Exploring the Life of Jesus

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Wendell Phillips, whom Lowell Thomas once called the American Lawrence of Arabia, was the last of the great nineteenth century explorers, although he lived entirely in the twentieth. He lived daringly and dangerously. He knew and loved the Arabs of the desert. He packed a gun and was the friend of desert monarchs. He got money from rich men to explore the ruins of the romantic past, and he wrote about it all with dash and style.

In 1975 Phillips died after a long illness following a heart attack.^a He was not yet 55. He barely lived to see the publication of his last book, a labor of love which, he says in his introduction, it took him 10 years to write.

He called his book, An Explorer’s Life of Jesus^b.

The title is misleading; those readers who anticipate a careful, analytical study of the historical Jesus on the basis of insights gained from archaeological research will be disappointed. Indeed, only about half of the book deals with the historical Jesus, and substantial portions of even this half are doctrinal, rather than historical.

Phillips’ book is written for the conservative, pious, Christian layman, who, like Phillips, grew up in a fundamentalistic community. The book reflects more the soul of the pastor than the mind of the explorer. The concern and kindness of the counsellor are evident throughout the book. The conservative layman who has not read widely in New Testament studies will find in this book the assurance that most of his fundamentalistic views can be substantiated by the best New Testament scholarship. Those that cannot are not very important, anyway.

Although he claims to examine the New Testament critically, Phillips’ approach basically assumes that everything written down in scripture is historically accurate (with a few minor exceptions which even he questions).

Phillips seems blissfully unaware of ancient historiographical methods, and this prevents him from getting “inside” the gospels to see how they were constructed. He sees only the surface facts and therefore does not ask the hard questions. An example concerning so-called typologies or cycles of history will illustrate the point.

From ancient times Jews believed that history moved in fore-ordained cycles. What happened before would happen again. Whenever events of the recent past seemed like part of a cluster of events in the remote past, Jews expected the rest of the cluster to be reenacted. On this basis they prophesied the future or reconstructed parts of the unknown past. The exodus from Egypt was associated with plagues, the slaughter of infants, the cleavage of the Red Sea, temptations, the wilderness wanderings, the giving of the law at Mount Sinai, provision of water and manna in the wilderness, the cure of leprosy. Years later, Jews in Babylon considered themselves to be reliving the Egyptian captivity. When it seemed nearly over, a local poet (so-called Second Isaiah) predicted the return to the land—through the wilderness, with water gushing out as if Moses had struck the rock, diseases healed, and all obstacles to the return removed (Isaiah 35). In this example of typology, the Egyptian exodus was the “type” and the Babylonian exodus, the so-called “anti-type,” or repetition of the type. On the basis of the exodus from Egypt, the return from Babylon could be predicted or its history reconstructed, in the ancient historian’s judgment.

Jewish and Christian historians at the turn of the era continued to use this typology (or others) to reconstruct unknown history, as well as to predict the future. If there was a new exodus, there must have been miracles, manna, temptations, etc. Christians who believed Jesus was the new Moses, David, or Judas Maccabeus, deduced from the earlier type things Jesus must have done, even if they had not been witnessed or reported anywhere. The modern New Testament student who recognizes typologically constructed literature in the New Testament is careful not to confuse this with historical fact. For example, much of the Gospel of Matthew was written as an “anti-type” to Israel’s earlier experience. Matthew opens with a genealogy which traces Jesus’ lineage from Abraham to Joseph, the husband of Mary. This Joseph was seen as a kind of reincarnation of the Joseph of Genesis. This later Joseph, like his earlier type, was the provider; he had dreams; and he fled to Egypt. While the family was in Egypt, there was a new slaughter of male infants by a king’s order. As Joseph (husband of Mary) was seen as a new Joseph (son of Jacob), so Jesus was pictured as a new Moses. Moses was the type and Jesus the anti-type. Like Moses after coming through the Red Sea, Jesus came out of the Jordan. He was also tempted in the wilderness, spent forty days and forty nights fasting, after which he, like Moses of old, delivered a new law from a mountain.

The author of Matthew, convinced that Jesus was the new Moses, simply filled in the details in a way that was then approved as good historiography, but today is unacceptable. Modern historians, once they recognize a typology like this, evaluate it as literary artistry but do not confuse it with historical fact. Phillips did not notice typologies, although he admitted that the Sermon on the Mount might have been a literary composition rather than a speech, actually delivered (p. 188). Having made that concession, however, he continued to write as if Jesus had delivered the entire Sermon on the Mount on one historical occasion (pp. 187–188).

Jews at the turn of the era also believed that everything was to be found in Scripture—past, present, and future. If it was not in the Scriptures, it was not in the world. So historians of the time were free to search the Scriptures to learn about any aspect of the past which was unknown to them. These same historians also believed that all Old Testament prophecy had been prophesied only for the days of the Messiah. Therefore Christian historians who believed Jesus was the Messiah could explore the Scriptures to learn what had been foretold of the Messiah and the Messianic era. An example of this kind of exegesis seems evident in the Matthean birth narrative (Matthew 1:1–2:23). According to Jewish Scripture, the Messiah was to be a son of Abraham through King David’s line, so the author of the Matthean birth story prepared a genealogy for Jesus based on the requirements of this Old Testament prophecy—from Abraham to David to Jesus (Matthew 1:1–17).

