the letter that kills by corrupting the original purity of the gospel; and neo-Marcionism proposes to cleanse theology and church from the defilement of the Jewish letter.” Thus, it is no surprise that Bultmann insists on interpreting the early Christian movement apart from the Old Testament story of Israel—for him, it is not a religion about the past but about the experience of the kerygma in the present. His version of Christianity is largely cut off from its Jewish, and therefore its textual, roots.

Although the belief that early Christians had an aversion to written documents is certainly not unusual among some modern scholars, the question before us is whether that belief is entirely justified. Is it true that Christians were uninterested in books and placed no meaningful value on them until a much later time period? In this chapter we shall examine the three major arguments that have been used to support this belief: (1) the argument from sociohistorical background: early Christianity was an oral culture; (2) the argument from testimony: early Christians expressly stated their aversion to writing; and (3) the argument from eschatology: early Christians expected the imminent return of Christ.

The Argument from Sociohistorical Background: Early Christianity Was an Oral Culture

For scholars who argue that Christians were averse to written documents, the most important consideration is the sociohistorical context of early Christianity. Contrary to our highly literate, post-Gutenberg society, we are reminded that the vast majority of the earliest Christians were poor, rural and illiterate, with neither the ability to read nor to write. The seminal study of William Harris argues that the average extent of literacy in the Greco-Roman world of the first century was ten to fifteen percent, and some have suggested that for Jewish Palestine the rate was actually lower. Sure, some Christians could read and write—particularly the bishops and other leaders—but it still remained the case that most could not. Even the early critics of Christianity, such as Lucian, Minucius Felix and Celsus, were quick to focus on this issue. Celsus, writing in the second century, is particularly aggressive as he refers to Christians as “stupid,” “ignorant,” “bucolic yokels,” “who had not even had a primary education.” Tim Cornell sums it up: “The ability to read and write never extended beyond a small proportion of the population.”

It is largely on this basis—the sociohistorical background of early Christianity—that scholars characterize early Christianity as an oral culture in which the written word would have been viewed with suspicion. Kelber in particular uses this background to portray early Christianity not just as a movement that transmitted its traditions in an oral fashion, but as a movement that displayed “only tenuous connections with literate culture” and was dominated by an “oral state of mind.” In other words, Kelber uses the broadly illiterate nature of early Christianity to establish not just the medium of transmission, but also the mentality (or disposition) of its culture. After determining that Christianity must have had this “oral mentality,” Kelber leans on the work of scholars such as Walter Ong, Eric Havelock, Albert Lord and Milman Parry to determine what such a mentality would look like. He argues that cultures with an oral state of mind would be “tenacious” about the oral medium, and would thus regard writing as “questionable,” “neither necessary nor desirable,” and something that would cause “hermeneutical instabilities.” Thus, Kelber concludes that early Christians would have resisted writing out of fear that it “might compromise the Gospel.”

Before offering a response, we will want to acknowledge that much of this description of early Christian culture is accurate. We shall not challenge Harris’s argument regarding the low literacy rate among early Christians (though aspects of his study have been rightly critiqued by some). Even if the literacy rates were higher than Harris would allow, there is little doubt that the vast majority of the early Christian population was unable to read or write—though Celsus’s rhetoric is certainly overstated. In addition, no one today would dispute the fact that the Christian message was delivered orally (particularly in the earliest stages of Christianity). The Gospels themselves provide ample evidence of this oral history, as form critics have rightly observed for generations. Traces of oral tradition are also evident throughout Paul’s writings, which often speak with technical language about the “tradition” (παράδοσις) which he both “received” (παραλαμβάνω) and “delivers” (παραδίδωμι).

But—and this is the key question—is the largely illiterate nature of early Christianity, and its use of oral tradition, a sufficient basis to characterize it as having an “oral state of mind” with an accompanying deep-seated opposition to writing? Does the existence of widespread illiteracy necessarily mean that a particular group has “only tenuous connections with literate culture”? Not at all. We shall now argue that the lack of literacy does not necessarily mean the lack of textuality. Keith defines textuality as “the knowledge, usage, and appreciation of texts regardless of individual or majority ability to create or access them via literate skills.” This reminds us that a culture can appreciate and value written texts even though it is largely illiterate. Orality and textuality are not mutually exclusive. Mary Beard explains, “The character of a religious system can still be fundamentally determined by writing and by a ‘literate mentality,’ even in situations where very few of the practitioners of that religion are themselves literate. . . . Seen in this light, the number of literates within a religious community is a secondary issue.”

Orality and textuality—mutually exclusive? In our modern day, it is hard to imagine how a culture could place a high value on texts when most of the members of that culture are unable to read. But in the ancient world there was not necessarily a contradiction between these two things. Even an illiterate individual could be intimately familiar with written texts, and thus participate in literacy, by hearing that text presented orally in public. This was certainly the case in the Greco-Roman world, as members of society were able to familiarize themselves with various sorts of texts (poetry, philosophical orations, official decrees and so on) through oral presentations, dramatic performances and public recitations. In the same fashion, illiterate Christians could attain quite an impressive knowledge of early Christian texts as they were regularly read, preached and proclaimed. Paul himself calls for the public reading of his letters, numerous arguments have been made that the Gospels were constructed for public reading, and Justin Martyr provides evidence that Christians regularly engaged in such public reading. Moreover, scriptural literacy (not the ability to read or write, but merely knowledge of the scriptural texts) would have also been promoted through liturgical and catechetical instruction.

