Musings on biblical studies, politics, religion, ethics, human nature, tidbits from science
Category: Historical Methods and Historiography
A broad church. Initially included Historiography in the name. Is “History” too broad and potentially misleading? This category includes discussions of research methods by historians as well as philosophical discussions about both the nature of history and the nature of the writing of history. Includes the problematic methods of biblical scholars. Or should the latter be moved to Biblical Studies as incompatible with the former? (Compare the difference between astronomy and astrology.) Does not include the methods of research and narrating history by ancient authors. See under Ancient Literature.
Here I want to briefly try to explain what I believe is the fundamental difference between a “known event” in history and a “probable” event. (This is, of course, a continuation of the ideas I presented in my four-part series on what I attempted to argue was Richard Carrier’s misapplication to Bayesian probability to “all historical claims”.)
Carrier does not believe that all our knowledge is a question of degree of probability.
All claims have a nonzero epistemic probability of being true, no matter how absurd they may be (unless they’re logically impossible or unintelligible), because we can always be wrong about anything. And that entails there is always a nonzero probability that we are wrong, no matter how small that probability is. And therefore there is always a converse of that probability, which is the probability that we are right (or would be right) to believe that claim. This holds even for many claims that are supposedly certain, such as the conclusions of logical or mathematical proofs. For there is always a nonzero probability that there is an error in that proof that we missed. Even if a thousand experts check the proof, there is still a nonzero probability that they all missed the same error. The probability of this is vanishingly small, but still never zero. Likewise, there is always a nonzero probability that we ourselves are mistaken about what those thousand experts concluded. And so on. The only exception would be immediate experiences that at their most basic level are undeniable (e.g., that you see words in front of you at this very moment, or that “Caesar was immortal and Brutus killed him” is logically impossible). But no substantial claim about history can ever be that basic. History is in the past and thus never in our immediate experience. And knowing what logically could or couldn’t have happened is not even close to knowing what did. Therefore, all empirical claims about history, no matter how certain, have a nonzero probability of being false, and no matter how absurd, have a nonzero probability of being true. Therefore, because we only have finite knowledge and are not infallible, apart from obviously undeniable things, some probability always remains that we are mistaken or misinformed or misled. (Proving History, 24f)
When I first read those words soon after Proving History was published I went along with them, believing them to be at least theoretically true. In theory, yes, we can always be wrong about anything, so yes, even the most secure knowledge must have a non-zero chance of being wrong even if that chance is infinitesimally small. But is that really true in practice, or in the practical world of experience?
Yes, history is “in the past” but does it follow, as Carrier reasons above, that every single claim about the past has a “nonzero probability of being false”? In theory I might surmise that to be so. I might surmise that I don’t even exist and everything I am experiencing is someone else’s dream. But in reality, in the real world where I have to live, I don’t really believe that.
Look at the exception that I have highlighted in the quotation. What the example points to is empirical experience, the experience of our senses. We can call this empirical knowledge. We do not think that there is a nonzero possibility that we are wrong, that there is some chance that we are not really experiencing these words right now. Some things we do know with absolute certainty.
We not only know what we can empirically experience but we can also communicate our empirical knowledge to one another. Further, we can establish ways of assuring others that the knowledge we transmit is reliable. When I read inscribed words on monuments testifying to a tragic event that happened before my time, I know that event happened. There are a host of empirical markers that assure me of the authenticity of the event being recorded in the inscription: the public space the monument occupies, the official emblems and standardised quality of the monument, the names and dates I can verify in other public records, and so forth. There is no doubt and no room for doubt — not even an “infinitesimally small” doubt — that the event memorialised actually happened. I have used the example of the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor as an example of such an empirically grounded historical event for which there is no room at all to doubt that it happened.
It does not follow that because something is not part of our immediate experience, that it happened in the past, that there is necessarily some room for doubt about its past reality. Is there room for any doubt about the reality of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Or of the events known as the Holocaust? Or of the displacement of indigenous peoples by white settlers in certain countries throughout the nineteenth century? We have records that we can test for authenticity and that confirm these events of the past. There is no room for any doubts at all. They are all empirically established facts of the past. We can prove they all happened without any shadow of doubt.
The further back we go, generally speaking, the fewer remains we have of past events and the less we know. But what we do know is based on the same kinds of verifiable empirical evidence. (I am speaking generally. Sometimes hoaxers, for example, planted forgeries with the intent to deceive. But those sorts of examples only highlight the need for care we take as a rule to authenticate our sources.)
Humans have the ability to communicate information along with ways of assuring others of its authenticity. Being human, we know how easy it is to be deceived and for others to practise deception. Hence we build safeguards and apply empirical methods to establish authenticity and assurance.
When historians research the events of the past, as a rule they are researching events that have been empirically determined to have happened. They are seeking to understand those events. Different historians will have different views about those events but the events themselves will be empirically determined to have happened. (Yes, there are some grey areas where doubts are raised but I am speaking generally, for the most part.)
Where the Historical Problem Enters
If after I have empirically established the reality of the event of Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor, I still have a giant gap in my knowledge. What is missing is not complete assurance that it happened — I have full assurance that it happened — but I do not know the reality of what it was like. I do not know all the details and I can only guess or imagine what the participants experienced. The event is gone. It no longer exists. It has to be reconstructed. That’s where my imagination enters, informed as best it can be by surviving records of the event. No reconstruction can ever recreate the event exactly as it happened. Every reconstruction must inevitably be partial and from a particular perspective.
That is the problem of historical knowledge per se. In the history wars in Australia, for example, different parties want to reconstruct past events relating to the Aboriginals differently. Some want to see the killings as the work of a few “bad apples” and far from systematic. Others believe it is necessary to introduce other sources that point to racist attitudes that enabled the killings. Some debate the relevance and interpretations of those new sources. And so forth. That is where the historical debates tend to happen. There is no question that certain events did actually take place. Arguments will often centre over the physical extent of those events, the motivations or awareness of those involved, etc.
Some can view the British and Roman empires of blessings to humanity. Some will view them as horrific blights on history. Others will have various shades in between. But that there were such empires in history cannot be doubted any more than you can doubt that you are reading these words right now. The empirical evidence for them leaves no room for doubt.
Empirically established knowledge is not the same as Bayesian probabilistic knowledge.
A few readers have indicated to me that my recent series of posts on the problematic use of Bayes Theorem for assessing “historical claims” have failed to make their intended point.
Hopefully here I can succinctly explain why Bayes cannot help us decide whether Christianity began with a historical Jesus.
Reason #1: If our question is simply, Did Jesus Exist? then it is meaningless. What is of interest is the question of how Christianity originated. What might Jesus have done that gave birth to the Christian religion? What did others do during the time of Jesus or after him that shaped or established Christianity? Those are the meaningful questions. Simply saying Jesus did or did not exist is somewhat pointless — unless, perhaps, one wants a negative answer in order to irritate believers.
Reason #2: If by using Bayes one concludes that Jesus “probably did not exist” then again, we have to ask, So what? If it appears unlikely that he existed then after weighing up the probabilities on the basis of the various strands of data, that tells the historian nothing useful at all. Simply saying that Jesus fits the pattern of mythical persons, if that’s where Bayesian inference leads, does not answer the question of whether he existed or not. Simply saying that there is, say, an 80% chance he did not exist still leaves open the possibility that he did exist. So what has been achieved? Nothing useful for the historian at all. Likewise, calculating that there is an 80% chance that he did exist would still leave open the possibility that he did not. The historian is no better off with either result.
I suspect King Philip II of Spain saw the odds of his Spanish Armada crushing the English fleet as overwhelmingly high. The odds against an event happening are irrelevant are irrelevant if they happen. And many times the unexpected and “out of the blue” does happen in history. That they may have been judged to have been unlikely at the time makes no difference to the fact that they happened and are part of the historical record.
Most historical events are “unlikely” or unforeseen until after they happen. After they happen commentators and the rest of us can see how “inevitable” they were. We can always predict what will happen after it happens. Carrier’s mythicist hypothesis can predict the type of evidence the historian will find after the hypothesis was originally formulated on the basis of that evidence. One might look at any number of events in the past and ask, What was the likelihood of X happening? The chances that I will be struck by lightning are very slim indeed. But if I were to be struck by lightning this weekend — stormy weather appears to be approaching — the odds against it happening will mean absolutely nothing against the fact (fingers crossed it won’t be a fact) that it “happened”! Odds against something happening are meaningless when investigating “what did happen”.
We don’t need Bayesian calculations to decide whether there was a Roman empire, or whether its emperors were worshiped as deities, or whether the Roman power destroyed the Jewish temple in 70 CE. The kind of evidence we have for the “raw facts” of the past, including who lived and who did what, are grounded in the same kinds of judgments we make in testing the authenticity of modern claims, whether they be events reported in the news or checking the reliability of advertised claims about a product that interests us. Some of us are less careful with respect to such matters than is healthy and easily believe false claims, present and past. When a historian is interested in whether “new facts” can be dug up to throw new light on a question, it is to the archives, to official records, to diaries and letters and reports of various kinds that they turn. These are tested for authenticity and reliability. If there is doubt about any detail it is more likely to find its way into publication by way of a footnote — with its questionable status clearly noted.
The only justifiable approach to reconstructing Christian origins is to build on the sources we have and on what we know about them — not on what we surmise about them. That approach will not allow us to join in the games of imagining what Jesus and his followers may have done. (We have stories of Jesus and we cannot assume — without justification that would pass the test in any other field of sound empirical inquiry — that they must be based on true events.) We will not have the wealth of details we would like if we avoid make-believe games. But the professional will not apologize for tailoring the question and scope of inquiry to accord with the extent and nature of the source material.
