Beyond the Quest for the Historical Jesus: Memoir of a Discovery

Literary Study of the Bible

Brodie is at his best in his salient literary comments on biblical narratives and characters. Insightfully he sees that the story of the man born blind (John 9) has at least three levels: ‘biography-like account (bios) of Jesus; a reflection of the early church; and, surprisingly, an evoking of the stages of human living and believing’ (p. 83). Equally insightfully, Brodie observes that the Book of Genesis frequently employs the pairing of complementary texts, such as the two creation stories (Genesis 1–2) or the pair of narratives of primeval sin (Genesis 3–4). In a further insight, Brodie understands that Elijah is connected to heaven (the ‘vertical’ dimension) whereas Elisha is linked to earth (the ‘horizontal’ dimension).

One of the foundations for Brodie’s approach lies in a study he published in 2000 proposing the Elijah-Elisha narrative as a literary model for the gospels. ⁴ This insight (p. 111), echoing a comment by Raymond Brown, has some truth to it (especially in relation to Luke’s Gospel), but Brodie extends it to great lengths. ⁵ Chapter seven of the present volume (pp. 51–76) contains a detailed argument that the Lukan story of Jesus’ triple challenge to his disciples (Luke 9:57–62) derives from a literary transformation of Elijah’s three-part call (1 Kings 19), so that Jesus is presented as a new Elijah. However, Brodie unsatisfactorily rejects the idea that as a devout Jew immersed in the scriptures, Jesus himself could have copied some of the prophet’s words and actions (pp. 158–59). Moreover, while some of the echoes are evident (e.g., Luke 9:61 echoing 1 Kings 19:20), others are rather tenuous. Thus, Jerome Murphy-O’Connor (commenting on p. 62) observed that 1 Kings 19:6 and Luke 9:58 are ‘linked only by the banal commonplace “his head”!’ ⁶

Brodie regards the Elijah-Elisha narrative as the basis for Luke 7, since Jesus’ raising of the widow’s son (Luke 7:11–17) has clear parallels to the raising miracles performed by Elijah and Elisha (1 Kings 17:17–24; 2 Kings 4:32–37), while the story of the penitent woman (Luke 7:36–50) has some echoes of the narrative of the indebted woman meeting Elisha (2 Kings 4:1–7). Indeed, the Elijah-Elisha cycle shares several important motifs with the gospels, especially Luke’s narration of miracles of feeding and healing and corpse-raising, as well as the calling of disciples and ultimately the ascension. Nevertheless, in other ways the Elijah-Elisha cycle is rather different from the Jesus story, since for Jesus we have birth stories, teachings in parables, and a long passion narrative, yet these aspects are lacking for Elijah and Elisha. According to Brodie, the Elijah-Elisha cycle played a significant formative role in the creation of Mark’s Gospel, ⁷ even though Mark says nothing about any ascension—except in the later Long Ending in Mark 16:19. It is interesting that Brodie downplays the way Elijah initially serves as a model for John the Baptist rather than Jesus (e.g., the echo of 2 Kings 1:8 in Mark 1:6).

Brodie rightly considers the popular term ‘intertextuality’ as deserving of caution, since what was originally seen as a cultural phenomenon has often been applied to characterize literary allusions, especially in biblical texts. ⁸ However, his view of intertextual connections is radical: ‘the kernel of ancient writing was not in allusions; it was in taking hold of entire books and transforming them systematically’ (p. 127 n. 3). A methodological question arises: If an earlier text has been thoroughly transformed, perhaps by fusing motifs from other texts, how far can we speak of a direct literary connection? In response, he spells out three main criteria for assessing literary dependence: initial plausibility, significant similarities, and interpretability.

He also notes the ancient reverence for earlier texts—an attitude lasting until around 1800 CE and the opposite of the modern concern with novelty. Whereas the internet has given today’s readers millions of texts to read, few writings became widely known in the ancient Mediterranean or Middle Eastern world, because every text had to be copied by hand. To illustrate this point, he employs an apt simile, describing the ancient provision of written texts as ‘somewhat like food aid for the hungry’ (p. 128 n. 6). With fewer available writings, he argues, ancient readers would have recognized allusions to prior texts more quickly than modern readers.

He distinguishes three basic ways in which a new writing can use an older text (pp. 129–32): quotation, often employed to add authority; narrative allusion, especially to evoke a theological narrative; and transformation, a complete recreation making use of earlier elements. While elements of the New Testament (NT) transformation of Old Testament (OT) motifs can be indicated (e.g., Jesus as similar to Moses or David, yet also different), Brodie’s imaginative insight lies in recognizing subtler examples of parallels, such as gospel echoes of OT story patterns. Sometimes, however, the supposed echoes are so subtle that they can become unconvincing. For instance, Brodie views Mark’s description of Jesus as a carpenter (Mark 6:3), without the people of Nazareth heeding his wisdom, as derived from the Septuagintal depiction of the carpenter making an idol (Wis 13:11–19), without having the wisdom to recognize God as the supreme Creator (p. 159). However, further reflection indicates that there are strong differences here. Whereas Wisdom 13 refers to carpenters making idols but failing to recognize the true God, Mark 6 refers to Jesus the carpenter who surely made no idols, and it is not Jesus but the inhabitants of Nazareth who fail to see and understand.