In light of such realities, it would be illegitimate to use widespread illiteracy as the basis for characterizing early Christianity as “unliterary” and opposed to written texts. On the contrary, written texts may have even formed the basis for oral proclamations. Loveday Alexander rightly suggests that Gospel tradition may have been written down so that it could be performed orally—the written texts functioned as aides-mémoire for the oral proclamation of Gospel material. As Shemaryahu Talmon observes, “A message which is transmitted as a written document at the same time would be proclaimed orally.” Likewise, the written Gospels, at least in part, are likely the result of oral proclamation and thus bear oral characteristics. For instance, Joanna Dewey has shown that Mark may have been “a written transcription of oral narrative” or that “Mark is building on an oral storytelling tradition.” Thus, it appears that while the Christian message was originally delivered orally, some of that oral material was soon embodied into written texts, and then those written texts were the basis for further oral performances—what we might call “secondary orality” (or reoralization). Terence Mournet states: “Oral tradition served as sources for written texts. . . . In addition, texts were written to be vocalized and aurally received.” All of this suggests that orality and textuality in early Christianity should not be seen as mutually exclusive. They exist within a symbiotic and mutually reinforcing relationship.

Of course, scholars who portray early Christianity as opposed to written texts often acknowledge this interplay between orality and textuality as written texts are performed in oral environments. But this interplay is often construed as evidence that early Christians really put no value on written materials—they were merely aids to orality. Dewey makes this argument: “While texts were produced that later became very important within Christianity as texts, these texts began as aids to orality, and seemingly had little importance in themselves.” But, it is unclear why Dewey would conclude that these texts at an early stage must have had no importance. If the oral tradition bore authority, why would that authority cease when it was written down? That would only be the case if early Christianity was an oral religion with an aversion to written texts. But that is the very issue in question and should not simply be assumed. On the contrary, other scholars have suggested that the writing down of traditions can actually increase their normativity—what Assmann refers to as a Verfestigung (“hardening”). And this normativity can exist even if that written tradition continues to be performed orally. Alexander goes even further, not only arguing that orally performed texts can still be authoritative, but also that such texts are often performed because they are authoritative. She observes, “It is precisely because of their iconic status that certain texts and traditions are accorded the honor of constant reshaping and reperformance.”

The assumption that orally performed texts must have no value as texts is another example of how some scholars have confused a mode of transmission (oral) with a cultural disposition (oral state of mind). Or, as noted above, it assumes that widespread illiteracy means a culture has no interest in textuality. Parker is quite keen to correct this confusion: “Because this point has been misunderstood so often, it may be necessary to repeat that [oral] performance is not the same as an oral culture.” To prove his point, Parker looks at the example of Roman poetry and shows that even though it was often performed publicly in various contexts, this does not mean that the oral was valued above the written. He argues, “I hope to show that the assumption that Rome can be considered an ‘oral’ society in any meaningful sense because of certain types of vocal performance of certain types of literary texts . . . is mistaken.” On the contrary, Parker demonstrates that Roman poets really valued the written word even though it was orally proclaimed. Indeed, Cicero states a position that is nearly the opposite of those who insist the oral is always preferred over the written: “One can derive much greater pleasure from reading lyric poetry than hearing it.” Similarly, Pliny states, “I don’t want to be praised when I recite, but when I’m read.” Although these examples do not derive directly from an early Christian context, they are still illustrative of the overall point: we should not be too quick to assume oral presentations of texts are necessarily indicative of a culture that despises texts.

Early Christianity as a culture of “textuality.” Thus far we have argued that the broadly illiterate nature of early Christianity is not a sufficient basis on which to argue it was opposed to written texts. On the contrary, cultures that lack widespread literacy can still maintain a robust “textuality”—an interest in, knowledge of and appropriation of written texts. Oral and textual media should not be pitted against each other. But we still need to explore the literary culture of early Christianity further. What reasons do we have for thinking early Christianity had a culture of textuality? Let us review some of the main reasons for this characterization.

Early Christian writings. One obvious fact that should not be overlooked is that early Christians wrote books and wrote them quite early. Even critical scholars date the vast majority of the twenty-seven New Testament books to the first century, most of which were written between the 50s and the 90s. Although there is inevitable disagreement over specifics, it appears that Christians were writing at least by the late 40s when Paul wrote Galatians (ca. 48), and even earlier if one adopts an early date for James (ca. 45). But it is not only the date of the New Testament writings that is noteworthy; it is also their quality. Contrary to the arguments of those such as Adolf Deissmann who suggest that the New Testament was written in “vulgar” Greek, recent scholarship has shown that it was written at a much more sophisticated level. While not necessarily the artistic Greek of high literary culture, the Greek of the New Testament, generally speaking, can be classified as “professional prose.” High-quality Greek is particularly evident in books such as Luke–Acts, Hebrews, James and 1 & 2 Peter. In particular, Alexander has shown that the preface of Luke–Acts closely resembles the professional and technical writing of scholastic works in the ancient world, for example, handbooks on medicine, math, rhetoric or engineering. But even beyond this, the New Testament authors demonstrate an impressive knowledge of the rhetorical conventions of the day. Paul was particularly well-versed in rhetorical strategies and argumentation, and we also see evidence of a high level of rhetorical sophistication in the Gospels, Acts and Hebrews.