Sure, there is room for Bayesian probability when it comes to drawing certain kinds of inferences from archaeological data or for comparing the likelihood of competing hypotheses, but claiming that so-and-so did or did not exist is by itself a rather meaningless exercise for the reason I stated above.
(See also the section of my earlier post pointing out that not even postmodernist historians work with “what probably happened“.)
To address one specific point I referred to in my recent series: It may well be that one can find in literature more mythical persons who fit a Rank-Raglan hero type, but that is irrelevant to the fact that some historical persons did resurface in later literature wearing Rank-Raglan features (born of a virgin, died on a hill, etc). But even Raglan himself understood that the historicity of a figure was unrelated to the fact that fanciful tales were later told about him or her. If Jesus scores more highly than other historical figures on the R-R scale, so be it: such a “fact” would have no bearing whatever on whether or not he might have been historical. Ask Raglan himself.
Next, he devised a thought experiment, a 1700s version of a computer simulation. Stripping the problem to its basics, Bayes imagined a square table so level that a ball thrown on it would have the same chance of landing on one spot as on any other. Subsequent generations would call his construction a billiard table, but as a Dissenting minister Bayes would have disapproved of such games, and his experiment did not involve balls bouncing off table edges or colliding with one another. As he envisioned it, a ball rolled randomly on the table could stop with equal probability anywhere.
We can imagine him sitting with his back to the table so he cannot see anything on it. On a piece of paper he draws a square to represent the surface of the table. He begins by having an associate toss an imaginary cue ball onto the pretend tabletop. Because his back is turned, Bayes does not know where the cue ball has landed.
Next, we picture him asking his colleague to throw a second ball onto the table and report whether it landed to the right or left of the cue ball. If to the left, Bayes realizes that the cue ball is more likely to sit toward the right side of the table. Again Bayes’ friend throws the ball and reports only whether it lands to the right or left of the cue ball. If to the right, Bayes realizes that the cue can’t be on the far right-hand edge of the table.
He asks his colleague to make throw after throw after throw; gamblers and mathematicians already knew that the more times they tossed a coin, the more trustworthy their conclusions would be. What Bayes discovered is that, as more and more balls were thrown, each new piece of information made his imaginary cue ball wobble back and forth within a more limited area.
As an extreme case, if all the subsequent tosses fell to the right of the first ball, Bayes would have to conclude that it probably sat on the far left-hand margin of his table. By contrast, if all the tosses landed to the left of the first ball, it probably sat on the far right. Eventually, given enough tosses of the ball, Bayes could narrow the range of places where the cue ball was apt to be.
Bayes’ genius was to take the idea of narrowing down the range of positions for the cue ball and—based on this meager information—infer that it had landed somewhere between two bounds. This approach could not produce a right answer. Bayes could never know precisely where the cue ball landed, but he could tell with increasing confidence that it was most probably within a particular range. Bayes’ simple, limited system thus moved from observations about the world back to their probable origin or cause. Using his knowledge of the present (the left and right positions of the tossed balls), Bayes had figured out how to say something about the past (the position of the first ball). He could even judge how confident he could be about his conclusion. (p. 7)
In the late 1990s Earl Doherty revitalized public interest in the question of whether Jesus had been a historical figure with the Jesus Puzzle website (a new version is now available here) and book, The Jesus Puzzle (link is to a publicly available version — though Doherty subsequently published a much more detailed volume a few years later). In the wake of that controversy Richard Carrier undertook to examine the arguments for and against the existence of Jesus with the authority of a doctorate in ancient history behind him. To this end, Carrier initially published two works, the first, Proving History, laying the groundwork of the method he would be using to address the question of Jesus’ historicity, and then On the Historicity of Jesus, the volume in which he applied his Bayesian probability* approach to the question. In that second volume Carrier concluded that the odds against Jesus having existed were significantly higher than the opposing view.
Carrier regularly argued that the evidence to be found in the New Testament was predicted or could well have been predicted by the hypothesis that Jesus did not exist. As noted in my previous post, the term he used most often was “expected”, but he made clear in Proving History by “expectation” in this context he meant “predicted”.
Prediction or Circularity?
It would have been more accurate to have simply said that the evidence cited is consistent with the view that Jesus did not exist. The hypothesis did not “predict” any evidence. Indeed, one might even say that the hypothesis was drawn from the sources in the first place, so it is circular logic to then say that the hypothesis predicted the evidence that gave rise to that hypothesis.
Carrier’s stated aim is to form a
hypotheses that make[s] … substantial predictions. This will give us in each case a minimal theory, one that does not entail any ambitious or questionable claims . . . a theory substantial enough to test. (On the Historicity [henceforth = OHJ], 30 – bolding is my own in all quotations)
I argue, rather, that all Carrier has been able to accomplish is to show that a hypothesis is consistent with the data that it was created to explain. Historical research, as I have been attempting to show in the previous posts, cannot “predict” in the ways Carrier asserts.
Carrier begins with a “minimal Jesus myth theory”:
. . . the basic thesis of every competent mythicist, then and now, has always been that Jesus was originally a god, just like any other god (properly speaking, a demigod in pagan terms; an archangel in Jewish terms; in either sense, a deity), who was later historicized, just as countless other gods were, and that the Gospel of Mark (or Mark’s source) originated the Christian myth familiar to us by building up an edifying and symbolically meaningful tale for Jesus, drawing on passages from the Old Testament and popular literature, coupled with elements of revelation and pious inspiration. The manner in which Osiris came to be historicized, moving from being just a cosmic god to being given a whole narrative biography set in Egypt during a specific historical period, complete with collections of wisdom sayings he supposedly uttered, is still an apt model, if not by any means an exact one. Which is to say, it establishes a proof of concept. It is in essence what all mythicists are saying happened to Jesus.
Distilling all of this down to its most basic principles we get the following set of propositions:
1. At the origin of Christianity, Jesus Christ was thought to be a celestial deity much like any other.
2. Like many other celestial deities, this Jesus ‘communicated’ with his subjects only through dreams, visions and other forms of divine inspiration (such as prophecy, past and present).
3. Like some other celestial deities, this Jesus was originally believed to have endured an ordeal of incarnation, death, burial and resurrection in a supernatural realm.
4. As for many other celestial deities, an allegorical story of this same Jesus was then composed and told within the sacred community, which placed him on earth, in history, as a divine man, with an earthly family, companions, and enemies, complete with deeds and sayings, and an earthly depiction of his ordeals.
5. Subsequent communities of worshipers believed (or at least taught) that this invented sacred story was real (and either not allegorical or only ‘additionally’ allegorical).
That all five propositions are true shall be my minimal Jesus myth theory. (OHJ 52f)
By explaining that his “minimal myth theory” consists of the core of what Jesus myth exponents themselves have claimed, Carrier in fact is conceding that his “minimal” points are based on the information available in the sources that he will proceed to say he will “expect” to find, or to “predict” will be in the sources. (Earl Doherty, in particular, was Carrier’s source for the interpretation that Jesus was originally understood to be a deity in heaven rather than a man on earth.)
Now those mythicists such as Earl Doherty arrived at their concept of a mythical Jesus in large measure as a result of analysing and drawing conclusions directly from the New Testament itself as well as from extra-biblical sources. So when Carrier declares that the evidence in the New Testament is what his “minimal Jesus myth theory” “expected” or “predicted”, he is in effect reasoning in a circle. The mythicist view of Doherty (and of many other earlier mythicists) was based on his reading of the New Testament. So the passages in the New Testament can hardly have been what would be “expected” according to mythicism; rather, they were the beginning of the “theory”, not its expected conclusion.
The approach as Carrier sets it out sounds scientific enough ….
We have to ask of each piece of evidence:
1. How likely is it that we would have this evidence if our hypothesis is true? (Is this evidence expected? How expected?)
2. How likely is it that the evidence would look like it does if our hypothesis is true? (Instead of looking differently; having a different content, for example.)
3. Conversely, how likely is it that we would have this evidence if the other hypothesis is true? (Again, is this evidence expected? How expected?)
4. And how likely is it that the evidence would look like it does if that other hypothesis is true? (Instead of looking differently; having a different content, for example.)
And when asking these questions, the ‘evidence’ includes not just what we have, but also what we don’t have. Does the evidence—what we have and what we don’t, what it says and what it doesn’t—make more sense on one hypothesis than the other? How much more? That’s the question. (OHJ, 278)
But the problem is that all of those questions were raised and fully addressed by Earl Doherty and others when they formulated their view that, on the basis of their answers to those questions, Jesus was a mythical creation and not a historical figure. So to turn around and begin with the conclusions of mythicists to say that the evidence we find in the New Testament is exactly what we would expect according to mythicism, is to simply work backwards from what the mythicists have done in the first place.
In other words, there is no prediction of what one might find in the evidence. There is no “expectation” that we might find such and such sort of idea. Rather, the sources themselves have long raised the kinds of questions that have led to the mythicist theory in the first place.