Elsewhere (p. 151) Brodie regards Paul’s occupation of tentmaker (Acts 18:3) as a merely symbolic creation (cf. Isa 40:22; John 1:14; 1 Cor 3:10–11). As Fergus Kerr says, ‘Do we have to choose between the factual and the symbolic? … The Queen of England is a symbol, we might agree; she also exists.’ ⁹ Because of metaphorical language, it would be possible to find symbolic meanings for many occupations (e.g., shepherd, fisherman, washerwoman, farmer, potter, teacher), yet society includes actual shepherds and fishermen, washerwomen and farmers, potters and teachers. If Jesus grew up in Nazareth, why could he not have been a carpenter?

In a chapter entitled ‘The Funeral’ (pp. 115–19), Brodie offers a critique of the notion of oral tradition. He begins by asserting that on the first page of his 1901 Genesis commentary, Hermann Gunkel located the people of the Bible among the uncultured peoples (p. 116)—but actually, Gunkel’s position is more nuanced, as we can see if we consider a few lines from the commentary’s opening page in the 1997 English translation: ‘Uncivilized peoples do not write history…. In order to develop, historiography requires a state organized in some way…. In the time that gave us Genesis, Israel had long possessed a, by ancient standards, highly developed historiography.’ ¹⁰

While Brodie rightly observes the literary (rather than oral) aspects of the final biblical compositions, I would suggest that the best approach is ‘both-and.’ Thus, instead of ‘written but not oral,’ the situation of potential sources and models is ‘both oral and written.’ Indeed, much recent scholarship has observed the interlinked nature of the oral and written transmission of traditions. For instance, David Carr has observed how ‘societies with writing often have an intricate interplay of orality and textuality, where written texts are intensely oral, while even exclusively oral texts are deeply affected by written culture.’ ¹¹ Hence, rather than separating oral and literary cultures, it is methodologically better to see them as interlinked.

Over-Reliance on Theory of Proto-Luke

Without much explanation, Brodie produces a chart offering his theory of literary development of the NT writings (p. 33): LXX (esp. Deuteronomy) ➔ Matthew’s sayings ➔ early epistles initial form of Luke-Acts ➔ Mark ➔ Matthew ➔ John ➔ canonical Luke-Acts. ¹² In my view, the major problem with this reconstruction is his positing of an early form of Luke-Acts (‘Proto-Luke’), regarded as older than Mark. Although the vast majority of biblical scholars consider that Mark’s Gospel is the earliest (around 70 CE) and that Luke expanded and revised Mark’s work a decade or two later, Brodie asserts that the earliest gospel is ‘Proto-Luke,’ representing a substantial portion of Luke’s Gospel along with the first half of the Acts of the Apostles. ¹³ Moreover, Brodie believes that Proto-Luke, along with the NT epistles and the OT, is a source of Mark’s Gospel. ¹⁴ Because of this theory of composition, Brodie tends to neglect Mark’s Gospel by comparison with Proto-Luke. ¹⁵ While Brodie criticizes NT scholars for working with a hypothetical construct, the Sayings Source Q, he admits that Proto-Luke is also hypothetical (p. 197). He claims, however, that since the entire text of Proto-Luke is present in Luke-Acts, the document is ‘verifiable.’ ¹⁶ Yet essentially the entire text of Q is present in Matthew or Luke, even if scholars quibble about which of the two gospels preserves the earlier wording.

Brodie (p. 35) explains the hypothetical document Proto-Luke as the ‘early shorter version of Luke-Acts, the proto-gospel modelled on [the] Elijah-Elisha [narrative].’ However, to gain a full explanation of this theory it is necessary to study Brodie’s longer study, the 2004 volume on The Birthing of the New Testament. ¹⁷ On his theory Proto-Luke consists of some (but not all) Lukan sections without Markan parallels, especially the parts of Luke-Acts that have distinctly Semitic features, based on imitation of the LXX. ¹⁸ Yet questions may be asked about this theory. If Proto-Luke is the earliest narrative of the gospel story, why do canonical Matthew and Luke generally follow the plot of Mark rather than the storyline of Proto-Luke? Was the Lukan infancy narrative really composed before the Gospel of Mark? If Markan material not in Proto-Luke also contains Semitic elements (e.g., use of Aramaic) as well as imitation of the LXX (e.g., the verbal echo of 2 Kings 6:19 in Mark 1:17 or of Esther 5:3 in Mark 6:23), ¹⁹ how can Semitic elements and LXX wording serve as criteria to identify Proto-Luke? Most scholars will find it hard to think that the earliest gospel contained the stories of the nativity (absent from Mark) and the ascension (absent from Matthew and Mark). Indeed, if Proto-Luke is first, it is hard to understand why Mark’s Gospel narrates the story of Jesus only from John the Baptist’s preaching to the discovery of the empty tomb.