It is also important to recognize that the textual productivity of the earliest Christians was not limited to the writings of the New Testament. Not only did the New Testament authors compose a number of other written works that are now lost, but we have good reasons to think that they knew and even drew upon even earlier Christian writings. Luke’s preface tells us that “many” in his day had written gospels and that his work was by no means the first such production (Lk 1:1). Most scholars today would argue that the “Q” document (or something like it) was used by Matthew and Luke and was likely a written source known from a very early time period. In addition, the earliest Christians might have written down Jesus tradition in “notebooks”—a precursor to their use of the codex. Not only do Quintilian and Martial indicate that parchment notebooks were used in the Greco-Roman world during this time period, but such notebooks may be alluded to in 2 Tim 4:13: “When you come, bring the cloak that I left with Carpus at Troas, also the books (τὰ βιβλία), and above all the parchments” (τὰς μεμβράνας). There is little doubt that τὰ βιβλία is a reference to books of the Old Testament, most likely on scrolls. The term τὰς μεμβράνας is noteworthy because it is not a Greek word at all but a transliterated form of the Latin membrana—the same word used by Martial and Quintilian to refer to parchment notebooks. Thus, we have a suggestion here that such notebooks were used alongside the books of the Old Testament. What did these notebooks contain? There are a number of possibilities, such as excerpts of Jesus’ teachings, or early Christian testimonia (Old Testament prooftexts supporting Messianic claims about Jesus), or even copies of Paul’s own letters.

All of this suggests that it would not have been unusual for the earliest Christians to have used such notebooks—even prior to the production of the earliest New Testament writing.

Use of the Old Testament. As much as early Christians were committed to producing and using their own writings, their interest in “textuality” did not begin there. It is all too frequently overlooked—in an oddly Marcionite fashion—that from the very beginning, Christians were committed to the books of the Hebrew Scriptures and saw them as paradigmatic for understanding the life and ministry of Jesus of Nazareth. Not only do our earliest Christian writings (for example, James and Paul’s letters) exhibit extensive engagement with Old Testament texts, but this same interest in the Old Testament is evident throughout many other New Testament books such as Matthew, John and Hebrews. These writers do more than simply quote the Old Testament; they regularly offer a developed and sophisticated exegetical interaction with these writings—in a fashion not dissimilar to that of their contemporaries at Qumran. Moreover, our earliest confessional and creedal formulas embedded within the writings of the New Testament (and thus predating these writings) reveal a Christian message heavily dependent upon the Hebrew Scriptures. Thus Harry Gamble concludes, “Although it need not be denied that there was a period, possibly a long one, during which some Christian traditions were orally transmitted, during that same period Christians were deeply and continuously engaged with texts. Christians were from the beginning assiduous students of Jewish scriptures.”

This Christian preoccupation with the Old Testament allows us to highlight again the possibility that the earliest believers may have written down selections from the Old Testament into testimonia notebooks designed to bolster the messianic claims of Jesus. Such extracts from the Old Testament would have been particularly useful to Christians in their early preaching, teaching and missionary activities. Discoveries of these sorts of documents at Qumran have bolstered the likelihood that they were well known in the first century. Examples include 4QTestimonia, which catalogs five messianic texts, 4QFlorilegium, which contains texts related to key eschatological figures, and 4QTanhumim, which has various excerpts from the book of Isaiah. We also possess a Christian example of a testimonia document in Papyrus Rylands Greek (PRG) 460, which contains a thematic linking of a number of Old Testament passages. Although this particular document is likely a fourth-century one, it reminds us that these sorts of documents were not foreign to early Christians. Indeed, Martin Albl and Timothy Lim have argued that the manner in which the New Testament authors cite from the Old Testament suggests that they were drawing upon testimonia collections composed even earlier.

All these considerations remind us that early Christianity was a textual culture even prior to the publication of their own books. They were a textual culture because they inherited a Scripture from Judaism. It is this reality that allows Watson to say, “Christian faith cannot dispense with writing. Its reliance on written, scriptural texts is not accidental but of its essence.”

Christian book production. Our understanding of the “textuality” of early Christians is determined not only by what (and when) they wrote, but how they wrote; that is, the manner in which they constructed and copied their own writings. While we have no manuscripts that date to the critical period of the first century, the ones we do possess are still early enough to provide an accurate glimpse into the literary culture of the earliest believers. Contrary to the impression given by some that early Christians were inept when it came to literary and scribal activity (no doubt due to their presumed oral state of mind), the extant manuscripts we possess paint a very different picture. Loveday Alexander notes, “It is clear that we are dealing with a group [early Christians] that used books intensively and professionally from very early on in its existence. The evidence of the papyri from the second century onwards suggests . . . the early development of a technically sophisticated and distinctive book technology.”