It was no problem for Jews of that day to think of virgin birth and at the same time to trace the lineage through the physical father’s line. Philo thought Isaac was also virgin born, but he continued to think of him as a son of Abraham (Philo, On The Cherubim XIV).

According to Micah 5:1–3, the Messiah was to be born in Bethlehem, so the Matthean author established Jesus’ parents’ home there.

The Greek translation (Septuagint) of Isaiah 7:14 said, “A virgin will become pregnant and bear a son,” so a virgin birth story was composed to fulfill this prophesy. Because the author wanted to show that this was a virgin birth, he chose the Septuagint version, even though it was a mistranslation of the Hebrew text which said “A young woman” would bear a son (see “How the Septuagint Differs,” BAR 02:02).

Hosea 11:1 said, “Out of Egypt I have called my son.” The Matthean author reasoned that the Messiah (Jesus) was by definition the Son of God, so this prophecy had to be fulfilled in Jesus. Therefore the author composed a narrative in which Joseph and Mary fled with Jesus to Egypt, from which they could later return to Galilee.

Jeremiah predicted that Rachel would weep for her children—that is, later generations of Jews who had been killed (Jeremiah 31:15). For the Matthean author this meant that Herod must have slaughtered the male infants of the Israelites, just as Pharaoh had done in Moses’ time (Exodus 1:15–22). Since something like this was prophetically and typologically necessary, the Matthean author thought he was only filling in the most likely details.

These Old Testament prophecies are bases for the fulfillment recorded in the Matthean birth story, interwoven with typologies of Joseph, Moses, and Pharaoh of Egypt. Phillips’ failure to call attention to the historical methodology of ancient writers makes it impossible for him to present a scholarly analysis of the historical Jesus—or even to consider the question from a scholarly viewpoint.

Another way critical scholars test the authenticity of a particular gospel event is by judging whether it is consistent with the historical context. Consider the case of the release of Barabbas. In none of the considerable literature of the period is there any mention of the custom of releasing a condemned prisoner at Passover. Furthermore, it seems strange that the Romans who captured Jesus in the hope of preventing a messianic rebellion at the feast should release another insurrectionist, Barabbas, to the Jews—particularly since Palestine was seething with insurrectionist movements, and Jews provided a significant military threat to Rome. At feast times, the Roman rulers regularly increased their security measures by positioning additional soldiers to suppress any incipient rebellion before it got out of hand. Phillips, however, finds no historical problem with this report of the release of Barabbas.

Instead of giving data to defend positions he holds, Phillips sometimes simply states his own beliefs and considers the reasonable implications which would follow if his beliefs were valid. For example, Phillips does not like Paul Winter’s suggestion (in The Trial of Jesus) that the account of Jesus before the Sanhedrin is tendentious and of late composition. Phillips responds: “If, however, as the writer [Phillips] believes, the Gospels rest on reliable early sources then Winter’s arguments have little force … ” (p. 334).

When it is convenient, Phillips claims that the scriptural account is reliable because it is reported in all three synoptic gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), ignoring the possibility that the passage in question may reflect only a single source which two other gospel writers copied. At other times, when it suits his purpose, Phillips argues that we “should never be swayed by the a prioristic attitude that when John is our only source for some information, it is necessarily of little value” (p. 332).

In modern times, critical New Testament scholars have been able, with considerable confidence, to distinguish the teachings of Jesus from the sayings attributed to Jesus by the later church. For example, consider the so-called “responsive chreia” (pronounced khray-ah). This literary form was commonly used not only in early Christian literature, like the gospels and the church fathers, but in Greek and Jewish literature of the period as well. A responsive chreia consists of a short quotation from a revered teacher or leader which has been preserved by a student or associate. The teacher or leader is identified; the quotation is preceded by a short description of the situation which prompted the teacher or leader to speak or respond; and the entire unit is succinct.

These chreias were then collected and used by preachers as texts for more elaborate arguments or sermons. Teachers of oratory (rhetoricians) followed rules for developing these responsive chreias into more elaborate orations, narratives, or sermons. The orator defended the quotation in the chreia, but in his own words, not those of the teacher he quoted.

Whenever a chreia is found in the gospels, the New Testament scholar justly supposes the quotation included in the chreia to be a reasonable approximation of something Jesus once said. When the point is elaborated, the elaboration is probably not the words of Jesus. For example, New Testament scholars will immediately recognize Matthew 15:1–3 as a responsive chreia, and the remainder of the quotation as the elaboration made by a later preacher or orator, even though it all appears now to be a quotation of Jesus:

The quotation attributed to Jesus in verse 3 is probably authentic; the remainder is probably not (except for verse 13, which is the punch line of another responsive chreia).