While Brodie ascribes most of the non-Markan material in Luke’s Gospel to Proto-Luke, it is hard to see his criteria for omitting the uniquely Lukan material in Luke 14:1–14 or 15:8–32. Similarly, it is difficult to grasp why he excludes from Proto-Luke the temptation narrative (Luke 4:1–13), which not only quotes the LXX but also has echoes of Elijah’s 40 days in the desert (1 Kings 19:8)? Since Brodie regards Proto-Luke as modeled on the Elijah-Elisha narrative, it is also hard to understand why he excludes from it three significant Lukan verses in Jesus’ Nazareth sermon, mentioning Elijah and Elisha (Luke 4:25–27). Moreover, he ascribes Luke 9:61–62 to Proto-Luke’s reworking of 1 Kings 19:19–21, though the significant Greek words apotassomai (say goodbye) and euthetos (worthy) do not appear there (pp. 72–73). In fact, elsewhere Luke’s Gospel uses these same two Greek words only in Luke 14:33–35, which he does not include as part of Proto-Luke, and so the vocabulary here does not support his theory. ²⁰

It is hard to accept the narrative shape of the build-up to Jesus’ death on the theory of Proto-Luke. According to Brodie, Proto-Luke moves straight from the story of Zacchaeus (set in Jericho) to the Passover plot and Last Supper in Jerusalem, without any intervening narrative to indicate the change of location. ²¹ After the conclusion of the Last Supper (Luke 22:30), Proto-Luke is then said to continue immediately with Jesus on trial before the priestly council (Luke 22:66), and even Brodie has to admit that ‘this absence of an elaborate arrest account may seem to make the sequence abrupt.’ ²² Whereas Mark’s Gospel offers a plausible reason for why Jesus was put on trial, the sections deemed to belong to Proto-Luke lack most of this material.

Despite the proposed literary parallels, I suspect that few scholars will follow him in his desire to derive Mark’s Gospel from Proto-Luke. For instance, he claims: ‘The Bartimaeus episode (Mark 10:46–52) involves a recasting of Proto-Luke’s account of Zacchaeus (Luke 19:1–10).’ ²³ While there are some similarities, most scholars would see Mark’s story as the prior text, not least because it is taken up in Luke 18:35–43, the narrative immediately preceding Luke’s Zacchaeus episode! Similarly, he derives Mark’s transfiguration narrative (Mark 9:2–10) from Luke’s resurrection and ascension stories (Luke 24, usually regarded as formulated late), though the connections he finds are rather general. It seems much more logical to say that Luke’s transfiguration story (Luke 9:28–36) reworks Mark’s version.

To take another example, Brodie derives Mark 2:1–3:12 from Acts 10:1–11:26 on the basis of vague thematic links such as words like ‘house.’ ²⁴ In fact, however, Brodie elsewhere recognizes a much closer connection between Acts 10–11 and Luke 1: ‘The New Testament account, describing Cornelius and his angelic vision, is modeled largely on earlier parts of Luke (Zechariah’s vision, and the friendly centurion who sent Jewish elders to Jesus, Luke 1:11–22; 7:2–5).’ ²⁵ Besides the shared motif of the angelic appearance (Luke 1:11; Acts 10:3), announcing that the devout man’s prayer has been heard (Luke 1:13; Acts 10:31), other shared phrases occur such as ‘the hand of the Lord’ (Luke 1:66; Acts 11:21) and the Greek wordplay between ‘rejoice,’ chairō, and the notion of ‘grace,’ charis (Luke 1:28; Acts 11:23). By contrast, the proposed connections between Acts 10–11 and Mark 2–3 seem weak.

At the level of narrative symbolism, some of Brodie’s connections are suggestive. For instance, he notes that the narrated progression from confusion and weak faith to the raising of the epileptic boy (Mark 9:9–29) matches the progression of the disciples on the Emmaus road from lack of faith to recognition of the risen one (Luke 24:13–49). ²⁶ Yet strangely, Brodie regards the Lukan Emmaus narrative as the origin of the Markan story of the raising of the epileptic boy, even though this episode also occurs in Luke 9:37–42. While recognition of a parallel pattern has a poetic resonance, it hardly seems a suitable basis for a firm historical judgement.

Historical Method

When Brodie moves from literary insights to historical conclusions, I begin to question his methodology. In his view (pp. 120–21), what is most important in biblical study is neither history (as investigated by Richard Bauckham) nor theology (as studied by Brevard Childs), but rather the literary aspects. Again, in my view, instead of privileging one approach, it is methodologically better to see history and theology and literature as an integrated triad.