Let us consider a few of the factors that demonstrate both the extent and sophistication of early Christian literary activity. First, the sheer quantity of Christian texts is noteworthy. While it is well known that the total number of New Testament manuscripts far outpaces any other texts from antiquity, we also possess an impressive number from just the second and third centuries. Currently we have over sixty extant manuscripts (in whole or in part) of the New Testament from this time period, with most of our copies coming from Matthew, John, Luke, Acts, Romans, Hebrews and Revelation. The Gospel of John proves to be the most popular of all, with eighteen manuscripts, a number of which may derive from the second century (for example, P52, P90, P66, P75). Matthew is not far behind, with twelve manuscripts; and some of these also have been dated to the second century (for example, P64–67, P77, P103, P104). Compared to other ancient religious texts, the sheer quantity of these New Testament texts is impressive. And this does not even include other Christian writings outside the New Testament such as the Shepherd of Hermas or even apocryphal literature such as the Gospel of Thomas. It is this sort of literary activity that led Gamble to observe, “No Greco-Roman religious group produced, used, or valued texts on a scale comparable to Judaism and Christianity.”

Second, we should consider the handwriting of these earliest manuscripts. Over the years, a number of scholars have argued that Christian texts are marked by a scribal hand more on the documentary end of the scale—what Colin Roberts would call “reformed documentary” or “informal uncial.” This informal handwriting has then been used as evidence that early Christian texts were more “second class” and utilitarian, indicating that they derived from a less sophisticated textual culture. However, this particular conclusion is open to question. Although some of the earliest Christian papyri (second and third centuries) were not characterized by the formal bookhand that was common among Jewish scriptural books or Greco-Roman literary texts, others were much closer to the literary end of the scale than is often realized. A number of early Christian manuscripts contain an impressive amount of punctuation and reader aids—rare even in literary papyri—which suggest that these early Christian scribes were more in tune with professional book production than is often supposed. In addition, it cannot be overlooked that many early Christian texts do exhibit a more refined hand and literary style, such as a late second- or early third-century text of Irenaeus’s Against Heresies (P.Oxy. 405) which has a “handsome professional hand,” a late second-century text of Matthew (P77) which has an “elegant hand,” a late second-century copy of Paul’s epistles (P46) which has a hand marked by “style and elegance,” a late second- or early third-century copy of Luke and Matthew (P4–P64–P67) which has a “handsome script” which is “incontrovertibly literary in style” and a late second-century copy of John (P66) which has calligraphy of “such high quality” that it may “indicate the work of a scriptorium.” Such evidence led Stanton to declare, “The oft-repeated claim that the gospels were considered at first to be utilitarian handbooks needs to be modified.”

Third, early Christian literary culture was sufficiently developed to the point that it had its own distinctive literary technology and scribal practices. As far back as the evidence takes us, Christian book production was set apart by two specific traits, the adoption of the codex book format and the use of the nomina sacra. Although Christians did not invent the codex, it was widely employed by them at least by the beginning of the second century, even in the face of a Greco-Roman and Jewish world that still vastly preferred the roll. In fact, the earliest Christians were so committed to the codex that we can hardly find New Testament manuscripts that do not appear in this format. The nomina sacra—the special abbreviation of words such as Ἰησοῦς, χριστός, κύριος and θεός—not only appear in the very earliest of our Greek manuscripts, but also their appearance is remarkably widespread across regions and languages. Indeed, so distinctive was the use of the nomina sacra that in many ways it identified a manuscript as being Christian in its origins. When taken in conjunction with the unique, widespread and early use of the codex, T. C. Skeat argues that the nomina sacra “indicate a degree of organization, of conscious planning, and uniformity of practice among the Christian communities which we have hitherto had little reason to suspect.”

However, both the codex and the nomina sacra indicate more than just a developed book technology. They also show that early Christians valued these texts as texts, and not just repositories of oral tradition. Both of these features have to do with the visual and physical form of the text—they show that these books had become valued as physical objects. In this way, they functioned to mark certain writings as distinctively Christian—it shows that the earliest Christians not only had a clear theological identity but a clear textual identity. In regard to the nomina sacra, Barton suggests that these special abbreviations performed a function for New Testament manuscripts that was similar to the function the Tetragrammaton (special writing of the divine name) performed for Old Testament manuscripts; namely, they indicated that a book was regarded as sacred. In other words, they showed that physical writings themselves were valued. Barton comments, “The existence of the nomina sacra indicates that for Christians as for Jews there were features of the text as a physical object that were used to express its sacredness.” Indeed, Christian scribes also used the nomina sacra as they copied Old Testament texts, showing “that they had begun to treat Old and New Testament books as sacred texts in much the same sense—transferring special features of the New Testament back on to the Old.”

