The expression “We reap what we sow” is an idiom coined by the apostle Paul in his letter to the Galatians (6:7). Rendered in English with “we,” the subject here is the noun “man” or “person” (anthropos, in Greek), hence the literal translation of the King James Version, “Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” Paul uses this idiom to urge generosity within the Christian community in Galatia: When people give away their material wealth to support others, it’s not a loss but an investment—as when farmers sow seeds to ensure future harvest (see also 1 Corinthians 9:11 and 2 Corinthians 9:6–11).

Today, Paul’s agricultural metaphor is usually interpreted as a Christian version of karma: One can expect rewards for good deeds and punishment for acting badly. This view of divinely guaranteed justice corresponds to the more common saying, “What goes around comes around,” and typically applies to daily life experiences. However, the apostle means the eschatological, spiritual harvest when he adds, “If you sow to your own flesh, you will reap corruption from the flesh, but if you sow to the Spirit, you will reap eternal life from the Spirit” (Galatians 6:9).

The overall context of the letter reveals another dimension. After Paul’s initial mission to Galatia—a region around the modern-day city of Ankara in central Turkey—the local Christians (mostly Gentile converts) were facing demands that they follow Jewish law. Against such requirements, Paul curses anyone who would put the law above reliance on God’s grace (1:6–9), passionately emphasizing salvation through faith rather than legalistic rituals, adding, “If righteousness (or justification) comes through the law, then Christ died for nothing” (2:21).

Indeed, Paul’s teaching about God’s grace rejects the notion that one could force his way into the kingdom of God by the merit of his good works. Therefore, the idiom “We reap what we sow” does not mean people can earn eternal life as a due reward. Rather, the faithful reap salvation “through the faith in Jesus Christ” (2:16) when they “sow to the Spirit” (6:9). According to Paul, there are no just deserts, only undeserved mercy.

INTERFOTO / ALAMY

In a hugely popular second-century gospel prequel known as the Protevangelium of James, a 12-year-old Mary is given in marriage to an elderly widower named Joseph. The work’s overriding concern to establish Mary’s perpetual virginity leads it to claim that the “brothers and sisters” of Jesus—mentioned several times in Paul’s letters and the Gospels—are children of Joseph from an earlier marriage, an interpretation that has been widely accepted in Catholic and Orthodox churches ever since.

Modern critical scholars find little in the birth narratives of Matthew and Luke to justify the idea of Mary’s perpetual virginity. Even in some Catholic circles it is now assumed that the brothers and sisters of Jesus were simply younger siblings. Film and television productions, such as The Chosen or Netflix’s Mary, reinforce a modern assumption that the “Holy Couple” were romantically attached, of a similar age, and entering their first marriage. But have we all been too hasty in dismissing the idea that Mary was a second wife?

Two clues in the Gospels suggest that we have. First is the number of siblings connected with Jesus. Mark 6:3 and Matthew 13:55–56 list four brothers—James, Joses/Joseph, Judas, and Simon (the last two names are reversed in Matthew)—and an unspecified number of sisters, though the plural suggests at least two of them. Including Jesus, this suggests a family with at least seven children.

If these were full siblings, then Joseph’s family was extremely large given the high infant mortality rates at the time, when a third of children died in their first year, and up to half before their fifth birthday. This would require Mary to have had at least 14 pregnancies, and quite possibly more (there may have been significantly more than two sisters). This is not completely impossible, but it does seem extremely high in an ancient context where poor healthcare and sanitation, not to mention frequent complications during pregnancy and birth, would all have taken their toll. Evidence from Egyptian papyri suggests that by the age of 30 a young man had on average only 0.8 living brothers, leading ancient historian Sabine Huebner to describe Jesus’s large family as “a very rare phenomenon.”¹ But if some of these siblings were from an earlier marriage (or multiple marriages)—Joseph’s earlier wives having died or been divorced—then the numbers would seem more reasonable.