His literary study is essentially a synchronic enterprise, whereas historical study involves the tracing of sources through time. Brodie’s methodological weakness is to draw historical (diachronic) conclusions from his literary (synchronic) analysis, without applying a rigorous historical perspective. Any serious historical claim about Jesus’ existence (or non-existence) needs to consider seriously the historical sources for first-century Palestine, such as the Qumran texts and the works of Josephus. While Brodie briefly sketches the history of the Holy Land from 330 BCE till 70 CE (pp. 175-81), he quotes only one Qumran text (4Q Beatitudes: pp. 99–100), ²⁷ and he gives detailed attention to only one Josephus passage, the Testimonium Flavianum (A.J. 18.3.3 nos 63–64), whose historical value he dismisses (pp. 160–67). As the fruit of a library-based study, this volume ignores archaeology almost entirely. For instance, in relation to Jesus’ death there is no mention of the ‘Pilate inscription’ found at Caesarea Maritima, and in relation to Paul’s visit to Corinth there is no mention of inscriptions that name Gallio (Acts 18:12) or Erastus (Rom 16:23). ²⁸

While sections of Luke make frequent use of the ancient literary technique of imitation (e.g., Luke 7 presenting Jesus as a new Elijah), I cannot see how the whole of Mark’s Gospel could have been created merely out of an anonymous rewriting of the Old Testament. Since parables such as the Sower and the Vineyard Tenants (admittedly reworking Old Testament themes) occur in all three synoptic gospels as well as the Coptic Gospel of Thomas, it seems historically more sensible to follow the unanimous testimony of these sources by ascribing the parables to Jesus, rather than to one or more unknown authors.

I fear that Brodie’s assessment of the work of the 18th-century French scholar Jean Astruc—making a real contribution but misreading the evidence (p. 90)—could perhaps be applied to Brodie’s own work, since he recognizes the literary artistry of the New Testament authors but somehow is unable to acknowledge a historical core in the person of Jesus of Nazareth. It is a pity that Brodie could not apply to Jesus the affirmation made concerning Greco-Roman historians in his 2004 volume: ‘unlike many poets and dramatists, historians such as Thucydides and Livy spoke of real historical events and characters’—even if their narration was influenced by poetry, rhetoric, and drama, and often employed techniques of literary imitation. ²⁹ Whereas Brodie proposes the historical existence of the Proto-Luke document but denies it for Jesus of Nazareth, most scholars would instead accept the historicity of Jesus rather than Proto-Luke.

Because of the Hellenistic school system and the later synagogue schools, Brodie suggests that ‘the existence of other schools gives support to the idea of a New Testament school/group’ (p. 183)—yet most Greco-Roman schools had patrons as well as a clear location or centre. Brodie admits that Christianity was founded by a group of first-century persons, just as traditional Christianity speaks of the crucial role of the 12 apostles and other early leaders. Yet whereas Brodie claims: ‘Determining the who, where and when of that writing-oriented community does not seem possible’ (p. 192), most scholars accept that the apostles and their early converts fulfilled this decisive role.

In fact, it is significant that the New Testament enjoys early manuscript attestation, with most of the Pauline letters being preserved in Papyrus-46 (around 200 CE), and large sections of the four gospels and Acts being preserved in Papyrus-45 (around 250 CE). Admittedly, early attestation does not prove historicity, but at least it shows that the New Testament stories were not composed many centuries after the events. We could make a comparison here with the historical evaluation of Josephus, who flourished at the end of the first century CE. Of Josephus’s writings we know of only one manuscript older than 500 CE (Pap. Graec. Vindob. 29810, containing parts of B.J. 2.576–584), ³⁰ yet historians rely on his information for historical reports of the high priests in the postexilic era, ³¹ even though his narrative also includes some tales of miraculous events. While many historiographers recognize that Josephus has his own bias, they still use his writings as a historical source, even when there is no external attestation of persons or events.

Denial of Historical Jesus

It will come as no surprise if the vast majority of biblical scholars part company with Brodie when he interprets the gospels by denying any historicity to the existence of Jesus. ³² Chapter 17 contains Brodie’s response to what he terms ‘the monumental work of John P. Meier’ (p. 155), a reference to Meier’s four magisterial volumes (so far) investigating the one whom he calls A Marginal Jew. ³³ Brodie claims that Meier’s work has two problems: the reliance on oral tradition, ³⁴ and also inadequate engagement with literary features such as comparisons with Homer or Virgil. If, like Brodie, you think that Jesus never existed, but is a fictional creation of several first-century authors, you will naturally dismiss oral tradition. But if someone existed who was known as Jesus of Nazareth, then it is only natural that people would have talked about him, and hence the significance of oral tradition cannot be dismissed, however difficult a concept it is. A more balanced approach is to accept that both oral and written traditions could have contributed to the formation of the New Testament.

In a broad sense, Brodie criticizes Meier (p. 168), saying that ‘background knowledge’ (on topics such as history) ‘does not constitute information about Jesus,’ but conversely one could equally argue against Brodie that background knowledge of Greco-Roman literary techniques does not in itself remove the possibility of historical information about Jesus. Seán Freyne observes that Brodie seems to downgrade the importance of the criterion of ‘contextual plausibility’ for making historical judgements. ³⁵

Brodie very briefly (p. 157) considers Meier’s five criteria of historicity, which are embarrassment, discontinuity, multiple attestation, coherence, and rejection/execution. ³⁶ Brodie finds fault with two of Meier’s criteria for historicity, contradiction (i.e., embarrassment) and discontinuity, since he suggests that biblical authors or editors often allowed contradictions to stand in the text (e.g., Genesis 1 alongside Genesis 2). In addition, Brodie criticizes the criterion of multiple attestation (e.g., traditions attested by Paul, Mark, and John), since he claims that the diverse New Testament documents are not independent of each other.