The fact that the codex and nomina sacra are such early features of Christian manuscripts (the latter probably within the first century) raises series questions about whether the early Christian faith can be characterized as having a purely “oral state of mind.” Why would an oral culture, which supposedly resisted writing things down, exhibit such vivid, standardized and widespread textual practices? On the contrary, such practices suggest that we are dealing with a religious culture that is characterized, almost from the beginning, by a distinctive textual identity.

In sum, we have a number of solid historical reasons for thinking that the earliest Christians maintained a vibrant and relatively sophisticated literary culture. Even though most Christians were illiterate (as were most people in the ancient world during this time period), the Christian religion was certainly one that was characterized by textuality—an interest in, and dependence on, written texts. Scholars such as Kelber, Ong, Parry and Lord may be right about oral cultures having a resistance to written texts. The problem is that early Christianity was not such an oral culture. Therefore, to reconstruct the history of Christianity solely through the lens of orality is to significantly distort the history of Christianity. Talmon summarizes the problem with this whole approach:

It would seem that the discovery of the psychodynamics of primary oral cultures produced in some Western intellectuals an orality bias. . . . One appropriates the concept of primary orality from cultures with no knowledge whatsoever of writing, and transfers it all too easily to biblical Israel and Qumran, early Christianity, and rabbinic Judaism, thus gratuitously introducing into these milieus the figment of a gaping dichotomy between oral tradition and written transmission. This procedure stands in need of revision.

The Argument from Testimony: Early Christians Expressly Stated Their Aversion to Writing

In addition to the sociohistorical background of early Christianity, scholars have appealed to a second argument to show that the earliest believers devalued the written word. This argument is that some of the earliest Christians actually stated their opposition to written texts (ironically, in written texts) and said that they preferred oral tradition. The two most commonly offered examples of this purported phenomenon are Papias and Paul, so we will examine each in turn.

Papias. Papias, writing around A.D. 125, is frequently cited as an early Christian with an aversion to written texts. Having just described his effort to learn the apostles’ teachings through their companions, Papias provides a rationale for his actions: “I did not suppose that information from books would help me so much as the word of the living and surviving voice.” These words have been understood by many as reflective of a general Christian tendency to uplift oral tradition and disparage the value of the written word. F. C. Baur puts it bluntly when he declares that Papias preferred “the living word” as opposed to “the dead, transient written text.” Similar positions are advocated by Geoffrey Hahneman, Lee McDonald, Whitney Shiner, Ron Cameron, C. F. Evans and Hans von Campenhausen. The latter even argues that Papias’s “enthusiasm for the oral tradition” is in fact “working in the opposite direction” of a written New Testament. But is this approach the best interpretation of Papias’s words? While most scholars assume that Papias’s preference for the “living voice” is a preference for oral tradition (over against written traditions), Samuel Byrskog has argued that something very different is going on here.

Byrskog demonstrates that it was standard practice among ancient historians (for example, Herodotus, Polybius, Thucydides) to establish the veracity of a particular event on the basis of eyewitness testimony. Ideally, the historian would record an event which he himself had seen (what Byrskog call “autopsy”), but he would also be content with the testimony of others who had seen the event (“indirect autopsy”). Either way, eyewitness testimony was a central component of a credible historical account. Ancient historians were often criticized if they relied too heavily on other written sources—their historical accounts needed to be built on the “living voice” of an actual eyewitness.

Papias provides a number of indications that he is functioning according to standard historiographical practices: (1) he mentions that he “inquired” (ἀνεκρίνον) into the words of the elders, the same language Polybius uses to describe the “interrogation” of eyewitnesses; (2) he claims to have carefully “remembered” (ἐμνημόνευσα) what he learned from the elders, a phrase that Bauckham understands as “making the notes” to aid memory and which matches the historiographical practices of Lucian; and (3) he “certifies” (διαβεβαιούμενος) the truth of these things to the reader, which is again a common historigraphical convention. Thus, it is within this context of ancient historiography that Papias’s words must be understood. With such a backdrop in mind, it is clear that Papias’s preference for the “living voice” is not speaking of a preference for oral tradition at all, but rather his desire to hear from eyewitnesses of Jesus while they are still alive. Put differently, he is not concerned with oral tradition, but oral history. Bauckham sums it up: “When Papias speaks of ‘a living and surviving voice,’ he is not speaking metaphorically of the ‘voice’ of oral tradition, as many scholars have supposed. He speaks quite literally of the voice of an informant.”

Once Papias’s intent is understood, then this explains why he was busy composing his own written collection of Jesus tradition, The Exposition of the Lord’s Oracles. Rather than seeing such a written composition as paradoxical in light of Papias’s supposed preference for oral tradition (as many scholars must do), we can now see that it is the natural outcome of a historian’s investigation. Although historians were keen to establish the truth of events through direct (or indirect) autopsy, they were also quite willing to put these testimonies into written form once their investigations were complete. Herodotus explains his reasons for writing, namely so that “the memory of the past may not be blotted out from among men by time.” Similarly, Thucydides confesses that his History has been written so that it will not just “be heard for the moment” but so that it will be “a possession for all time.” These examples remind us that a historian’s desire to acquire direct oral testimony should not be taken as a desire to only transmit such testimony orally; these two desires should not be confused with one another. On the contrary, eyewitness oral testimony is often the very foundation for written historical accounts—the former naturally leads to the latter as the eyewitnesses die out. Once again, orality and textuality are not antithetical but complementary.