Example 1: Clement’s Letter
Look at the example of Carrier’s reference to the letter of 1 Clement:
The fact that this lengthy document fully agrees with the expectations of minimal mythicism, but looks very strange on any version of historicity, makes this evidence for the former against the latter. . . . [O]n minimal mythicism this is exactly the kind of letter we would expect to be written in the first century entails that its consequent probability on mythicism is 100% (or near enough). (OHJ, 314f – italics in the original in all quotations)
But Doherty’s mythicist view was shaped by such evidence. So the characteristics of Clement’s letter are what lay behind the mythicist view, so it is erroneous to say that the letter is what we would expect if mythicism were true. Doherty, for example, notes
Clement must be unfamiliar with Jesus’ thoughts in the same vein, as presented in Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount and Luke’s Sermon on the Plain. Clement also shows himself to be unfamiliar with the Gospel teachings of Jesus on many other topics discussed in his letter.
When Clement comes to describe Jesus’ suffering (ch.16) we must assume that he has no Gospel account to paraphrase or quote from memory, for he simply reproduces Isaiah 53. His knowledge of Jesus’ passion comes from scripture. Clement’s ignorance on other Gospel elements has been noted at earlier points in this book. . . .
Since Clement knows so little of oral traditions about Jesus . . . .
We have seen in the Pauline letters that the heavenly Christ was regarded as giving instructions to prophets through revelation. Clement shares in the outlook that sees Christ’s voice as residing in scripture. . . .
In Clement’s world, these things have come to be associated with revelations from the spiritual Christ. . . (Jesus Puzzle, 261f)
The oddities in the letter of Clement have piqued the curiosity of those who have seen in them support for the mythicist view of Jesus. The mythicist view of Jesus does not “predict” that such a letter would exist. It is the other way around.
Example 2: Extra-Biblical Sources
Notice another instance of this circularity.
When it came to the pervasive silence in other external documents (Christian and non-Christian), and the lack of many otherwise expected documents, I assigned no effect either way (although sterner skeptics might think that far too generous to minimal historicity). . . .
The probabilities here estimated assume that nothing about the extrabiblical evidence is unexpected on minimal mythicism. So the consequent probability of all this extrabiblical evidence on … (minimal mythicism) can be treated as 100% across the board . . . . Either way, as a whole, the extrabiblical evidence argues against a historical Jesus. It’s simply hard to explain all its oddities on minimal historicity, but not hard at all on minimal mythicism. (OHJ, 356, 358)
On the contrary, it is the extra-biblical sources that have been in part responsible for generating doubts about the historicity of Jesus ever since at least the early nineteenth century. If the extra-biblical evidence were different then the question of Jesus’ historicity is unlikely to have arisen in the first place.
I have no quibble with Carrier’s last two sentences in the above quotation if they are taken alone, without the context of “expectation/prediction”. What they are really confirming is that the available evidence is consistent with the mythicist view, not that it is predicted by mythicism.
Example 3: Expected Fiction?
In discussing one particular miraculous event in the life of Jesus Carrier concludes:
As history, all this entails an improbable plethora of coincidences; but as historical fiction, it’s exactly what we’d expect. (OHJ, 487)
In this case what is said to be “expected” is nothing more than a definition of the nature of fiction. The unbelievable coincidences define the story as fiction. They are not the expected observation of something already known to be fiction. They are the fiction.
Example 4: Paul’s Letters
The foundation of all Jesus myth views from Arthur Drews and Paul-Louis Couchoud to George Albert Wells and Earl Doherty has been the epistles of Paul. The questions raised by what Paul does not say and the ways he speaks in what he has to say have raised perennial questions among theologians so there is no surprise to find many passages becoming bedrock among mythicist arguments. So to say that those passages in Paul are what might be predicted by mythicism is getting everything back to front. Those passages are largely the foundation of the mythicist views, the port from which mythicism sailed, not the new continent of evidence it discovered or “expected”.
Again Carrier phrases the problem in terms of “prediction” of what one will find in the sources:
So even if, for example, a passage is 90% expected on history (and thus very probable in that case), if that same passage is 100% expected on myth, then that evidence argues for myth . . . .This is often hard for historians to grasp, because they typically have not studied logic and don’t usually know the logical basis for any of their modes of reasoning . . . .
I have to conclude the evidence of the Epistles, on all we presently know, is simply improbable on h (minimal historicity), but almost exactly what we expect on -h (minimal mythicism). . . .
Paul claimed these things came to him by revelation, another thing we expect on mythicism. . . .
On the [mythicism] theory, this is pretty much exactly what we’d expect Paul to write. . . .
This passage in Romans is therefore improbable on minimal historicity, but exactly what we could expect on minimal mythicism. . . .
Whereas this is all 100% expected on minimal mythicism.
The evidence of the Epistles is exactly 100% expected on minimal mythicism. . . In fact, these are pretty much exactly the kind of letters we should expect to now have from Paul (and the other authors as well) if minimal mythicism is true. (OHJ, 513, 528, 536, 566, 573, 574, 595)
Predicting or Matching the Evidence?
So Carrier is able to conclude,
All the evidence is effectively 100%, what we could expect if Jesus didn’t exist and minimal mythicism, as defined [above], is true. (OHJ, 597)
On the contrary, I suggest that many readers have noticed that the sources contain difficulties if we assume Jesus to have lived in the real world outside the gospels. It is from those “difficulties” that are apparently inconsistent with a historical figure that the Jesus myth view has arisen. By proposing to “test” the mythicist view by setting up “expectations” of what we will find in the sources really comes down to merely confirming the problematic passages in the sources that gave rise to the myth view in the first place.
What Carrier is doing, I suggest, is simply describing the sources that have given rise to doubts about the existence of Jesus. There is no prediction involved at all. He is describing the state of the evidence and showing how it is consistent with his “minimal Jesus myth theory”, something all other Jesus myth scholars before him have done — only without the veneer of scientific assurance.
Historians as a rule cannot predict what will be found in the available sources that might test their hypotheses. They usually do no more than point to what they believe to be consistent with their hypotheses.
The Rank-Raglan Hero Class and Prediction Therefrom
In the opening post of this series I addressed Carrier’s use of the Rank-Raglan “hero class” as a conceptual framework for certain types of persons in ancient myths and legends. There I noted that it is misleading to apply a percentage probability figure to Jesus (or anyone) being a member of that class because the total number of persons sharing the features of that class are well below 100. This is more than a pedantic point. The numbers of characters are not only limited, but they belong to distinctively unique cultural settings. This is the nature of all historical events. No two events are ever alike and no events are ever repeated except in the most general sense. Yes, there have been wars forever, but no two wars are ever alike. Each has had its own causes that are unrepeatable.
Here are the twenty-one names studied by Raglan as sharing a features (born from a virgin, nothing of his childhood is known, etc) from a second list of random length (Raglan said he could have added many more common features — see the earlier post):
Oedipus
Theseus
Romulus
Heracles
Perseus
Jason
Bellerophon
Pelops
Asclepios
Dionysos
Apollo
Zeus
Joseph
Moses
Elijah
Watu Gunung
Nyikang
Sigurd or Siegfried
Llew Llawgyffes
Arthur
Robin Hood
We know that historical persons have been associated with mythical stories overlapping with the lives of those in the above list: Sargon, Cyrus, Alexander the Great, even Plato was said to have been born from a virgin mother, fathered by the god Apollo. But those mythical or “hero class” features of Cyrus and Alexander are quite distinct from the actual historical person; that fantastical myths have been told about real people makes no difference to the reality of those historical persons. As Raglan himself declared:
If, however, we take any really historical person, and make a clear distinction between what history tells us of him and what tradition tells us, we shall find that tradition, far from being supplementary to history, is totally unconnected with it, and that the hero of history and the hero of tradition are really two quite different persons, though they may bear the same name. (The Hero, 165)
If historical persons are known to have accrued mythical features of the Rank-Raglan type, then it does not follow that any person about whom such tales are told is likely to have not existed in reality. Simply counting up so many features (e.g. born of a virgin, attempt on his life as a child, etc) and saying “real myths” had more of those features than historical persons does not make any difference. Adding up more “hero class” labels to apply to any one person would be nothing more than evidence of more highly creative composers. Moreover, such fanciful tales appear to be born from the minds of the literate at a specific time and are not haphazard accretions of illiterate storytelling:
If biblical scholars took note of Raglan’s point here about such myths being literary and not popular in origin they would need to take a second hard look at their attempts to find the historical Jesus through oral traditions and memory theory, since oral traditions and memory theory are built on the assumption that the tales were of popular origin.
It should . . . be noted that this association of myths with historical characters is literary and not popular. There is no evidence that illiterates ever attach myths to real persons. The mythical stories told of English kings and queens—Alfred and the cakes, Richard I and Blondel, Queen Eleanor and Fair Rosamund, Queen Margaret and the robber, and so on—seem to have been deliberately composed; a well-known character and an old story were considered more interesting when combined. . . .
“From the researchers of J. Bedier upon the epic personages of William of Orange, Girard de Rousillon, Ogier the Dane, Raoul de Cambrai, Roland, and many other worthies, it emerges that they do not correspond in any way with what historical documents teach us of their alleged real prototypes.” (The Hero, 172, 174 — the latter citing A. van Gennep)
The conclusion we must draw is that the miraculous tales told about Jesus are at most evidence of the creative imaginations of literate classes. Whether a Jesus existed historically behind these tales is still quite possible and the mythical tales about him make no difference to that possibility. Tales are indeed told of historical persons that “do not correspond in any way” with the true historical figure. The only aspect in common seems to have been their name. If Jesus has more and more amazing tales told about him than others it follows that literate story tellers were more abundant or creative than for other figures. Such tales tell us nothing about the likelihood of his historicity.