Before the gospels were composed, Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians was written in the mid-fifties CE. This letter records Jesus’ prohibition against divorce (1 Cor 7:10–11; cf. Mark 10:11–12) ³⁷ and notes Jesus’ assertion that an apostle could be supported financially from his preaching (1 Cor 9:14; cf. Luke 10:7). Moreover, this letter not only states that Christ died and was buried (1 Cor 15:3–4), but also tells of a ritual meal which Jesus held with a group of followers on the night he was betrayed, whereby the taking of a cup would serve in remembrance of him (1 Cor 11:23–25). ³⁸ Thus, this early epistle records several features of what became the tradition found in the written gospels. Yet Brodie dismisses the historical value of Paul’s list of witnesses to the resurrection appearances (1 Cor 15:1–8) by comparing the text to several Pentateuchal theophanies (Numbers 11–17), but the parallels are so vague that Jerome Murphy-O’Connor points out the ‘abyss between the two texts.’ ³⁹

In his quest to derive the gospel narrative from the epistles, Brodie observes that Mark 10:1–45 has many parallels with 1 Pet 2:18–3:17. ⁴⁰ Yet on a traditional model such parallels may potentially be explained, not as a case of literary reworking of an epistle, but as a common dependence on Petrine testimony in Rome to the teaching of the historical Jesus, if Papias is correct that Mark was the interpreter of Peter (Eusebius, Hist. Eccl. 3.39.15). Another question arises about the treatment of Mark, since the four Markan cases of Aramaic phrases or words (talitha qum, ephphatha, abba, eloi eloi lama sabachthani) would run counter to Brodie’s claims that the gospels originate in an imitation of Septuagintal writing.

While it is evident that evangelists such as Luke were heavily influenced by Septuagintal narrative, the manifold parallels between Jesus’ teaching and the Hebrew and Aramaic writings from Qumran invite caution towards a dismissal of a historical kernel. To be sure, the gospels indeed describe Jesus as ‘more than flat history,’ ⁴¹ but Brodie seems to make him less than history. We could refer here to the leader of the Second Jewish Revolt (132–135 CE), Simon Bar Kokhba, who (like Jesus) was also regarded as fulfilling scripture, especially Balaam’s prophecy of a star arising out of Jacob (Num 24:17). Just because he was understood to fulfil the Hebrew Bible does not make him fictional, since we have letters written by him found at Murabbaat and Nahal Hever. ⁴² Just as the Second Jewish Revolt presupposes a leader, so does the early Christian movement.

It is regrettable that whereas Meier has provided a detailed historical examination of John the Baptist, viewed as Jesus’ mentor, Brodie is almost entirely silent about this great figure. ⁴³ Brodie ignores Josephus’s testimony to the Baptist’s ministry (A.J. 18.15.2 nos 116–19), ⁴⁴ which matches the gospel testimony that John called Jews to be baptized as a sign of purification but was arrested and killed at the hands of Herod Antipas, tetrarch of Galilee and Perea. Moreover, the preaching of John the Baptist beside the River Jordan has several parallels to the writings of the Qumran community, especially the idea of purification by repentance and washing, under the action of the Holy Spirit (1QS 3:6–9; 4:20–22; 5:13–14). ⁴⁵ Brodie says nothing about the Baptist’s echoes of Qumran theology such as his prominent use of Isa 40:3 (cf. 1QS 8:13–14). ⁴⁶

If Jesus were a fictional character acclaimed as Son of God, why would the author describe him being baptized by a prophetic figure in the context of a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins—surely unnecessary for God’s Son (Mark 1:4)? In fact, the likely progression of successive gospel narratives shows growing embarrassment about this event, since Matthew has the event specified ‘to fulfil all righteousness’ (Matt 3:15), Luke presents the event in a flashback without mentioning the Baptist (Luke 3:21), while John’s Gospel describes the Baptist only as witness to the Spirit’s descent at Jesus’ baptism (John 1:32). All in all, the easiest explanation for this sense of embarrassment is to say that it reflects something historical, which the early church struggled to explain theologically. ⁴⁷

We may draw a contrast between the Book of Judith and Mark’s Gospel. I regard the Book of Judith as a pious fiction, even if completely rewriting an actual encounter between Queen Alexandra Salome (76–67 BCE) and the Armenian invader Tigranes the Great (Josephus, A.J. 13.16.4 nos 419–21). ⁴⁸ Its fictional nature is evident not only from historical errors, such as the naming of Nebuchadnezzar as ruler of the Assyrians (Jdt 1:10), but more particularly because no other historical source attests directly to any of the events as described in the book. By way of contrast, Mark’s Gospel refers to persons known from Josephus (John the Baptist, Herod Antipas, Caiaphas, Pilate). Moreover, whereas the narrated figure of Judith is unmentioned in any historical text, Jesus’ life and death have left a huge mark on first-century history in the careers of apostles like Peter and Paul. Finally, Roman authors of the early second century (Tacitus, Suetonius, and Pliny) mention the movement of Jesus’ followers, less than a century after the crucifixion. These factors suggest the reasonableness of presuming that Jesus was a historical figure.