In the original responsive chreia (verses 1–3), the disciple who preserved the quotation of his teacher did not need to explain what commandment of God the Pharisees had broken; the presumed audience knew the commandment about which Jesus spoke. But later generations did not, so the commentator quoted in verses 4 and 5 the commandment he thought Jesus meant. The commentator offered two possibilities: one was to honor his parents (Exodus 20:12; Deuteronomy 5:16), and the second was to put to death anyone who cursed or maligned his father and mother (Exodus 21:17). Then the commentator explained that the Pharisees broke God’s commandments—far worse than breaking the tradition of the elders—by taking oaths (i.e. they cursed) that they would not take care of their parents in their old age (i.e. they would not honor them). This may have been done by monastic Pharisees, who, like celibate Essenes, gave all their money to a communal group when they joined it and vowed to break all contact with their parents, thus disobeying the commandment of God to honor one’s parents.

Since many of Jesus’ teachings favor monastic, communal discipline, which meant rejecting family members, the scribe or preacher who interpreted the saying of Jesus as criticizing Pharisaic monasticism probably did so mistakenly.

The orator who elaborated this responsive chreia continued his diatribe (while attributing his words to Jesus) by calling the Pharisees hypocrites, and proof-texting his accusation with a quotation from Isaiah 29:13: “This people honors me with their lips, but their heart is far from me; their worship of me is in vain, for they teach as doctrines the commandments of men.” This is followed by an explanation of true defilement, in the opinion of the commentator: true defilement is what comes out of the mouth, not by what goes into it (Matthew 15:4–20). The commentator mustered to his defense not only scriptural passages but also another responsive chreia attributed to Jesus (verses 12–13).

All of this was attributed in the Gospel to Jesus himself, as if Jesus had argued the complete case, but those familiar with Greek rhetoric would so consider only two verses: (1) The text for the discussion. “Why do you break the commandment of God in the interest of your tradition?” (Matthew 15:3), and (2) another used as a supporting text, “Any plant that my heavenly Father has not planted will be uprooted” (Matthew 15:13). The disciples probably constructed the introduction to both responsive chreias (Matthew 15:1–2, 12), whereas a later preacher or editor, who probably misunderstood the meaning of Jesus’ response, composed the rest (Matthew 15:4–20), using another chreia (Matthew 15:12–13) already in his possession.

Phillips seems to know nothing about this kind of form criticism, which is surely a necessary consideration—even if it is to be rejected—for anyone trying to recover the historical Jesus. Phillips simply accepts whole narratives like this as the words of Jesus, without analyzing the composition from a critical viewpoint.

At the beginning of the twentieth century, Albert Schweitzer, the great physician, musician, humanitarian, and New Testament scholar, began research for a projected book on the historical Jesus in which he intended to set forth the reasonable historical facts stripped of later accretions. His preliminary study involved analyzing the most important books written during the nineteenth century on the historical Jesus. The results were so discouraging that he never did write that book, but instead wrote a different book, The Quest of the Historical Jesus—with the stress on quest. Schweitzer’s research convinced him, and his book convinced most contemporary New Testament scholars, that it had been impossible to recover the historical Jesus in the nineteenth century and that this situation was likely to continue into the twentieth century.

Schweitzer gave two reasons for this: First, scholars could not distinguish the teachings of Jesus from the teachings attributed to him by the later church; Phillips, in his book, as we have seen, made no attempt to deal with this fundamental problem. Second, nineteenth century scholars, said Schweitzer, were unable to rid themselves of theological commitments that prevented objective research. Phillips too faced this problem, and apparently he knew it. He submitted the manuscript of his book to many leading scholars. A number of them apparently made the same criticisms made here. “Critical opponents of the writer argue,” Phillips says in his introduction, “that in this book I have mingled theological evaluations with historical judgments, substituting the former for the latter and shaping conclusions under the influence of previously adopted faith commitments.” Although Phillips says he tried to keep the two categories separate, he obviously did not succeed. If Phillips is to be classed with the great explorers of the nineteenth century, his recent book also belongs among the numerous nineteenth century lives of Jesus, even though it has been dressed up with twentieth century scholarly citations.

An Unsolved Mystery

“In spite of the fact that [Israel] has been excavated more extensively and intensively than any other [country] in the Near East, no cuneiform archive has ever been found. Literary evidence and stray tablets show that cuneiform was an important medium of communication, but what happened to all the tablets? It is hard to believe that the hidden archives and royal libraries have all been missed by excavators, since such collections have turned up repeatedly in the expected places in Syria and Mesopotamia. Perhaps some otherwise unknown process of deterioriation and disintegration has destroyed the archives of Canaan, but the survival of mud bricks and clay potsherds militates against such an hypothesis. This may remain one of the great unsolved mysteries of archaeology.”

From “A Toll of the Tells” by David Noel Freedman, Newsletter of the American Schools of Oriental Research, No. 5, November, 1976.

Wendell Phillips, whom Lowell Thomas once called the American Lawrence of Arabia, was the last of the great nineteenth century explorers, although he lived entirely in the twentieth. He lived daringly and dangerously. He knew and loved the Arabs of the desert. He packed a gun and was the friend of desert monarchs. He got money from rich men to explore the ruins of the romantic past, and he wrote about it all with dash and style.