I conclude that it is erroneous to use the Rank-Raglan hero class to indicate a prior probability of whether Jesus existed or not. Every situation in history is different. If the Greeks had many heroes of a certain type, and if the tales told about Jesus shared many tropes of those Greek heroes, it might mean nothing more than that very fanciful tales were told about Jesus that caused the “real Jesus” to be lost behind the world of myth. Many theologians would agree. In other words, the historian cannot make predictions based on probabilities to determine how likely any historical event or person might have been. Historical events and persons are contingent. They are all distinctive and unrepeatable. They either happen or exist or they do not. Or the researcher simply does not know if they did or not. Probability does not enter the discussion.
The Evidence: Expected or Known in Advance?
What Carrier calls “expected evidence” is, rather, a description of what has been with us (and Jesus myth researchers) from the beginning. The state of evidence gave rise to certain questions that led to suspicions that Jesus was not a historical figure. So returning to that evidence and saying that the myth notion “predicted” the state of that evidence is a misplaced project.
Try to imagine, if you can, that you have never heard of Christianity. Try to imagine what a new ancient religion would look like if it combined features of Greco-Roman mystery cults and some form of Judaism. If you had never heard of Christianity would you really imagine a religion that turned out to be very much like Christianity? I doubt it. You might postulate a series of angelic beings or just one of them, or a translated Enoch, in the distant mythical past turned into saviour deities in some fashion. You would surely see little reason to introduce a human deity in recent times. Yet Carrier concludes his major study on the historicity of Jesus with the conviction that his hypothesis predicted (or “could have predicted”) the beginnings of Christianity:
So we should actually have expected Jewish culture to find a way to integrate the same idea; after all, every other national culture was doing so. And this is where we have to look at the possibilities in light of what we now know. Had I been born in the year 1 and was asked as a young educated man what a Jewish mystery religion would look like, based on what I knew of the common features of mystery cult and the strongest features of Judaism, I could have described Christianity to you in almost every relevant particular—before it was even invented. It would involve the worship of a mythical-yet-historicized personal savior, a son of god, who suffered a death and resurrection, by which he obtained salvation for those who communed with his spirit, thereby becoming a fictive brotherhood, through baptism and the sharing of sacred meals. How likely is it that I could predict that if that wasn’t in fact how it came to pass? Influence is the only credible explanation. To propose it was a coincidence is absurd. (OHJ, 611)
It is very easy to predict the current state of the evidence that has been with us from the beginning. Prediction in hindsight is easy. It is so easy to know what to have expected after the event. We only have to compare the many predictions that the recent US elections would be a tight race between Kamala Harris and Donald Trump. After the election it was easy to look back and see what we “should have expected” and why.
Jesus either existed or he did not. If he existed it was not with a probability of less than 1. If he existed he existed 100%. If we can’t be sure he existed then we are not sure or we cannot know. If we cannot know we cannot say he may have existed at a 30% probability. That would make no sense if he existed. If the historian does not know for sure then the historian does not know. The historian may say it is likely or not likely he existed, but that still leaves the question unanswered. Those are the fundamental options with respect to any historical event — it either happened or it didn’t or we have no evidence or at best ambiguous evidence for it happening.
Don’t get me wrong. I like Bayes’ theorem. It is a brilliant tool at doing what it was designed to do. But historical research is not a science and few historians, maybe a few die-hard stubborn empiricist historians, would claim it is a science that can predict what will be found in the sources or even sometimes what will happen in the future. Historical events are unique. The justified historical approach to the question of Jesus is to study the Jesus bequeathed to us in the surviving sources. Whether a historical figure behind the myth and theology historically existed is an unknown and unknowable question, and, I think, ultimately irrelevant.
Carrier, Richard. On the Historicity of Jesus: Why We Might Have Reason for Doubt. Sheffield Phoenix, 2014.
Doherty, Earl. The Jesus Puzzle: Did Christianity Begin with a Mythical Christ? Canadian Humanist Publications, 1999.
Rank, Otto, Raglan, and Alan Dundes. In Quest of the Hero. Mythos. Princeton University Press, 1990.
For Richard Carrier the methods of scientific and historical research overlap and are different from each other only in degree:
Science and history are thus inseparable. But the logic of their respective methods is also the same. The fact that historical theories rest on far weaker evidence relative to scientific theories, and as a result achieve far lower degrees of certainty, is a difference only in degree, not in kind. Historical theories otherwise operate the same way as scientific theories, inferring predictions from empirical evidence—both actual predictions as well as hypothetical. (Proving History, 48)
Here I believe Carrier is mistaken about both the historian’s and the scientist’s methods. If there is any consolation it may be found in learning that the nineteenth philosopher John Stuart Mill made the same mistake in his attempt to describe scientific method and Mill was followed in the social sciences for many decades.
What Is a Scientific Theory?
Scientific theories do not arise naturally from observing empirical evidence:
Timing the fall of a variety of objects such as leaves, paper, cannon balls, rocks, boards, and automobiles running off cliffs has little (if any) utility for the development of a useful theory of falling bodies. One could run correlations between the weight of such objects and their time of fall for many lifetimes without ever accumulating the sort of knowledge conducive to theoretical thinking about falling bodies. (Systematic Empiricism, 29f)
Albert Einstein himself wrote:
. . . theory cannot be fabricated out of the results of observation . . . (Systematic Empiricism, 103)
In these posts I am presenting my view of “what history is” and “how history is done” that is at odds with Carrier’s empiricism. I reject the notion that the most historians can say about any past event is that it “probably” happened. Carrier makes his position clear early in Proving History:
If anyone rejects my axioms, then no further dialogue is possible on this issue until there is agreement on the broader logical and philosophical issues they represent. Producing such agreement is not the point of this book, which is only written for those who already accept these axioms (or who at least agree they should). . . .
Axiom 4: Every claim has a nonzero probability of being true or false (unless its being true or false is logically impossible). . . .
All claims have a nonzero epistemic probability of being true, no matter how absurd they may be (unless they’re logically impossible or unintelligible), because we can always be wrong about anything. . . .
Therefore, because we only have finite knowledge and are not infallible, apart from obviously undeniable things, some probability always remains that we are mistaken or misinformed or misled. . . . And although the probability that a given claim is true (or false) may be vanishingly small and thus practically zero, it is never actually zero. It’s vital to admit this.
(pp 20, 23, 24, 25 – my bolding apart from “Axiom 4”)
I do reject this axiom. Even though I am not omniscient or infallible, it does not follow that there might be even the slightest chance that I am wrong to believe many historical events did indeed happen: the English, American, French, Russian revolutions, for example, or the Seven Years War, the Napoleonic War, World War I, or in the past reality of figures like Winston Churchill, Oliver Cromwell, Martin Luther, or Julius Caesar. That many Jews, communists, Roma and disabled were murdered under Hitler’s regime in an event known as the Holocaust is as undeniable as the fact that you are reading these words right now. Probability does not enter the historicity of these events at all. Probability enters only with respect to justifying interpretations, reasons, results or the scale of such events. They happened and our knowledge that they happened or existed is absolutely certain. We don’t need to know everything about them to have absolute confidence; the possibility that we are mistaken in our assurance that these things happened or that these persons existed really is zero.
So my intention is to place my contrary perspective on history — one that I think is accepted by the majority of professional historians — for consideration as another point of view from Carrier’s.
So what is a scientific theory, then, and how does it come about?
Scientific theory is concerned with concepts, terms not defined by reference to observation, which consequently enter into exact theoretical relations with one another which are often expressed mathematically. . . . The purpose of theory in science is to explain, predict, and guide new research. But empiricist social theorizing consists of nothing more than generalizing, a process which summarizes what has been observed. A summary of past observations, however, cannot explain and predict, and accuracy cannot be gained from vagueness. . . .
The creation of a useful theory requires the abstraction of a pure structural model from the diverse material of observation. In other words, abstraction does not proceed by summarizing observations, but by generating a nonobservational structure which deliberately does not summarize. The abstractive process, because it links theory to observation, is never complete without both. Theory, on the other hand, can be applied only through abstraction.
A theory is a constructed relational statement consisting of nonobservable concepts connected to other nonobservable concepts. Concepts are defined not in terms of observations but by their relationship to each other. Although it may be meaningful to state “There is a cow,” the statement “There is a force” is senseless because force is not an observable. Conversely, the statement “Force is equal to mass times acceleration” is meaningful because nonobservable concepts can be related through mathematical connectives; but the statement “Cow equals four legs” is meaningless because observational terms cannot be so related. In other words, the truth of scientific theories is not an empirical truth based on observation; it is a consequence of form, the relationship of nonobservables. (Systematic Empiricism, 3, 24 – my bolding in all quotations)
No historian, nor indeed any social scientist, has ever produced a theory of the scientific kind to explain and predict social and historical events. Scientific theories and research have . . .
. . . resulted in explanation and prediction of phenomena . . .
but they have done so
through the rational cumulation of laws. (Systematic Empiricism, 6)
Theories and laws provide the framework through which the physical world is understood by the scientist.
What Carrier is doing is describing the data available to historians and drawing generalizations from subsets of it. Finding more data that is consistent with other known data does not involve making a prediction. It is simply describing the information we acquire from the data.
Can Historians Make Predictions?
Carrier argues that historians, like scientists, can make predictions on the basis of their “theories”:
And just as a geologist can make valid predictions about the future of the Mississippi River, so a historian can make valid (but still general) predictions about the future course of history, if the same relevant conditions are repeated (such prediction will be statistical, of course, and thus more akin to prediction in the sciences of meteorology and seismology, but such inexact predictions are still much better than random guessing). Hence, historical explanations of evidence and events are directly equivalent to scientific theories, and as such are testable against the evidence, precisely because they make predictions about that evidence.