In mathematical logic it is easier to prove something positive (e.g., that 101 is a prime number) than to prove something negative (e.g., that there are no prime numbers between 212 and 220), since only one exception is needed to invalidate the attempted proof. In an analogous way it is difficult to prove that Jesus or Paul never existed. Even if most of the New Testament traditions were a matter of creative rewriting, all it would need is one credible tradition to attest to the historicity of Jesus or Paul. As Gerard Norton observes, ‘How can it be proven that something or someone never existed?’ ⁴⁹

Death of Jesus

If Brodie’s theory is true, the gospel accounts are fictional when they report that Jesus of Nazareth was crucified under Pontius Pilate. Admittedly, the four gospel narratives of the crucifixion vary in some details, though they agree in many crucial aspects. If we compare the case of the sixth-century BCE Persian king Cyrus the Great, we find that there are varying stories about how he died. Accounts of his death in battle appear in Herodotus and Ctesias, whereas Xenophon states that he died peacefully in his palace. ⁵⁰ Yet because his existence is attested in Greek historians as well as Mesopotamian tradition, modern historians do not doubt the historical existence of Cyrus. Brodie suggests (p. 196) that ‘the accounts of Jesus … may be shaped by many older accounts, including for instance the account of the death of Socrates.’ Was Socrates a historical person but Jesus not? ⁵¹ Or do we in fact have historical evidence at least about the death of Jesus of Nazareth?

Brodie (p. 197) states: ‘Apart from 1 Timothy (6:13), generally dated late, the twenty-one New Testament epistles never mention Pontius Pilate.’ However, this Roman procurator is named in connection with Jesus’ death in three passages in the Acts of the Apostles—all passages that Brodie includes in his earliest written NT narrative, Proto-Luke (Acts 3:13; 4:27; 13:28). ⁵² Moreover, he admits (p. 167) that among Greco-Roman authors mentioning Jesus, ‘the strongest reference occurs in Tacitus (Annals 15.44),’ which states that someone named Christus ‘had undergone the death penalty in the reign of Tiberius, by sentence of the procurator Pontius Pilate.’ Writing about a group known as Christians, who were persecuted by the emperor Nero, the Roman historian Tacitus (d. c. 118 CE) is referring back to an event that occurred in the reign of the emperor Tiberius (14–37 CE). ⁵³ Yet this testimony from around 115 CE, which Tacitus saw fit to include, is quickly dismissed by Brodie as ‘commonplace’ and possibly based on Josephus (p. 167). Brodie also discounts Tacitus’ report by saying that ‘basic contact with Christians [in Rome] would have yielded such information’ (p. 167), but the logical result of totally discounting this evidence is to deny historical validity to anything said by the early Christians—thus prejudging the issue.

Writing a couple of decades before Tacitus (around 94 CE), Josephus also includes a mention of ‘Jesus, a wise man,’ noting that ‘Pilate, because of an accusation made by the leading men among us, condemned him to the cross’ (A.J. 18.3.3 nos 63–64). ⁵⁴ Brodie dismisses Josephus’s evidence as dependent on the gospels or Acts of the Apostles, even though Josephus employs different language. Brodie suggests that Josephus may well have known Mark’s Gospel, possibly composed in Rome near the time Josephus arrived there. Yet even if Josephus did know a gospel text, he still judged it credible enough to include in the story of events in his homeland from earlier in the first century.

It is certainly arguable that the casting of lots for Jesus’ garments at the crucifixion (Mark 15:24) could have arisen as a fulfilment of Psalm 22, just as one could argue that the raising of the widow’s son in Luke 7 serves to imitate Elijah’s raising of the widow’s son in 1 Kings 17. ⁵⁵ Yet there are several reasons for doubting that Jesus’ cry of dereliction in Mark 15:34, using the opening words of Psalm 22, was invented to show the fulfilment of the Old Testament. ⁵⁶ First of all, the words are given in Aramaic, which was hardly the language of formal Jewish prayer before 70 CE, except perhaps the Kaddish. ⁵⁷ Second, the wording omits the Septuagint’s additional phrase, ‘pay attention to me,’ and hence was hardly formulated after the event from the Septuagintal form of the Psalm verse. Third, the central character who is presented as God’s Son (Mark 1:1, 11; 9:7; 14:61–62; 15:39) would not easily be depicted as abandoned by God. This stubborn detail of Jesus’ final cry seems to be more likely historical fact rather than Markan invention.