Of course, there are contexts other than a historiographical one in which ancient authors express a preference for a “living voice” over the written word. On this basis, scholars are quick to proclaim that an antipathy towards writing was widespread throughout the ancient world. And to some extent this is true. However, upon closer examination, these other instances also do not indicate a pure commitment to orality over textuality. As Byrskog reminds us, writing in the ancient world “was not deplored and rejected as such; there was usually a rationale behind that attitude.” For example, those who taught the art of ancient rhetoric (that is, public speaking) were keen to downplay the effectiveness of written speeches over against that of the “living voice” of public performances. But this sort of criticism is hardly surprising given that public proclamation is inherently oral and therefore, as Alexander has observed, surely does not constitute a “wholesale prohibition against writing.” How else would one learn the art of rhetoric except by watching the teacher in action? A similar downplaying of the written word occurs in ancient discussions of how to teach various crafts, whether scientific, mechanical or medical. Galen argues that when it comes to such skills, it is best to learn “from a teacher” who can demonstrate those skills rather than trying “to navigate out of a book.” But, again, such sentiments are hardly evidence that there was a widespread prejudice against writing. Surely even in the modern day we would be reticent to use a doctor who had learned how to perform surgery solely out of books (!).

The only other plausible historical context (besides ancient historiography) in which to understand Papias’s words would be that of the ancient philosophical schools. When it comes to learning philosophy, Seneca is representative of these schools in his insistence that “you will gain more from the living voice and from sharing someone’s daily life than from any treatise.” Alexander argues that Papias should be understood precisely against this background—and she may well be correct. However, even if she is, it does not demonstrate that early Christians (or even early philosophical schools) had an inherent aversion to writing. Several considerations: (1) Seneca’s point is not that books are to be avoided, but simply that philosophical learning is more effective when one has a live teacher (“the living voice”). This is a commonsense idea that no doubt many would share today. (2) Seneca does not use the phrase “living voice” as a reference to anonymous oral tradition, but to an actual person. (3) There are indications that philosophical schools often used written documents as supplements to their oral teaching—that the two were used together. This fact simply reinforces what was discussed above, namely that written and oral modes of delivery are not mutually exclusive but are often complementary.

Regardless of which background is most appropriate for understanding Papias’s appeal to the “living voice,” we are left with few reasons to think that his statement constitutes evidence that early Christians had a prejudice against the written word. Even if others in the Greco-Roman world had an antipathy to written texts, this does not thereby prove that Papias (or other Christians) shared these sentiments. Indeed, early Christianity was distinct from the surrounding culture precisely in its commitment to the written word (the Old Testament) as the basis for its religious commitments. Moreover, Papias informs us of other written texts that he knows and values, namely Matthew, Mark, 1 Peter, 1 John and even Revelation. He feels no need to choose between these written books and the “living voice,” because he believes these books already have the “living voice” behind them—for example, he defends the authority of Mark on the basis of its connections to the eyewitness testimony of Peter. This demonstrates that for Papias the “living voice” is not antithetical to written texts, but often the foundation for them.

Paul. In addition to Papias, some scholars have appealed to 2 Corinthians 3:6 to maintain their sharp dichotomy between oral and written modes of transmission: “[God] has made us competent to be ministers of a new covenant, not of the letter but of the Spirit. For the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life.” For instance, when Werner Kelber interprets these words of Paul, he cannot help but see it as another example of how early Christians disparaged the written word in favor of oral tradition. He argues, “Paul’s concern, we observed, is the grammatological nature of the Law. The principal antithesis not between Spirit versus works, but between Spirit versus the Written.” Thus, according to Kelber, 2 Corinthians 3:6 is really a polemic against “the written medium.”

However, are we to think that the Paul’s contrast between letter and Spirit here is primarily concerned with the medium of revelation? A closer examination of the passage suggests Paul is making a very different point. Paul’s contrast between these two mediums is really a contrast between two covenants—that is, he is contrasting the Mosaic covenant focused on law (γράμματος) with the new covenant focused on the heart (πνεύματος). It is for this reason that Paul refers to himself as one of the διακόνους καινῆς διαθήκης (“ministers of the new covenant”); as an apostle he has a divine call to usher in a new age of forgiveness and grace. This understanding is confirmed by the immediate context where Paul in 2 Corinthians 3:3 contrasts πλαξὶν λιθίναις (“tablets of stone”) with πλαξὶν καρδίαις σαρκίναις (“tablets of human hearts”). The former is a clear reference to the Mosaic covenant, in which Moses received the “tablets of stone” on the mountaintop (Ex 31:18), and the latter is a clear reference to the new covenant in which God promised “to write [the law] on their hearts” (Jer 31:33; compare Ezek 11:19). Just a few verses later Paul makes the same point again using slightly different terminology; he calls the old covenant the “ministry of condemnation” (2 Cor 3:9) and contrasts it with the new covenant as a “ministry of the Spirit” (2 Cor 3:8). The point of each of these contrasts is not that one covenant liked to write things down and the other preferred to keep things oral. Rather, as Hafemann has argued, “The ‘letter/Spirit’ contrast encapsulates this distinction between the role of the law within the Sinai covenant, in which it effects and pronounces judgment on Israel, and its new role within the new covenant in Christ, in which it is kept by the power of the Spirit.” Many other biblical texts make this same sort of contrast between the two covenants (Ezek 36:26; Jn 1:17; Rom 2:29; 7:6; 8:2; Gal 3:17-18; 4:24-26).