A second piece of evidence is the curious reference to Jesus as the “son of Mary” in Mark 6:3. The setting is the synagogue in Nazareth where Jesus has come to preach. At first the townspeople hear Jesus gladly, marveling at his words. Then their admiration turns to discontent: “Is this not the carpenter, the son of Mary?” they ask.

It is often suggested that describing Jesus in this way was a deliberate slur, implying that his father was unknown or that there was something irregular about his birth. But insulting Jesus is not the issue: the villagers’ point is that they know everything about him, not that they despise him. Furthermore, historian Tal Ilan has shown that, on the rare occasions when men were known by the name of their mother, there was nothing shameful about it.² Quite the opposite: Men’s mothers tend to be named when they are of higher social status than their fathers, or where the women are well known, such that a reference to them adds honor to their sons.

More commonly, scholars assume that Jesus is referred to as the “son of Mary” because Joseph was dead, perhaps long dead, so that a reference to him no longer made any sense. Yet this is a curious explanation, especially in a patriarchal society where male lineage was so important. Memories in villages are long (even today), and no one would forget the name of a man’s father. Moreover, there is no evidence to suggest that sons were referred to in such a way on the death of their fathers. Joseph may well have passed away by the start of Jesus’s ministry, but this does not explain the curious way that Mark’s villagers refer to Jesus here.

The best explanation, in my view, is that Jesus was locally known as the “son of Mary” because Joseph was known to have had more than one wife. The point the villagers are making, once again, is that they know everything about Jesus, down to the precise identity of his mother. On the rare occasions when women appear in genealogies in the Hebrew Bible, it typically is to distinguish a man’s sons by one wife rather than another (the two wives of Lamech in Genesis 4:19–22, for example, or Adonijah’s matronymic “son of Haggith” in 1 Kings 1:5; 2:13). Presumably, Jesus was normally known as the “son of Joseph” but in Nazareth, where Joseph was known to have had two (or more) wives, he was sometimes further distinguished as the “son of Mary.”

Taken together, these two features strongly suggest that Mary was Joseph’s second (or subsequent) wife. Exactly how many children belonged to her, and how many to a previous wife, is impossible to say. All are simply known by the Greek term adelphoi (or the feminine adelphai), which refers not only to full brothers and sisters, but also to half-siblings, and doubtless reflects the blended nature of most ancient households.

Like many women of her time, then, Mary likely left her father’s house to become the second or subsequent wife of a man with an existing family. We might well imagine the difficulties she faced bringing up another woman’s children in a new and unfamiliar setting. Although it may be doubtful that the Protevangelium preserves any actual historical evidence here, on this point at least it may reflect a solid grasp of the realities of first-century life.

VALERII SHANIN / ALAMY

On Paul’s so-called first missionary journey, detailed beginning in Acts 13, he and his companions go from Syrian Antioch to Cyprus (where Barnabas was from), and they end up in the city of Paphos. From there, they sail north to the southern coast of Asia Minor, to the ancient Greek city of Perga. Nothing at all is said about Paul and Barnabas staying and evangelizing there; instead, they head north through rugged mountain territory to a small Roman town called Pisidian Antioch.

Why in the world would they do that? The trek from Perga to Pisidian Antioch is more than 160 miles over difficult terrain, taking four weeks or more to traverse, even if they followed the Roman road called the Via Sebaste. Why not go eastward along the coast to Side, and on to Tarsus, Paul’s hometown, and then back through the Cilician Gates to Syrian Antioch? Certainly, this would have afforded opportunities for sharing the Good News to largely Gentile audiences.