In truth, science is actually subordinate to history, as it relies on historical documents and testimony for most of its conclusions (especially historical records of past experiments, observations, and data). Yet, at the same time, history relies on scientific findings to interpret historical evidence and events. Science and history are thus inseparable. But the logic of their respective methods is also the same. The fact that historical theories rest on far weaker evidence relative to scientific theories, and as a result achieve far lower degrees of certainty, is a difference only in degree, not in kind. Historical theories otherwise operate the same way as scientific theories, inferring predictions from empirical evidence—both actual predictions as well as hypothetical. Because actual predictions (such as that the content of Julius Caesar’s Civil War represents Caesar’s own personal efforts at political propaganda) and hypothetical predictions (such as that if we discover in the future any lost writings from the age of Julius Caesar, they will confirm or corroborate our predictions about how the content of the Civil War came about) both follow from historical theories. This is disguised by the fact that these are more commonly called ‘explanations.’ But theories are what they are. (Proving History, 47f)
What Carrier refers to as a prediction by a historian is really nothing more than a description of the relevant data found in the sources. A hypothesis formulated from the data can hardly claim to predict what is in the dataset. Rather, the hypothesis is tested for consistency with the data, but that’s not a prediction. In On the Historicity of Jesus Carrier regularly refers to what he finds in the sources as being “expected” by his hypothesis that Jesus was a mythical creation and not a historical person. I suggest, however, that the very notion of a “mythical” Jesus has arisen from a raft of studies on the question ever since the late eighteenth century and has been shaped by those studies and their interpretations of the New Testament. Carrier says, for example, on page 581 of On the Historicity that the idea that Jesus came from the seed of David — as per Romans 1:3 — could have been predicted by his hypothesis of mythicism:
So Paul’s reference to Jesus being ‘made’ (genomenos) of the ‘seed’ (sperma) of David and being ‘made’ (genomenos) from a woman are essentially expected on minimal mythicism . . . .
Instead, if we start with minimal mythicism, we can easily predict the original kernel to most likely have been that Jesus was indeed made from a celestial sperm that God snatched from David, by which God could fulfill his promise to David against the appearance of history having broken it. That this fits what we read in Paul therefore leaves us with no evidence that Paul definitely meant anything else. . . .
Minimal mythicism practically entails that the celestial Christ would be understood to have been formed from the ‘sperm of David’, even literally (God having saved some for the purpose, then using it as the seed from which he formed Jesus’ body of flesh, just as he had done Adam’s). I do not deem this to be absolutely certain. Yet I could have deduced it even without knowing any Christian literature, simply by combining minimal mythicism with a reading of the scriptures and the established background facts of previous history. And that I could do that entails it has a very high probability on minimal mythicism. It is very much expected. (On the Historicity, 581f)
In Proving History Carrier speaks of the historian’s hypothesis being able to predict “what type of evidence to expect” — that is, the evidence that his hypothesis “predicts”:
. . . the evidence we have is exactly what we should expect if the story was made up . . .
Specifying the ‘type’ of evidence to expect in this way allows wide ranges of possible outcomes . . . .
One must thus distinguish ‘predictions of exact details’ (which BT does not concern itself with in this case) from ‘predictions regarding the type of evidence to expect.’ . . .
. . . the evidence can fit our hypothesis fine, being entirely what we should expect . . .
It’s sufficient to construct h to make . . . generic predictions (predictions of what type of evidence to expect) (On the Historicity, 58, 77, 78, 167, 214)
Leaving aside the tautology (expectation is a kind of prediction, isn’t it? — Carrier means “predictions of what type of evidence we will find”) I suggest that the only reason Carrier could “predict” finding a text saying Jesus came from the seed of David is because he knew it was in the database to begin with and that he could not formulate a hypothesis about a nonhistorical Jesus that contradicted it. Indeed, his starting hypothesis had to allow room for what he knew to be in the database. Romans 1:3 had been widely discussed and debated among both Jesus mythicists and Jesus historicists by generations of scholars. That there is no real prediction involved can be assessed by a Bayesian analysis itself. We have historical records testifying to Judeans entertaining a wide range of notions about the messiah or similar figure to come and relatively few seemed to have made the same “prediction” Carrier speaks of:
Some used Scriptures to argue he would come from Joseph, not David.
Some used the same Scriptures to determine there would be two messiahs.
Some said that no-one would know his genealogy.
Some said he would be hidden and no-one would know where he was.
The canonical gospels even indicate some debate among early Christians over whether he really was descended from David or not.
And on top of all of that a few scholars have offered reasons to think that the relevant passage in Paul’s letter to the Romans about Jesus and the seed of David was a late interpolation — that is, that Paul did not write it anyway!
If John the Baptist could be said to have fulfilled the prophecy that Elijah was to appear again beforehand by “coming in the spirit and power of Elijah”, why could not someone say something similar of the messiah, that he would come in the “spirit and power of David”? Some scholar have said there were Judeans who did hold such a view of the future Messiah.
So the sources themselves tell us that there were many notions about a future messianic figure and only a few of them linked that figure to David, so by relying on our “background knowledge” of messianic predictions we would have to say that a Bayesian assessment of the hypothesis that Paul’s claim could have been genuinely “predicted” is that it is unlikely.
As if to underscore the pointlessness of Carrier’s “prediction” that Paul’s passage was of a kind of evidence that was foreseen by Carrier’s hypothesis, he concedes that the same passage could be predicted with twice the probability of being found by the opposing hypothesis (p. 581). Of course, Carrier also argues that the cumulation of evidence and attendant probabilities outweighs mathematically the success rate of all the other “predictions” of the Jesus historicists.
Nothing is predicted or explained if the event itself is more certain than the law supposedly explaining it. The event is a test of the statement, not a prediction from it. (Systematic Empiricism, 130)
I covered other aspects of this question of prediction in historical research in the previous two posts.
Experimental Testing
Carrier further equates history with science by pointing out that both fields do sometimes perform experiments to test theories.
Historical methods are identical to scientific methods in this respect, being just another set of iterations of [the Hypothetico-Deductive Method]. In fact, many sciences are historical, for example, geology, cosmology, paleontology, criminal forensics, all of which explore not merely scientific generalizations but historical particulars, such as when the Big Bang occurred, or how the solar system formed, or exactly when or where a large asteroid struck the earth, or when a volcano erupted and what resulted from it, or what happened to a specific species in a specific historical period, or who committed what crime when. Not even the claim that historians must deal with human thoughts and intentions makes a difference, as these are as much a necessary occupation of psychologists, economists, sociologists, and anthropologists. It’s also fundamental to the scientific study of game theory and all of cognitive science. Nor is there any demarcation based on the role of controlled experiments. Much of science does not rely on experiments but primarily involves field observations (e.g., astronomy, zoology, ecology, paleontology), an approach to evidence directly analogous to the historian (most clearly parallel in the science of archaeology, but “field observations” of the artifacts we call “texts” and “documents” is just as analogous). Conversely, experiments sometimes do have a place in historical methodology.10
The examples on the linked page contain a discussion of what a certain type of ancient Greek ship actually looked like and how it might have functioned. Not only historians are often fascinated by what techniques ancients might have employed for all sorts of things. But those kinds of experiments are not the kind that relate to the kinds of events that interest most historians. We cannot replicate and experiment conditions of human behaviour to test this or that explanation for, say, a war. To refer back to J. and D. Willer,
Empiricist induction is based on likeness, but lab experiments are by definition unlike natural cases and thus any inductions from them for application in social circumstances are illegitimate. . . . Only the field experiment is logically capable of generating results satisfying the systematic empiricists’ criteria and then only if the empirical power of the researcher is strong enough to effectively (or absolutely) control the empirical circumstances. But until sociologists become philosopher kings or are delegated total power over the environment of their experiments by a totalitarian government, the field experiment is as useless as the others. (Systematic Empiricism, 135f)
Does the Hypothetico-Deductive Method Make Prediction Possible?
As for the value of the hypothetico-deductive method for making predictions,
. . . “Pure logic” cannot draw necessary conclusions by deduction from inductive general statements. The only general statements which can lead to true necessary conclusions in pure logic are those which are “true” by definition, and these are nonpredictive. If it is true by definition that all swans are white we simply do not admit the existence of black swans but call those birds which look like swans but are black by some other name (“snaws”). We cannot predict that if we find a swan he will be white but we will call “swans” only birds which we observe to be white. (Systematic Empiricism, 126)
Consequently . . .
Consequently no empirical generalization can act as a major premise in a deductive explanation, and empirical generalizations can never be used deductively to explain or predict. . . .
Scientific explanation cannot be deductive because scientific laws are statements relating nonobservable concepts, such as force, mass, and acceleration in terms of nonobservable connectives such as an equivalence or an equals sign. (Systematic Empiricism, 130f)
In 1942 the Journal of Philosophy published a paper arguing, like Carrier seventy years later, that historical methods were scientific. The Willers in response write, in part,
It comes as no surprise that Hempel cites no general laws in that paper and shows no application to history; but at the same time he refers to a “metaphysical theory of history,” apparently intending this label to apply to Karl Marx. From an empiricist view of science Marx may very well have presented a “metaphysical theory,” but from the viewpoint of scientific knowledge systems this intended negative criticism is actually a compliment to Marx, who (unlike those who search for empirical “patterns” in history) based his view of history on theoretic relations of concepts. (Systematic Empiricism, 129)
History, a Very Bad Predictor of Future Events
So convinced is Carrier of his status of history as a scientific process that he believes history can be used to predict not only what evidence will be found but even the future itself. This is empiricism with a vengeance.