Denial of Historical Paul

Brodie also denies the historical existence of Paul (pp. 144–54), even though he is usually regarded as one of the best-attested Mediterranean personalities of the first century CE. Brodie proposes eight indicators from the epistles to argue for the non-historicity of Paul. He views the authorship of the epistles as secretarial rather than personal, and sees their literary genre as epistolary essays instead of letters. He regards the autobiographical references as fictional rather than real, and the references to communities as constructed instead of actual. Furthermore he views the mentions of receiving traditions as reinterpretation of the Septuagint rather than personal history, and the references to personal correspondence as fiction instead of fact. Finally, he considers the mention of the apostle’s travels as a literary motif rather than factual reality, and his occupation as a tentmaker as symbolic instead of actual. All of these eight proposed indicators would properly deserve lengthy discussion, which is beyond the scope of this article. ⁵⁸

In addition, Brodie proposes five supporting trends in biblical studies, which I summarize as follows: the move from historicity to theological narrative (e.g., Genesis 1–3); acceptance of pseudonymous authorship (e.g., in the Pentateuch or Psalms); awareness of the literary nature of the Hebrew Bible (e.g., Jonah as historicized fiction); recognition of the rhetorical nature of the New Testament (e.g., literary skill of Mark’s Gospel); and consciousness of the continuity between the Old and New Testaments (e.g., manifold echoes of the OT in the NT). Yet these points raised by Brodie do not convince me to deny the historical Paul. For instance, by employing careful rhetoric and making use of secretaries (Rom 16:22), Paul was like Cicero—whose secretary Marcus Tullius Tiro became famous.

Later, Brodie makes the reasonable assertion that ‘the New Testament portrayal of Paul is modelled significantly on the Old Testament picture of Moses’ (p. 183), but the echoes of Moses do not indicate that Paul is a fictional character. In a detailed study, Dale Allison has shown that Moses served as a model in the portrayals of many figures in Jewish tradition (including Joshua, Elijah, Rabbi Hillel, and Jesus), as well as later Christian figures (not just Paul, but also Constantine and Basil the Great). ⁵⁹ Surely these figures were not all fictional. Narrative patterning is a common literary technique which in itself speaks neither for nor against the historical existence of the character thus delineated. Hence Brodie’s conclusion strikes me as weak (p. 153): ‘The production of the thirteen epistles bearing Paul’s name may, perhaps, have drawn special inspiration from one individual, but if so, that individual’s name and history are probably irretrievable.’ In my view, surely a more probable explanation is that a historical figure named Paul wrote at least some of the Pauline letters.

Brodie’s Attempt to Refute Ehrman

In order to bring his book up to date, Brodie supplies an epilogue (pp. 226–31), briefly discussing Bart Ehrman’s recent volume that investigated Jesus’ historical existence. ⁶⁰ Ehrman accepts the historical existence of Jesus, despite saying in the introduction to his book: ‘I am not a Christian…. I am an agnostic with atheist leanings.’ ⁶¹ Brodie fairly but briefly summarizes Ehrman’s position, which notes that ‘early church sources (Papias, Ignatius, 1 Clement) all speak of a historical Jesus’ (p. 227). Thus, Ehrman notes that Ignatius of Antioch states that Jesus was baptized by John and later nailed to the cross under Pontius Pilate and Herod the tetrarch (Smyrn. 1:1–2; around 110 CE), and also states that 1 Clement mentions the death of Jesus (1 Clem. 49:6; around 95 CE). ⁶²

Perhaps the key point of Ehrman’s argument, as Brodie expresses it (p. 227), is this: ‘the message of a crucified messiah is so countercultural for a Jew that it can only be explained by a historical event, in this case the crucifixion of someone the disciples had thought was the messiah.’ ⁶³ This explanation seems to me far more convincing than Brodie’s counter-suggestion (p. 231 n. 2):

It is still not clear what historical situation led to setting up the image of the crucified messiah…. Some form of crisis within Judaism apparently led a significant number of Jews to embark on a process of renewal that would require the development of their scriptures into a new narrative, involving a new covenant.

Surely it is much easier to think that the historical crucifixion of a first-century Jewish preacher (itself a very plausible event) led to this rethinking of the ancient scriptures.

Symbolic Meaning of Jesus

In his conclusion to his 2004 monograph, Brodie suggested three ways forward in the quest for the historical Jesus and the historical Paul: carry on with the historical quest, dismiss the biblical character portrait as a lie, or rethink what the biblical figure means. ⁶⁴ In the 2012 volume he is forced to rethink the meaning of the figure of Jesus following the denial of his historical life and death. Three significant areas for research remain, as proposed by Brodie in 2004, the centrality of religious experience, the institutional continuity of Christianity with aspects of Judaism, and the interconnected nature of the Christian scriptures that led them to be brought together in a written canon. ⁶⁵ Having rejected the historical existence of Jesus, Brodie is now left with the task of trying to assess his religious significance (pp. 173–225). He notes that firm historical details are often sketchy for the lives of great religious figures, such as Moses and the Buddha. Nevertheless, he is happy to see an Old Testament model for Jesus’ work of saving and reconciling, whereby God ‘sends a beloved son (Joseph) to Egypt to save the lives of his sinful brothers’ (p. 205)—an observation that would not be out-of-place in traditional Christian typological exegesis.