There is now a sound historical basis for Paul’s unexpected route through the mountains, and it begins on Cyprus. When Paul’s group arrives in Paphos, they meet with the governor, a man named Sergius Paulus. To him, Paul’s message must have sounded strangely like imperial propaganda about the “good news” of a savior bringing peace to the world. Note, for instance, the Priene Calendar inscription, part of a decree made in 9 BC about Caesar Augustus and posted in Priene and elsewhere in the Roman Empire:

Since Providence … has set in most perfect order by giving us Augustus, whom she filled with virtue that he might benefit human-kind, sending him as a savior, both for us and for our descendants, that he might end war and arrange all things … and since the birthday of the god Augustus was the beginning of the good tidings (evangelion) for the world that came by reason of him …¹

So when Paul appears before the governor and impresses him with the blinding of the magician Elymas, we read, “When the proconsul saw what had happened, he believed, for he was amazed at the teaching about the Lord” (Acts 13:12).

—–

But here is the key point: Sergius Paulus and his family were from Pisidian Antioch. We know this because of an honorific inscription that archaeologist and frequent BAR contributor Mark Wilson and I noticed in Yalvaç (the modern name for Pisidian Antioch), in the courtyard of the small municipal museum, where it sat gathering mold and gradually wearing away. (Thankfully, it has now been moved indoors.) Its first line mentions the “Paulli,” with the plural referring to an entire family, and the second line names L. Sergius (Lucius Sergius Paulus)—the very proconsul of Cyprus who was so impressed with Paul when they met in AD 48 or 49.

Indeed, we can trace this figure’s career through a number of other inscriptions detailing his posts and promotions over time. One particular inscription, discovered near Pisidian Antioch in the early 20th century, appears to refer to a son (filius) of Sergius Paulus, and thus serves as additional corroborating evidence linking this family with the Roman town.

Moreover, the family evidently was well known by the Roman elites, because Pliny the Elder (AD 23–79) mentions Sergius Paulus as an author, like himself, of a book about natural history that he used as a source (Natural History, Book 1). Note that Pliny gives information from Cyprus and mentions there were magicians there (30.2.11). Is this just a coincidence, or did Pliny learn of this from Sergius Paulus, who wrote about his encounters with Elymas?

BEN WITHERINGTON III

In the midst of the narrative about Paul’s meeting with Sergius Paulus and Elymas, in Acts 13:9, we find the first reference to “Saul” also having a Roman name: Paulus, like the governor himself. Acts 22:28 says the apostle was born a Roman citizen. We are not dealing here, as many have suggested, with a name change related to Paul’s conversion; rather, we are given the apostle’s Roman name, since he was a Roman citizen from birth.

Why is this important? The reason for mentioning Paul’s non-Jewish name in a discussion with the governor of Cyprus is because Paul is trying to appear Roman to a fellow Roman. In Paul’s early days as an apostle, it was important to reach out to Gentiles in approachable ways. It makes good sense that the governor would suggest Paul and Barnabas go to his hometown; perhaps he even wrote a letter of recommendation for them, though Acts does not say so. We are told, however, that they were at first well received in Pisidian Antioch, and that many Gentiles came to hear Paul speak, which angered some in the Jewish community (Acts 13:44–45).

When one journeys the same route that Paul and Barnabas likely took over the rugged mountains, probably following the Via Sebaste, it becomes obvious that there had to have been a good reason why they undertook this arduous journey to the north, and did not follow the coastal road back past Side and on to Paul’s home town of Tarsus, and then back through the Cilician Gates to Syrian Antioch. It seems clear, then, that Paul and Barnabas deliberately went to Pisidian Antioch, the home of the Paulus clan, with the blessing of Sergius Paulus. The governor may have provided a letter of introduction or commendation to the authorities there for his fellow Roman citizen. This was an opportunity they could not pass up.