Once this overall contrast is understood, then we can appreciate the significance of the statement that “the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life.” Paul uses the term γράμμα (“letter”) not as a reference to the physical act of writing, but as a way of highlighting the external nature of the law when it is considered apart from the Spirit—it is a law “merely expressed in writing.” Without the Spirit, God’s law remains only words on a page, and there is no power to keep it. And thus the law leads to death. In the age of the new covenant, however, God has poured out his Spirit in a fuller and richer way, and thus God’s people are no longer condemned by the law but are able to keep it. The law has now become internalized. As God declares in Jeremiah 31:33, “I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts.” The problem with the Sinai covenant, then, was not with the law itself (nor with writing). The problem was a hard-hearted people who lacked the Spirit.

Given Paul’s argument, we would not expect him (or early Christians in general) to have some aversion to new written Scriptures from God. Paul is not opposed to the written law of the old covenant, and we have no reason to think he would be opposed to a written law in the new covenant. Being in the age of the Spirit is not the same as being in the age of orality. After all, Paul is communicating these covenant truths in a written letter (!). Indeed, one might even make the opposite argument from Kelber. Now that the Spirit has come in fullness, and God’s people are empowered to keep the law, there would be even less resistance to the written word.

The Argument from Eschatology: Early Christians Expected the Imminent Return of Christ

The third and final argument that has been adduced to show that early Christians avoided the written word is that early Christians believed that the apocalyptic end of the world would happen in their own lifetime, and thus they would have seen no need for a new corpus of books. This sentiment has been most often expressed by those in the form-critical camp. Martin Dibelius described the earliest Christians as a “company of unlettered people which expected the end of the world any day” and therefore “had neither the capacity nor the inclination for the production of books.” William Barclay makes a similar claim: “There remains one reason why the gospel story was not committed to writing and it may have well been the dominating reason. In the early days the Christians expected the Parousia, the Second Coming, the return of Jesus in glory, at any moment.”And, again, Evans argues: “The eschatological urgency of the [early Christian] message and mission to ‘this generation’ required as its instrument the short prophetic utterance, and almost precluded the more impersonal and protracted medium of writing.”

In response to such claims, we shall consider two questions: (1) did early Christians really expect Jesus to return in their own lifetime?; and (2) even if they did, would such a belief have constituted an obstacle to literary production?

Did early Christians expect Jesus to return in their lifetime? One of the most repeated ideas about the earliest Christians is that they believed that the kingdom of God would come (apocalyptically) within their own lifetime. In fact Schweitzer famously argued that Jesus himself thought the world would end in his own lifetime; of course the world didn’t end, and Jesus died disillusioned on the cross, saying, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mk 15:34). Others have appealed to apocalyptic passages such as Mark 13:30 // Matthew 24:34 // Luke 21:32, kingdom of God passages such as Matthew 16:28 // Mark 9:1 // Luke 9:27 and Matthew 10:23, and Pauline statements such as 1 Thessalonians 4:15-17, to argue that the earliest disciples would have expected Jesus to return within their own lifetime. However, despite these claims, other scholars have repeatedly shown that these passages in no way necessitate that Christ predicted his own return within the first generation of Christianity. Generally speaking, two types of mistakes have led to a misunderstanding of these passages.

First, there is often a misunderstanding of the way apocalyptic imagery functions in these texts. N. T. Wright observes that the Schweitzer-like understanding of these passages is a “devastating misreading of apocalyptic language,” particularly as it pertains to the destruction of the temple in A.D. 70. But secondly, and more importantly, such an interpretation of Jesus’ teaching fails to understand the distinctive two-stage, already-but-not-yet nature of the kingdom of God. In a very real sense, the kingdom of God did come in the lifetime of the disciples (Mt 12:28; Lk 4:21; 17:20-21); but in another (apocalyptic) sense, it is still yet to come when Jesus returns to judge the world (Mt 7:21; 8:11; Mk 14:25; 15:43). Failure to make this careful distinction leads to an all-or-nothing approach to the coming of the kingdom of God and thus creates the impression that Jesus was mistaken about his own return.