And just as a geologist can make valid predictions about the future of the Mississippi River, so a historian can make valid (but still general) predictions about the future course of history, if the same relevant conditions are repeated (such prediction will be statistical, of course, and thus more akin to prediction in the sciences of meteorology and seismology, but such inexact predictions are still much better than random guessing). Hence, historical explanations of evidence and events are directly equivalent to scientific theories, and as such are testable against the evidence, precisely because they make predictions about that evidence. (Proving History, 47)
No, they cannot. The reason is that the same conditions are never repeated in human affairs. We can have fears, hopes and plans for the future, but we can never predict it — except in hindsight! In hindsight what happens seems to have been inevitable. But only in hindsight.
While many people, especially politicians, try to learn lessons from history, history itself shows that very few of these lessons have been the right ones in retrospect. Time and again, history has proved a very bad predictor of future events. This is because history never repeats itself; nothing in human society, the main concern of the historian, ever happens twice under exactly the same conditions or in exactly the same way. And when people try to use history, they often do so not in order to accommodate themselves to the inevitable, but in order to avoid it. (In Defence of History, 50)
As for history being on a par with science in its methods, and keeping in mind Carrier’s frequent appeals to geologists being able to predict the future, Evans concludes:
History, in the end, may for the most part be seen as a science in the weak sense of the German term Wissenschaft, an organized body of knowledge acquired through research carried out according to generally agreed methods, presented in published reports, and subject to peer review. It is not a science in the strong sense that it can frame general laws or predict the future. But there are sciences, such as geology, which cannot predict the future either. (In Defence of History, 62)
In the next and final post in this series I will tie the points raised directly to the question of the historicity of Jesus and Carrier’s approach in particular.
Carrier, Richard. On the Historicity of Jesus: Why We Might Have Reason for Doubt. Sheffield Phoenix, 2014.
Carrier, Richard. Proving History: Bayes’s Theorem and the Quest for the Historical Jesus. Prometheus Books, 2012.
Evans, Richard J. In Defence of History. Norton, 1997.
Hempel, Carl G. “The Function of General Laws in History.” The Journal of Philosophy 39, no. 2 (January 15, 1942): 35. https://doi.org/10.2307/2017635.
Willer, David, and Judith Willer. Systematic Empiricism: Critique of a Pseudoscience. Prentice-Hall, 1973. https://archive.org/details/systematicempiri0000will
Like many Americans, I’m still stunned about the 2024 election. In fact, it still feels a bit unreal. The morning after, I decided to suspend my Facebook and Threads accounts for mental health reasons. Doom-scrolling for countless hours will hurt your brain. But enough of that.
Over the past few years, I’ve been studying areas of history, historiography, and the philosophy of history not normally taught in U.S. universities. In particular, I’m focusing on the longue durée. You’ll sometimes see this perspective used “safely” with regard to geography and climate. However, political historians in my country tend to ignore it, chiefly because too many of its practitioners rely on the analysis of Marxian class structures and how they play out over time. Continue reading “How Did We Get Here? Part 1”
In the previous post I spoke of the historian’s absolute confidence — of their certainty, of no room for doubt — in the basic events of the past. I don’t know how anyone can seriously think there might be even the slightest room for doubt that Japan bombed Pearl Harbor in December 1941 and overran Singapore shortly afterwards, for example. But historians are not interested in simply documenting past events. That’s not chiefly what they do. Not most of the time. Or certainly not all that they do.
There are many ways to write history but I will be speaking about the approach well known to us all — the narrative or story approach to describing past events.
It is not the facticity of the events that is in question
It is at this narrative level where problems and disagreements, doubts and uncertainties, among historians arise.
Consider the difference in the following statements about event of Japan bombing Pearl Harbor:
In a “Day of Infamy” Japan launched a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, dragging the U.S. into war.
The US suddenly cut off nearly all of Japan’s oil supply, thus compelling Japan to take the oil fields in Borneo; but first it needed to make a preventive strike on the fleet at Pearl Harbor.
In both statements the raw events are the same. There is no dispute about any of the specific events mentioned. The “facts” themselves are certain. No probability analysis is required to determine how “probably true” any of the details are. But we have two very different stories, two very different histories, all because of the way the events have been selected from the masses of other details that could have been added to both stories, and because of the way those selected events are woven together and the innuendo in which they are embedded.
That’s where the debates of historians centre. That’s where historians, for all the pains they endure sifting through the masses of data, selecting particular items they think to be most relevant, and trying to weave them into a story that they hope will be worthwhile for others to read — that’s where the real historical work happens. It is not about assessing the probabilities that this or that event actually happened. The groundwork of getting the clearly established “facts” or events is a given. (I am speaking generally, not about those special occasions where new documents are discovered and in need of verification or where some isolated point is in dispute.)
Witness the History Wars
Last time I referred to History Wars. When one side launches a salvo about, say, the good intentions of most of the pioneers and cites specific incidents to argue that very few indigenous people were mistreated directly or deliberately by white settlers, the historians on the other side might grant some of those points but pull out more newspaper stories and police records and archival material to supply the factual evidence that they expect to win the other side of the debate. The debates are about the meaning and interpretations of those recorded events. They may supply evidence to demonstrate that some of the details are exaggerated or down-played. But very rarely, as far as I am aware, do historians spend time trying to assess the probability that X or Y happened in the first place.
Undeniability of certain events
Richard Carrier does acknowledge that some of our knowledge is undeniable and not subject to any shadow of room for any doubt:
The only exception would be immediate experiences that at their most basic level are undeniable (e.g., that you see words in front of you at this very moment, or that “Caesar was immortal and Brutus killed him” is logically impossible). . . . Therefore, because we only have finite knowledge and are not infallible, apart from obviously undeniable things, some probability always remains that we are mistaken or misinformed or misled.
and
. . . . apart from the undeniables of immediate experience, all facts are theoretical . . .
Of course “historical facts” do include direct uninterpreted experience . . . .
(Carrier 25, 298, 302. My comment: Few historians would say that even direct experience is ever “uninterpreted” or that all knowledge that does not come to us from direct experience is necessarily “theoretical”.)
The war memorials, the war cemeteries, the plaques with honour rolls of the dead in countless school and club halls around the nation, the photographs, the memorabilia passed down through generations, — all of these and more tell us that the twentieth century world wars were not at any level (not even at an infinitesimally low level) “theoretical”. Those wars are not known by “immediate experience” to most people today. But those wars are “facts of history” that are undeniable. (Again, I am speaking generally. Of course we may discuss historical events as theoretical events for other reasons and in other contexts, but I am addressing more fundamental bread and butter issues here.)
When we examine why those wars are undeniable, we find certain kinds of evidence that gives us certainty. The same applies to other events in other times. The difference will be that the further back we travel, generally speaking, the more scarce various types of evidence become. But historians still look for the same kinds of evidence about the remote past as they find for more recent events. Naturally questions of authenticity arise for different types of sources. But that even applies in modern times. One famous historian who specialized in the study of Hitler, Hugh Trevor-Roper, was initially deceived by the discovery of the Hitler Diaries that turned out to be forgeries. Historians are well aware of the possibility of fraud and the difference between fact and fiction when examining different kinds of evidence. But that doesn’t reduce all their knowledge of “what events happened” to a “theoretical” status along with some sense that they think they could be “possibly, even if only very very slightly, mistaken”).
So when Richard Carrier writes . . .
Most of what we can say, especially about ancient history, is “maybe” or “probably”—not “definitely.” There is obviously more than one degree of certainty. Some things we are more sure of than others, and some things we are only barely sure of at all. Hence, especially in history, and even more so in ancient history, confidence must often be measured in relative degrees of certainty, and not in black-and-white terms of only “true” and “false.”
(Carrier 23)
. . . I might be wrong, but I suspect that not even Richard Carrier entertains for a moment even the slightest theoretical possibility that there was no Roman empire in existence two thousand years ago.
Not even postmodernists view historical events as “theoretically probable”
One might expect theoretical doubts about “facts” of specific events in the past among postmodernist historians. But no, not even postmodernist historians go as far as Carrier does in the above quotations. In the words of a Professor of Religious and Cultural History at the University of Dundee, Callum Brown,
Any postmodernist historian is not being a postmodernist all of the time. Like every historian, the postmodernist must conduct empirical research, establishing that events occurred and the order of them, checking sources that verify the facts of the case, and making decisions of judgement (balance of probabilities may be the best term) where absolute certainty is not possible. . . .
Historians are probably the least likely academics to preface their books with theoretical explanation.
(Brown, 10f. My comment: note the role of probability applies to exceptional cases.)
Here is how Brown presents “a good historian”:
To be a good historian, it is thought you have to be good in empiricist method, and be seen to have a full grasp of facts. This involves the application of scholarship skills to a series of questions. These occur on different levels. On the upper level are the big questions of: What happened, when did it happen, and why did it happen? At the second level of scholarship, the historian answers these questions by asking: What is the existing state of historical knowledge? And what hypotheses best fit the known facts? At the third level, the historian tests the existing state of knowledge by locating new documents and other sources, or re -evaluating already known ones, checking their date and place of origin, their authorship, their destiny and circulation, and how these discoveries alter the existing state of understanding. Next and last, the historian writes a report or a narrative of the issue, replete with edited evidence and how to interpret it, properly sourced with footnotes, and publishes this in book or article form to be checked by peer review by other historians. If after being read by other historians the published account alters in some degree the existing state of knowledge, it acquires a degree of acceptance that other scholars then come along to challenge and re-assess, in turn to repeat the process of investigation in an endless cycle of moving knowledge forward.