TODD BOLEN / BIBLEPLACES.COM

The so-called Gezer Calendar is a small limestone slab inscribed with a list of agricultural activities covering one full year. Thought to date from the tenth century BCE, it is one of the earliest known Canaanite inscriptions from Judah. Some would claim it is the earliest known inscription in Old Hebrew. The text reads:

His two months (are olive) harvest, his two months (are)
grain planting; his two months (are) late planting;
his month (is) hoeing up of flax;
his month (is) barley harvest;
his month (is) harvest and festivity;
his two months (are) vine-tending;
his month (is) summer fruit.
Abiyah

The Irish archaeologist R.A.S. Macalister found the calendar in 1908, just before he left the field of biblical archaeology to devote the rest of his life to Celtic archaeology. His excavations at Tel Gezer, on behalf of the Palestine Exploration Fund, were some of the earliest large-scale excavations in the region, and his brutish approach did not allow for careful documentation of stratigraphy. As a result, the Gezer Calendar does not come from a secure archaeological context. The archaeological strata generally date to the early monarchic period (tenth–ninth centuries BCE). The artifact’s script and language support this dating, placing it in a period when Gezer transitioned from being a Canaanite city-state to a key administrative center of the emerging Israelite kingdom.

This small tablet, currently in the Istanbul Archaeological Museum, is about 4.25 inches tall, 3.5 inches wide, and half-an-inch thick. Broken off at the bottom, it was originally almost 6 inches tall. It is made of soft limestone, which made it convenient for writing. The front side bears seven lines of text and a single word (presumably a name) in the lower left margin, while the back side shows only uncertain traces of writing.

Among the most heavily debated aspects of the calendar are its script and language. The early alphabetic script is mostly identified as either Phoenician or its later regional derivation, Old Hebrew. Similarly, although some categorize the language as Hebrew (likely a northern dialect), others interpret it as either Canaanite or Phoenician.^a The personal name preserved incompletely on the tablet’s lower left corner likely belongs to the author of the calendar. His reconstructed name, Abiyah, which occurs several times also in the Bible (including as a king of Judah, in 1 Kings 14:31), may be interpreted as Yahwistic (containing the element Yah and meaning “Yah[weh] is my father”), which would help identify the artifact as Israelite.

Despite its modern name, the Gezer Calendar is not a formal calendar with precise divisions of time, but it’s not a loose roster of agricultural activities either. Rather, it lists major agricultural activities according to seasons, which do not strictly conform to the 30-day month. It covers eight agricultural seasons (each identified in the text with the possessive pronoun “his” or “its”) spread most likely over 12 months, starting with the fall harvest (likely coinciding with the fall equinox or the Hebrew new year) and ending with the summer fruit harvest, in September. As for the inscription’s purpose, some scholars have considered it a farmers’ almanac, while others understand it as a writing or memory exercise. Alternatively, it could have served as a blessing tablet to be placed in a local temple as a constant reminder (before Yahweh or another god) to bless the crops in their seasons.

The seasonal cycle recorded in the Gezer Calendar seems to reflect the agricultural time-schedule of the Shephelah, the area of low foothills where Gezer is located. The slow and awkward scribal hand may indicate a scribal trainee or the emergence of scribal practices outside of the professional bureaucracy. In terms of ancient literacy, the Gezer Calendar—alongside the Khirbet Qeiyafa ostracon, the abecedary from Tel Zayit, and the Izbet Sartah abecedary—suggests that writing was well established in tenth-century Judah. These four inscriptions contend for being the oldest one written in Hebrew language and/or script, although some scholars claim the earliest true Hebrew inscriptions came only after these.

The first scholarly publication of the Gezer Calendar appeared in 1909, in the Palestine Exploration Fund Quarterly Statement. A recent analysis was published in 1998.¹

© RMN-GRAND PALAIS / ART RESOURCE, NY

There are more than 200 species of owls living across all continents except Antarctica, from hot and dry deserts to the freezing snow-covered plains of the Arctic. They are split between two taxonomic families: Strigidae (typical owls) and Tytonidae (barn owls). Owls are easily identified by their round face, hooked bill, and large, forward-facing eyes that require the head to rotate in order to look in different directions. Mostly nocturnal, these predators have the best night vision of any animal, and their hearing is exceptional, too. Owls feed on insects, fish, and small rodents; larger species are known to carry off even larger mammals.