In addition to these considerations, one must ask how these teachings of Jesus would have maintained any credibility past the first generation of Christians if they were widely believed to teach that he promised to return within that time frame. Either Jesus himself would have been rejected as a false prophet, or the Synoptic accounts would have been rejected as misleading and corrupt. Indeed, we might have expected some major crisis around this issue in the early church—but that is not what we find. As Richard Bauckham observes, “The question of the delay of the Parousia was very rarely raised in the second century.” Sure, the earliest Christians no doubt believed that Jesus could return in their own lifetime (Lk 12:39-40; 1 Thess 4:15-17; 5:2), and this led some to wonder why it appeared to take so long (2 Pet 3:4-10), but there is no indication that they widely believed that Jesus must return in their own lifetime. Thomas Schreiner comments, “The continued use of the Synoptics and the persistent hope for a return of Jesus in the life of the early church suggest that from the beginning the words of Jesus [about the second coming] were interpreted as not being in error.”

Did the expectations of Jesus’ return inhibit literary production? For the sake of argument, let us imagine that the earliest Christians did believe that Jesus would return within their own generation. Would such a belief necessarily mean they would have resisted producing and using authoritative written documents? There appears to be little reason to think so. Ironically, Paul is put forth as one who believed that Jesus would return in his own lifetime (as supposedly indicated by texts such as 1 Thess 4:15-17), but yet we only know about this belief because Paul wrote it down in a letter. And Paul viewed this letter, as all his letters, as authoritative (1 Thess 2:13) and to be read publicly to the church (1 Thess 5:27). Such a scenario indicates that apocalyptic beliefs are not necessarily incompatible with the production of written, authoritative texts.

Even more than this, we have another example of a group during the first century that was decidedly apocalyptic and, at the same time, a prolific producer of texts: the Qumran community. The apocalyptic nature of the Qumran community is well known. They believed that they were on the edge of God’s special eschatological inbreaking in which he would return and establish his kingdom, throwing off the rule of the Gentiles. And they believed this imminent eschaton would begin with their own community, which explains the emphasis on rigorous discipline and purity so evident in their writings. In many ways, the eschatology of the Qumran community was similar to that of early Christianity—particularly the conception of the “the last days” as including the present as well as future events. Even though they believed God’s redemption was near, the Qumran community continued to concern themselves with everyday activities; they saw no contradiction between these things. And one of the major activities of the Qumran community was the production of religious texts. Not only were many of their writings committed to careful exegetical interaction with Old Testament texts, but they also composed new treatises which no doubt would have had a quasi-scriptural status. As noted above, the early Christian communities performed these same two functions: they interacted with the text of the Old Testament and also produced new authoritative texts. Thus, it appears that eschatological communities that produce scriptural texts were not an unusual occurrence in the first century.

In light of these considerations, David Meade makes the opposite point from the form critics, namely that apocalypticism in the early Christian communities, far from preventing literary activity, actually “provides the ideological basis for the extension of Scripture.” Gerd Theissen agrees: “The thesis about the imminent expectation of the end as a factor impeding literary creation is false. Jewish apocalyptic writing is full of imminent expectations and yet attests to a flourishing literary production.”

Conclusion

It has been our purpose in this chapter to address the third major tenet of the extrinsic model, namely that the earliest Christians were reticent to use written documents and that therefore the idea of a NT canon would have been a decidedly late phenomenon. This particular argument has taken a number of forms. First, and most prominently, scholars have made a socio-historical argument—the fact that most Christians were illiterate must mean that they had an aversion to written texts. However, we have observed that this argument suffers from a number of problems. Most fundamentally, it assumes that the absence of literacy must mean the absence of textuality; it assumes only highly literate cultures are interested in books. But, as we noted, Christianity exhibited a deep interest in texts, despite the fact that most of its adherents could not read. In addition, the sociohistorical argument overlooks the fluid and symbiotic nature of oral and written modes of delivery. These modes were not mutually exclusive and often interfaced with and complemented one another. Second, scholars have used the argument from testimony, namely the early Christians actually expressed their resistance to written texts. However, there are only two substantive instances where this is a possibility—Papias and Paul—and upon closer examination there are few reasons to think that they exhibit a prejudice against writing per se. On the contrary, both of these authors seem quite comfortable with written documents and are even producing Christian writings themselves. Third, scholars have made an eschatological argument that early Christians would have resisted the written medium due to their belief in the imminent return of Christ. Why bother writing if the end is near? However, as we just argued, we have an example of an eschatologically oriented group from this time period that also believed the end was near and were quite keen to write, namely the Qumran community. So, again, there are no reasons to think these two characteristics are mutually exclusive.

Once these misconceptions are addressed, then we can more clearly see that early Christianity was quite a “bookish” religion from the very start. Christians found their identity in books (the Old Testament), they quickly produced their own books, they preached and taught from these books, and were keen to copy and reproduce these books for generations to come. Sure, this was not their only means of communication—the earliest believers still leaned heavily on oral proclamation. And in many instances, Christians may have even preferred oral modes of communication over the written. But, this is not the same as a prejudice against writing. One can use oral modes without being, in principle, opposed to written modes. Books were a substantial part of the DNA of the early Christian religion even if they were not always used by any particular individual. All of this suggests that the development of a new corpus of scriptural writings should not be regarded as entirely unexpected. Indeed, one might say that it could have developed quite naturally.

↑ Back to top