This method of doing History is broadly what all academic and professional historians aspire to the world over.
(Brown 21f)
A time to be certain, a time to doubt
There is a difference between establishing facts beyond doubt on the one hand and interpreting those facts and weaving them into a bigger narrative on the other. So there is a place for doubt and debate among historians but it is rarely over whether or not a particular event at some level actually happened. Again, keeping with postmodernists (persons many would assume to “doubt everything, even facts”), we see that even they hew to “getting the basic facts right”, leaving no room for doubt in that area:
The postmodernist critic distinguishes three different aspects of empiricism. These are empiricism as an event, empiricism as a method, and empiricism as a philosophy of knowledge. To each of these, the postmodernist has different attitudes.
Empiricism as an event is the Enlightenment. The Enlightenment is an event in the History of ideas within which empiricist method and empiricism as a philosophy of knowledge originated. . . .
Empiricism as a method is the second aspect distinguished by the post modernist. This is the method by which empiricism defines knowledge. Empiricism argues that knowledge is acquired through an apparatus of human observation, experience, testing of authenticity, verification, corroboration and presentation for judgement (or peer review) by others in a value-free form. Even if the consequences of empiricism are challenged, postmodernists most certainly do not reject empiricist methods. Like all historians, the postmodernist needs empiricist method for the essential skills, and any student of History must learn and deploy them.
The postmodernist distinguishes a third aspect of empiricism, however – empiricism as a philosophy of knowledge. And this is seen as being full of problems. In the work of many academics across science and non science disciplines, there is an implicit notion that empiricism constitutes all that is necessary to knowledge – that it is a complete system of knowledge with no other connections. This notion is that human knowledge acquisition is nothing more than empiricism, and needs nothing more than this for the advancement of each discipline. In the case of History, the writing of the past has been seen by some empiricists as being satisfactorily embraced by empiricist method.
(Brown 21-25)
Historians who go beyond “getting the facts right beyond doubt” and view all their historical work as “getting even the narratives right” are not in fashion today:
One such empiricist historian was Geoffrey Elton, a leading right-wing historian, who regarded empiricism as the only worthwhile basis of professional training in the History discipline. . . . His purist empiricist position brought him to dispute with other historians over decades – including non-postmodernists.
(Brown 25)
Callum Brown discusses the difference between undoubted (we can say “undoubtable”) events and the way historians put them together to tell a story. What we are calling an “historical event” (I prefer the term “event” to “fact”) in this post (e.g. the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor) is “something that happened . . . the event occurred . . .” Where historians differ is how they put those events together to each tell their own distinctive account.
Once an event of the past is described, it becomes something else — it becomes a narrative. . . . There is never any neutrality in a story.
(Brown 28f)
Brown concludes his discussion by leaving the reader in no doubt about the absolute certainty of the past events investigated by the historian:
Empiricism is the basic method in all scholarship. It bears endless repetition that the empiricist skills of verification, close textual attention, proper and rational sourcing, referencing and so on, remain absolutely central to all that historical scholarship does, whether postmodernist or not. In this regard, the Enlightenment created the method of the modern historian.
But empirical method is one thing. The other is the empiricist philosophy of knowledge, or modernism, and that most certainly is challenged . Empiricism gives the illusion of delivering fact, truth and reality, by slipping from the event to a human narrative that describes the event.
(Brown 30)
But does not certainty breed arrogance?
But doesn’t certainty breed arrogance? Is not there an admirable and necessary humility in doubt? Yes, but no one can be arrogant by claiming to know the world is round. The kind of certainty that engenders arrogance is the certainty of opinion and moral perspective — of conviction of holding “The Truth”. Brown calls upon the words of Friedrich Nietzsche to make the point that doubt belongs in the way we tell stories, in the ways we interpret and understand the events of the past. It is not about the two world wars of the twentieth century or the ancient Roman empire to some theoretical status of which we can only be 99.99% certain.
What, then, is truth? A mobile army of metaphors, metonymies, anthropomorphisms, in short a sum of human relations which have been subjected to poetic and rhetorical intensification, translation, and decoration, and which, after they have been in use for a long time, strike a people as firmly established, canonical, and binding: truths are illusions of which we have forgotten that they are illusions, metaphors which have become worn by frequent use and have lost all sensuous vigour, coins which, having lost their stamp, are now regarded as metal and no longer as coins.(Nietzsche, 1873)
Certainty emerges as a linguistic construction which, Nietzsche went on, ‘prompts a moral impulse’ to doubt the denier of certainty, to see in doubt the very basis of immorality. This is a massive irony. Nietzsche says doubt itself becomes superior to fact and moral certainty. This seems like craziness. It seems to be completely absurd and inverted in logic. It over turns everything we are trained to believe as students at school and in college. It may be difficult to grasp that doubt is superior to certainty. This is why postmodernism is truly revolutionary as a philosophical system of thought.
(Brown 30f)
Was the gingerbread vendor really kicked to death?
There are occasions, however, when historians do actually disagree over the factual status of an asserted event of the past. The historian Edward Carr once argued that a past event known to have happened only becomes a “historical event” when it is used by historians in their narratives.
At Stalybridge Wakes in 1850, a vendor of gingerbread, as the result of some petty dispute, was deliberately kicked to death by an angry mob. Is this a fact of history? A year ago I should unhesitatingly have said ‘no’. It was recorded by an eye-witness in some little known memoirs; but I had never seen it judged worthy of mention by any historian. A year ago Dr Kitson Clark cited it in his Ford lectures in Oxford. Does this make it into a historical fact? Not, I think, yet. Its present status, I suggest, is that it has been proposed for membership of the select club of historical facts. It now awaits a seconder and sponsors. It may be that in the course of the next few years we shall see this fact appearing first in footnotes, then in the text, of articles and books about nineteenth-century England, and that in twenty or thirty years’ time it may be a well-established historical fact. Alternatively, nobody may take it up, in which case it will relapse into the limbo of unhistorical facts about the past from which Dr Kitson Clark has gallantly attempted to rescue it. What will decide which of these two things will happen? It will depend, I think, on whether the thesis or interpretation in support of which Dr Kitson Clark cited this incident is accepted by other historians as valid and significant. Its status as a historical fact will turn on a question of interpretation. This element of interpretation enters into every fact of history.
(Carr 12)
Notice that Carr understood the event to have been factual because it was found in an eye-witness’s memoirs. He was discussing what he understood to be a real event, not a theoretical one. But another historian checked the source and raised doubts:
The likelihood of the gingerbread salesman’s unfortunate death being a historical fact in this sense is moderately but not overwhelmingly high because the reference Kitson Clark used for it was not a contemporary one, but a set of memoirs written long after the event, and memoirs are sometimes unreliable even where they are giving eyewitness accounts of happenings in the past. If I had been Kitson Clark, I should have looked for a contemporary document to verify my claim. It is for this reason, I think, not because it has not been widely quoted elsewhere (except in discussions of Carr’s What Is History?) that the status as a historical fact of the gingerbread sales man’s murder in 1850 must be regarded as still provisional, to say the least.
(Evans 66f)
Richard Evans is far from being a postmodernist historian. Note the kind of source he prefers to use to help establish the historicity of a person or event. It is a contemporary one. Not even a late memoir of recording personal reminiscences is considered as secure as a contemporary reference to the event. Let those who rely upon Josephus as a slam-dunk verification of the existence of Jesus take note of how historical research is undertaken in “non-biblical departments”.
Where probability lurks in history
Notice also that Evans did acknowledge a role probability (and its attendant humility) in historical studies:
No historians really believe in the absolute truth of what they are writing, simply in its probable truth, which they have done their utmost to establish by following the usual rules of evidence.
But that sentence should not be ripped from its context. Evans was specifically addressing the narratives historians write, the way they interpret the established events. Here is the context:
In similar vein to David Harlan, Ellen Somekawa and Elizabeth Smith argue that because “within whatever rules historians can articulate, all interpretations are equally valid,” it is necessary for historians to “shift the grounds for the assessment of integrity from the absolute or objective truth to the moral or political. That is,” they continue, “rather than believe in the absolute truth of what we are writing, we must believe in the moral or political position we are taking with it.” They add that they “reject the assumption that if we abandon our claim to objective truth we must be writing in bad faith (writing propaganda in the most pejorative sense of the word),” but they offer no reason to suppose why this should not be the case. In fact, of course, in classic postmodernist fashion they are caricaturing the position they are attacking by pushing it out to an extreme. No historians really believe in the absolute truth of what they are writing, simply in its probable truth, which they have done their utmost to establish by following the usual rules of evidence. In the end it simply isn’t true that two historical arguments which contradict each other are equally valid, that there is no means of deciding between them as history because they are necessarily based on different political and historical philosophies.
(Evans 188f)
Evans is disagreeing with claims that interpretations or understandings of historical events are all equally valid and the accusation that historians necessarily believe that those interpretations are “absolute truth”. Note further that Evans began his book with the following quotation, even comparing the fact-finding methods of historians to the work of astronomers, a comparison used by Carrier though with a quite different perspective (Proving History, p. 105). In what follows I cannot detect any sense that the “raw events” of the past are to be understood as theoretical knowledge with a minimum of some room for doubt about their historicity. Quite the opposite, in fact.