Across cultures, owls have been understood in very different ways, either as warning signs of doom or as symbols of wisdom. They first appeared in the art of Egypt and the ancient Near East in the late fourth millennium BCE. There are no known owl-deities in the Egyptian pantheon, but owls figure prominently in funerary contexts and were symbols of sickness and death. From tombs come mummified owls (often decapitated prior to burial) and owl-shaped amulets. Some even argue that the bird representing ba (the dead person’s “soul,” which was able to travel out from the tomb and return at night) is an owl.

Owls figure in Mesopotamian city laments as wildlife that would come to inhabit ruined, desolated cities. Similar associations of owls with ruin and desolation appear in the Bible, where owls are predicted to replace humans in decimated Nineveh (Zephaniah 2:13–14) and across the entire territory of Edom (Isaiah 34:11–13). Together with other birds of prey, various types of owls were considered impure and therefore not to be eaten (Leviticus 11:17–18).

In classical Greece, on the other hand, owls were considered good omens. Most famously, the owl was sacred to the goddess Athena, whose sanctuary on the Athenian acropolis allegedly was full of owls. With Athena, the owl featured on the reverse of Attic silver coins; and like the goddess, the owl represented knowledge, wisdom, and insight, even serving as a symbol of the Athenian city-state (hence, probably, the saying “bringing owls to Athens”). In popular imagination, however, the owl’s haunting hoots and scary screeches never ceased to evoke the night bird’s less favorable connotations.

The terracotta aryballos flask pictured above comes from Corinth, Greece. It was made from a mold in the form of an owl and then painted in an eastern style, around 640 BCE. Likely used to hold perfumed oil, the miniature flask is only 2 inches tall.

PETER HORREE / ALAMY STOCK PHOTO

The African man that Philip meets on his journey from Jerusalem to Gaza in Acts 8:26–40 is the most prominent unnamed character in the biblical book. Yet the deceptively simple phrase used to identify him—“Ethiopian eunuch” (v. 27)—raises significant interpretive issues that scholars continue to debate. What can we know about this important figure and his journey based on the information provided in the text?¹

The man is said to be an Aithiops, “Ethiopian.” This term, however, needs clarification. In antiquity, Ethiopia did not refer to the modern country of that name. Rather, it was located in modern Sudan and known to the biblical writers as Cush and to Greek and Roman authors as Nubia. It was a wealthy and prosperous land inhabited by a dark-skinned people (see Jeremiah 13:23).^a This understanding is confirmed by the reference in the Acts story to the dynastic queen of the Ethiopians known as the “candace” (Greek kandakē) whom the African man serves. The candaces ruled the kingdom of Nubia from its capital Meroe located along the upper Nile River, and at the time of the story in Acts, this title likely referred to a queen named Amantitere (r. 20–41 CE).

We now turn to the second part of our phrase: the word “eunuch,” used five times in Acts 8 to refer to the African man. He is usually regarded as a physical eunuch. But the Greek word eunouchos is also used in the Septuagint to refer to the Egyptian character Potiphar in Genesis 39:1. Here and elsewhere, English translations render the Hebrew term saris as “official” or “officer.” Is it possible that eunouchos in Acts 8 should also be translated as “official”? At least one commentator, William H. Willimon, suggests:

Contrary to popular interpretation, he need not be a castrated male … Rather, we are reading a story about an important man, a foreigner, though possibly a Jew, a powerful person who has much power and authority as the queen’s minister.²

Common to the Bible’s character introductions is a clarifying word or phrase describing the official portfolio of the person. In Genesis 39, Potiphar is identified as the captain of the guard. Similarly in Acts, the author identifies the African man as being “in charge of [the candace’s] entire treasury.” Using modern terminology, his position would be “minister of finance” or “secretary of the treasury.”