Near the end of his book Brodie offers his reflective and even mystical thoughts on Christian spirituality, focused on a reinterpretation of ‘three features—God’s Son, dying for sin, rising for life’ (p. 209), and still finding meaning in the Eucharist. Yet the danger of Brodie’s approach is that we will end up with a generalized Gnostic-style redeemer figure, unrelated to any actual human history. While Brodie accepts ‘the loss of Jesus as a specific individual human,’ in favour of ‘the universal living figure of truth and goodness,’ he still wishes somehow to retain ‘the Gospel figure who touches the leper, embraces the children, and lays down his life for our sins’ (p. 218). Yet without a historical anchor, it seems we are left with a kind of Platonic myth.

Brodie proposes a change in our view of Christ (p. 201): ‘to see Christ not as an individual human, but as a symbol of God among us, God within us.’ My question is why it is necessary to adopt an either-or approach, when the New Testament combines the human Jesus with the cosmic Christ. In fact, by viewing Jesus as a symbol rather than a historical figure, Brodie seems to come close to a kind of modern-day Gnosticism. Why believe in Jesus rather than the Buddha or an Indian guru? The traditional Christian will perhaps recall the admonition given in the Second Letter of John, warning against ‘those who do not confess that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh’ (2 John 1:7).

When Brodie proposes a symbolic understanding of Jesus (including his death and resurrection), without the need for any historical person of Jesus, he is not proposing a new doctrine. Although his theory (as outlined in his 2004 monograph) offers a sophisticated use of modern literary theories of narrative imitation, ⁶⁶ at its heart lies an inability to accept the traditional Christian belief that Jesus Christ came in human flesh (John 1:14). ⁶⁷ Whereas Ignatius of Antioch around 110 CE repeatedly insists against doubters that Jesus was really and truly born and really and truly crucified (Magn. 11:1; Trall. 9:1; Smyrn. 1:1–2), ⁶⁸ Brodie thinks it possible to keep hold of a non-historical Jesus as a religious symbol. While the symbolic nature of religion is absolutely central, symbol and history are surely not to be viewed as alternatives (‘either-or’), but as complementary realities (‘both-and’). By way of analogy, a president or pope has a symbolic function, but this function is embodied in a living breathing person.

Conclusion

Brodie’s tracing of literary patterns between various biblical texts offers interesting possibilities of intertextual interpretation, but moving from intertextuality to historical scepticism seems an unwarranted step. His intention is laudable (p. 193): ‘If … we try first to trace the process of writing the New Testament, then we have a starting point for future discussion.’ However, his library-based technique downplays many other sources of historical knowledge (e.g., archaeological, sociological, and patristic). He aptly observes (p. 196) that ‘stories can carry truth, and often do so far more effectively than the facts of history.’ Yet instead of choosing between two exclusive possibilities, it is much more sensible to be open to both the historical facts and the literary story.

If we accept his arguments, thousands of first-century Jews and Gentiles became believers in a fictitious person. For Brodie, there was no historical Messiah who rode into Jerusalem on a donkey but was soon crucified, and there was no one regarded as Son of God who actually died praying ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ (Mark 15:34). Nor did an individual exist who foreshadowed the final resurrection by rising again. According to Brodie, all the gospel parables and the letters attributed to St Paul were composed by unknown persons, and the Christian message spread around the eastern Mediterranean without St Paul’s help. To me, it makes much more sense to accept the historical existence of both Jesus and Paul.

Although a potentially positive aspect of Brodie’s work is his desire to see the whole New Testament as interlinked on a literary level, he severs the text’s connection with any historical events outside the imagination of a supposed group of unknown authors. Whereas Brodie regards the alleged non-historicity of Jesus and Paul as the simplest explanation on the principle of Ockham’s razor (p. 169), most scholars would view it as a case of reductio ad absurdum. In fact, though his work includes many literary insights into the biblical text, I find a historical emptiness in his studies. He seems to me like someone who has spent many years doing theoretical research into recipes for chocolate cake, yet feeling unable for a long while to taste the actual cake. It is regrettable that he feels it necessary to separate history from literary skill and theology, whereas all three are aspects of human life.

The review by the recently deceased Seán Freyne perceptively recognized that Brodie’s interest is ‘solely literary.’ ⁶⁹ Although Brodie considers the gospels as works of creative imagination rather than factual history, it seems that actually it is Brodie’s theory that belongs more to the imagination than to reality. While he correctly perceives the value of imagination in literary appreciation—and, we could add, even in historical reconstruction—imagination without proof is a poor tool in contexts of fact, such as when facing a court of law or the tax department. I would have applauded if Brodie had said that the meaning of Jesus is not fully summed up by historical inquiry but that a sense of poetic appreciation is needed. But salvaging the poetic sense by discarding the historical Jesus seems to me methodologically unsound and theologically unnecessary.