The assumption that the Nubian official is a physical eunuch persists, however. Interpreters generally assume that he is a Gentile because castrated men were forbidden to worship at the Temple (see Deuteronomy 23:1). Some have suggested that he had gone to Jerusalem to worship (Acts 8:27) as a Godfearer, or even as the first Gentile convert, even though Luke emphasizes that Cornelius was the first Gentile to come to the faith (Acts 10:1–11:18). But a more expansive understanding of eunouchos, namely as “official,” leaves open another possibility: Although he is from Nubia, he might also be Jewish, as Willimon suggests. Indeed, throughout the Ptolemaic and early imperial periods, Jews lived in Egyptian settlements along the Nile. Given that the Nubians invaded southern Egypt around 22 BCE, it is possible that Jewish prisoners were brought south to the capital at Meroe. If the Nubian official were Jewish, this might explain how, years later, this figure came to hold office in the candace’s court.

Finally, the geographical dimensions of Acts 8 are mind-boggling. From Jerusalem to their meeting point outside Gaza, Philip and the Nubian official have traveled separately for some 30 miles over a day and a half. Philip is directed by an angel to this route near Gaza, more properly termed “wilderness” than “desert” (v. 26). Traveling by foot, he overtakes the African official, whose return trip to Nubia from Jerusalem is by a different mode of transportation. Philip is told by the Spirit to approach a vehicle called a harma (v. 29). Most English versions misleadingly translate this word as “chariot”; however, chariots were not appropriate for long-distance travel. A double-axled carriage, known in Latin as a petorritum, was more comfortable and served as the limousine of the Roman world. With a wooden roof (which allowed shade for the Nubian to read his scroll of Isaiah [v. 28]) and a decorated interior, the petorritum was pulled by a team of horses or donkeys. Such carriages averaged up to 5 miles per hour on level ground. It is plausible that the African man is riding in such a vehicle.

His time on the road with Philip is a welcome opportunity for a stimulating spiritual conversation. After hearing the gospel, the Nubian believes and requests to be baptized in a local spring. Immediately afterward, Philip is snatched away by the Spirit, no doubt to the astonishment of the newly baptized Nubian (8:36–38). His return journey to Meroe was again an arduous one, covering some 1,800 miles. While much of this would have been sailing on the Nile, it would still have been time-consuming, taking at least a month.

The phrase “Ethiopian eunuch,” therefore, deserves a fresh reading. It identifies the African man in Acts 8 as the treasury official for the Nubian candace, likely Queen Amantitere. It is possible, moreover, that his pilgrimage to worship in Jerusalem indicates that he was Jewish. In any case, on a desolate road near Gaza, the text describes how God supernaturally orchestrates a meeting with Philip the evangelist. We may imagine the African man returning to Meroe, albeit in a very different place spiritually than when he had left for Jerusalem.

—–

Ḥannī-Ba‘al

Ḥann.ī = “my grace” or “grace of” | Ba‘al = “god Baal”

Hannibal is the Latinized form of Ḥannība‘al, a Punic personal name from Carthaginian history. Because the now-extinct Punic language (also called Carthaginian) was a variety of Phoenician, it belongs to the Canaanite branch of the Semitic language family and was written in a 22-letter Phoenician alphabet, from right to left.

This composite name consists of a derivation of the Semitic roots ḥnn (“to show favor,” “be gracious”) and b‘l (“lord,” “master”), the latter of which was the title of various ancient Near Eastern deities, including the chief Canaanite and later Phoenician storm god, Baal. Its interpretation depends on how the name was originally vocalized. If the first element is a noun (ḥann, “grace” or “favor”), then the terminal ī in ḥannī is either a first-person possessive (“my grace,” hence a nominal phrase “Baal is my grace”) or a sign of a vestigial genitive form that results in “grace/favor of Baal.” If, however, the first element is an active verb, the name is a verbal sentence (“Baal is/has been gracious”); if it’s a qualitative passive, it means “favored of Baal.”

The best known Hannibal in Carthaginian history was the general and statesman who initiated the Second Punic War (218–201 BCE) and famously surprised the Romans by crossing the Alps with his war elephants. The name entered modern popular culture in the fictional character of the cannibalistic serial killer Hannibal Lecter—in a novel by Thomas Harris, later adapted into several movies and a TV series.

NIDAY PICTURE LIBRARY / ALAMY

When the German archaeologists Robert Koldewey investigated the remains of the ziggurat of Babylon during his excavations there (1899–1917), his findings were both exciting and disappointing. They were exciting because he claimed to have discovered the biblical Tower of Babel (Genesis 11:1–9), for which scholars had previously searched in vain at other Mesopotamian sites. But they were also disappointing, because all that remained of the massive tower were ruins: it had been dismantled in antiquity; basically, only the foundations remained to be seen and excavated.

In fact, the tower had fallen into disrepair at several points in its long history. This has led many biblical scholars to believe that the writer of Genesis 11 was alluding to a time when the tower was already dilapidated. In the Genesis narrative, when God saw what the people were building, he confused their language (which had been singular and global until then); they ceased to understand each other, and God scattered them “over the face of all the earth” (vv. 6–9). As a result, they stopped building the city of Babylon and, in particular, its tower—or so says the mainstream interpretation of Genesis 11.

Accordingly, iconographic depictions of the tower, from the Huqoq synagogue mosaic (fifth century CE) to the late Renaissance paintings of Pieter Bruegel (16th century) and many others, always show the building as a work in progress, never as a finished structure. However, unknown to most modern readers, a minority interpretation argues that the tower was brought to completion in the eyes of the Genesis author. Indeed, both of us have argued that the biblical author intended to portray the tower as having been finished.¹

The story’s ancient Jewish reception already bears witness to the two competing understandings. On the one hand, the pseudepigraphic book of Jubilees (second century BCE), a narrative retelling of Genesis and Exodus, clearly states that the Babylonians “ceased to build the city and the tower” (10:24). On the other hand, the book of Biblical Antiquities (c. 100 CE) claims that God’s intervention came when people “had begun to build the tower,” which suggests it was not yet finished (7.2).² Philo of Alexandria, a Jewish scholar who lived in Egypt in the early first century, explicitly stated that the tower had been completed (On the Confusion of Tongues 155–158).

Later, in the Midrash Rabbah (from about the fifth century), Rabbi Judah and Rabbi Hiyya ben-Abba said the same, although the latter argued that only a third of the tower was left standing because another third collapsed and yet another third was burned. Finally, the Midrash Tanhuma (perhaps ninth century) claims that God “allowed [the Babylonians] to erect the tower,” for otherwise, they would have argued that its non-completion was the only reason they could not “ascend” to “wage war” against God. They needed a finished tower to attempt their coup, a “skyscraper”—Genesis 11:4 speaks of “a tower that reaches to the heavens.” God deprived them of that argument: he was not afraid of them; let them come! This interpretation implicitly acknowledges that the tower was complete.

Why these disagreements between ancient interpreters? It all comes down to the wording of Genesis 11, which at first seems ambiguous. Even today, translators render it variously. According to the NIV, verse 5 says that YHWH “came down to see the city and the tower the people were building.” The imperfect “were building” implies that the construction work was still in progress: people were still working when God looked down to inspect the situation. In contrast, however, the same verse in the NRSV says that YHWH “came down to see the city and the tower, which mortals had built.” The pluperfect “had built” implies that the construction work is already over when God looks down.

Is it possible to decide between the two translations, “were building” and “had built”? Yes, because modern studies on Hebrew syntax have shown that in relative clauses such as “which mortals …” in verse 5, the specific “conjugation” (qatal) that is used corresponds to our pluperfect.

Yet there remains an ambiguity. What is the grammatical antecedent of “which,” in “the city and the tower, which mortals had built” (v. 5)? In other words, what is said to have been built: “the city and the tower” or just “the tower”? The answer is given in verse 8, which says of the humans that “YHWH scattered them abroad … and they left off building the city.” It is only after God had confused the language of the humans (v. 7) and scattered them (v. 8) that the humans stopped building the city—not when God had initially looked down to inspect what they were doing (the time referred to in v. 5). Consequently, “the city” cannot be part of what is said to have been completed in verse 5. To put it differently, we could faithfully translate verse 5 by putting a comma after “city,” as follows: “YHWH came down to see the city, and the tower that mortals had built.” In fact, this is how several ancient translators—including those responsible for the Greek Septuagint and Latin Vulgate—understood the text.

In conclusion, Hebrew grammar and the internal logic of the text support the view, held by only a few modern scholars, that the Tower of Babel was completed. If this is correct, then there is little point in looking for a time in antiquity when the tower was in ruins as the background to the Genesis narrative. Archaeological excavations have revealed much about the ziggurat—its dimensions, its internal structure, the bricks used in its construction, and so on—but they cannot help us situate the biblical text historically. For the story’s author, the Tower of Babel was much more than just a building; it was a symbol of a united human group antagonizing YHWH.

PUBLIC DOMAIN, VIA WIKIMEDIA COMMONS

This striking oil-on-wood painting of John the Baptist is commonly believed to be Leonardo da Vinci’s final work, dating to the second decade of the 16th century. It employs chiaroscuro, an artistic style that involves deep contrast between different elements of the painting—often, as in this case, between the background and the central figure—as well as Leonardo’s signature sfumato treatment that creates a hazy, softened look.

In this work, Leonardo departed from the traditional presentation of John the Baptist as a gaunt and aged ascetic, envisioning him instead as a robust, youthful figure with long curly hair who is smiling enigmatically and pointing toward the heavens. Barely visible around the figure’s lower body and draped over his left arm is a garment of fur or hair.

Interpreters of the work have remarked upon its mysterious quality, noting that the seeming proximity between figure and viewer generates a vague sense of unease. It is considered a remarkable meditation on the tension between flesh and spirit; some even suggest that it carries a subtle erotic undertone.

At some point in the decades following its completion, Leonardo’s painting made its way into the French royal collection. About a century later, in 1625, Louis XIII traded it to Charles I of England in exchange for a pair of other artworks. Charles’s collection was eventually sold, and the painting moved through various private collections before returning into the possession of Louis XIV in 1661. It has been a part of the Louvre’s collection since the French Revolution.

What is a “hapax legomenon”?

1. A Roman curse
2. A Greek siege machine
3. A single-copy document
4. An AI-powered reading device
5. Any unique written word

Answer: (5) Any unique written word

Hapax legomenon (or hapax, for short) is a term used to refer to any written word that is unique. It can mean a word appears only once in a literary corpus, such as the Bible, or that it is not known from any other text in a particular language and is thus entirely unique. This uniqueness can present serious challenges to our understanding of ancient texts, unless the meaning can be gleaned from the context. Coined by Hellenistic scholars of Homeric poetry in ancient Alexandria, the Greek term translates to “once-spoken.”

There are about 1,500 words in the Hebrew Bible that are unique in their particular form yet can still be matched to known roots, and about 400 true hapax legomena (pl.) that cannot, in their specific form or meaning, be derived from any known root. In some instances, the hapax legomenon in question is a loanword from a neighboring language, such as Akkadian, Egyptian, or Ugaritic. In many other instances, a rare word is used for stylistic reasons, such as to produce alliteration: goper, “cypress wood,” and koper, “pitch” (Genesis 6:14); lahaqat, “cadre of” (1 Samuel 19:20; in proximity to laqaḥat, “to take”), and be-lo‘eka, “to your gullet” (Proverbs 23:2; in proximity to ba‘al, “lord”).