However much they might have agreed on the need for accuracy and truthfulness, historians down the ages have held widely differing views on the purposes to which these things were to be put and the way in which the facts they presented were to be explained. . . .
. . . Ranke introduced into the study of modern history the methods that had recently been developed by philologists in the study of ancient and medieval literature to determine whether a text, say, of a Shakespeare play or of a medieval legend like the Nibelungenlied was true or corrupted by later interpolations, whether it was written by the author it was supposed to have been written by, and which of the available versions was the most reliable. Historians, argued Ranke, had to root out forgeries and falsifications from the record.They had to test documents on the basis of their internal consistency and their consistency with other documents originating at the same period. They had to stick to “primary sources,” eyewitness reports and what Ranke called the “purest, most immediate documents” which could be shown to have originated at the time under investigation, and avoid reliance on “secondary sources,” such as memoirs or later histories generated after the event. . . .
Ranke’s principles still form the basis for much historical research and teaching today. . . .
Whatever the means they use, historians still have to engage in the basic Rankean spadework of investigating the provenance of documents, of inquiring about the motives of those who wrote them, the circumstances in which they were written, and the ways in which they relate to other documents on the same subject. The perils which await them should they fail to do this are only too obvious. All these things have belonged to the basic training of historians since the nineteenth century, and rightly so. . . .
Skeptics who point to the fact that all sources are “biased” and conclude from this that historians are bound to be misled by them are as wide of the mark as politicians who imagine that future historians will take their memoirs on trust. Nor is there anything unusual in the fact that a modern discipline places such heavy reliance on principles developed more than a century and a half before: Chemistry, for example, still uses the periodic table of elements, while medical research continues to employ the mid-nineteenth century device of “Koch’s postulates” to prove that a microorganism is the carrier of a particular disease. These analogies with scientific method point up the fact that when source criticism was introduced into historical study, it, too, was regarded as a “scientific” technique. Its use legitimated history as an independent profession. . . .
The understanding of science which these claims implied was basically inductive. Out there, in the documents, lay the facts, waiting to be discovered by historians, just as the stars shone out there in the heavens, waiting to be discovered by astronomers; all historians had to do was apply the proper scientific method, eliminate their own personality from the investigation, and the facts would come to light. The object of research was thus to “fill in the gaps” in knowledge—a rationale that is still given as the basis for the vast majority of Ph.D. theses in history today.
(Evans 13-17)
Evans goes on to point out that even the pioneer of modern history himself, Leopold von Ranke, failed to produce a genuinely “objective history” despite his claims to be attempting to do so. Ranke failed to understand the subjectivity that enters when we seek to understand and use data in a narrative. For that reason his approach to historical knowledge (not his methods), known as historical positivism, has long since been discarded by most historians today. But as Evans reminds us, the spadework required to establish facts as certain remains with historians today. (Here we are entering another misconception I very often find among biblical historians: they all too frequently tend to equate discarded positivism with the methods of positivism!)
History is not the same as science
Contrast Carrier’s comparison of historical research with the historical method:
Geology and paleontology, for instance, are largely occupied with determining the past history of life on earth and of the earth itself, just as cosmology is mainly concerned with the past history of the universe as a whole. . . .
For example, we can document our testimony to seeing highly compressed rock on a mountaintop with extinct seashells embedded within it. But this information is only useful to us if we can infer from such observations (and others like it) that that rock used to be under the sea and thus has moved from where it once was, and that this rock has been under vast pressures over a great duration after those shells were deposited in it. . . . A particular pattern and sequence of layers in a rock formation can even confirm to us specific historical facts, such as exactly when a volcano erupted, a valley flooded, or a meteorite struck the earth thousands of miles away. . . .
History is the same. The historian looks at all the evidence that exists now and asks what could have brought that evidence into existence.
(Carrier, 46f)
I have to disagree with Carrier here. No, history is not the same. The geologist is interpreting the rocks through a knowledge of physical laws and seeing how those laws have acted out in the past to shape our earth today. History is not the same.
Historians study human actions and few historians would agree today that the persons or events they study follow predictable laws. There was once a time when a good number of historians hoped or believed they could find laws at work in historical processes but generally speaking those days are gone. The one example of historical processes following laws that most of us have at least heard about is Marxism: the view that historical events were all manifestations of class struggle. (Another “history follows laws” approach that I was introduced to at high school was Toynbee’s “challenge and response” model of historical events.)
The reason history cannot predict the future is because “it”, or human societies are all different, events are never repeated, they are never the same. They are not governed by the (theoretical) laws of science as is the physical matter of the cosmos. We can predict outcomes only at the most general level and at that level it tells us nothing more than we already know about human behaviour.
In principle the methods of the historian may be the same as the bulk of those of a scientist and for that reason history is sometimes called a science or scientific, but few historians are trying to understand theoretical laws to explain events.
Continuing in the next post…..
Brown, Callum G. Postmodernism for Historians. Routledge, 2005.
Carr, Edward Hallet. What Is History? Vintage, 1967.
Carrier, Richard. Proving History: Bayes’s Theorem and the Quest for the Historical Jesus. Prometheus Books, 2012.
Evans, Richard J. In Defence of History. Norton, 1997.
It’s been a long while since I wrote about Jesus mythicism. I hope what I write now will present a slightly different and useful perspective.
Should not Christian apologists be thrilled with Richard Carrier’s widely known conclusion and welcome it:
In my estimation the odds Jesus existed are less than 1 in 12,000. . . .
There is only about a 0% to 33% chance Jesus existed.
(On the Historicity of Jesus, 600, 607)
Doesn’t that indicate that Jesus was a truly exceptional figure according to the best conclusions of the atheist scholar? Don’t believing Christians want Jesus to be unique, to be different from anyone else, to bring about an unlikely event by normal human standards? A 1 in 12,000 figure is surely bringing Jesus down too close to normality, isn’t it? Shouldn’t Jesus be a unique figure in history? So if historical tools as understood and used by Richard Carrier conclude that Jesus is not to be expected in the annals of normal human history and left no record comparable to the records of other mortals for historians to ponder, should not apologists take comfort from such findings?
I want to address what appears to me to be a widespread misconception about historical knowledge across various social media platforms and in some published works where this question is discussed.
Too often I hear that historians can never be absolutely certain about anything in the past and that they always, of necessity, can only speak of “what probably happened”. (When I speak of historians I have in mind the main body of the historical guild in history departments around the world. I am not talking about biblical scholars and theologians because their methods are very often quite different.)
So let’s begin with Part 1 of the question of probability in historical research. Richard Carrier is widely known for reducing the entire question of Jesus’ existence to a matter of probabilities. I agree with much of Carrier’s approach but I also disagree on some major points. A fundamental point on which I disagree with Carrier is the claim that the most a historian can say about any historical event is that it is “probably” true. Carrier writes:
All claims have a nonzero epistemic probability of being true, no matter how absurd they may be (unless they’re logically impossible or unintelligible), because we can always be wrong about anything. And that entails there is always a nonzero probability that we are wrong, no matter how small that probability is. And therefore there is always a converse of that probability, which is the probability that we are right (or would be right) to believe that claim. This holds even for many claims that are supposedly certain, such as the conclusions of logical or mathematical proofs. For there is always a nonzero probability that there is an error in that proof that we missed. Even if a thousand experts check the proof, there is still a nonzero probability that they all missed the same error. The probability of this is vanishingly small, but still never zero. Likewise, there is always a nonzero probability that we ourselves are mistaken about what those thousand experts concluded. And so on. The only exception would be immediate experiences that at their most basic level are undeniable (e.g., that you see words in front of you at this very moment, or that “Caesar was immortal and Brutus killed him” is logically impossible). But no substantial claim about history can ever be that basic. History is in the past and thus never in our immediate experience. And knowing what logically could or couldn’t have happened is not even close to knowing what did. Therefore, all empirical claims about history, no matter how certain, have a nonzero probability of being false, and no matter how absurd, have a nonzero probability of being true.
(Proving History, 24f – my bolding in all quotations)
A little further on Carrier raises again the exception of a “trivial” event like an “uninterpreted [direct personal] experience”:
The only exceptions I noted are claims about our direct uninterpreted experience (which are not historical facts) and the logically necessary and the logically impossible (which are not empirical facts).17 Everything else has some epistemic probability of being true or false.
17. Of course “historical facts” do include direct uninterpreted experience, because all observations of data and of logical and mathematical relations reduce to that, but no fact of history consists solely of that; and “the logically necessary and the logically impossible” are empirical facts in the trivial sense that they can be empirically observed, and empirical propositions depend on them, and logical facts are ultimately facts of the universe (in some fashion or other), but these are not empirical facts in the same sense as historical facts, because we cannot ascertain what happened in the past solely by ruminating on logical necessities or impossibilities. Logical facts are thus traditionally called analytical facts, in contrast to empirical facts. Some propositions might combine elements of both, but insofar as a proposition is at all empirical, it is not solely analytical (and thus has some nonzero epistemic probability of being true or false), and insofar as it is solely analytical, it is not relevantly empirical (and thus cannot affirm what happened in the past, but only what could or couldn’t have).
(Proving History, 62, 302)
And again, in pointing out that historians can never be absolutely certain about any “substantive claim”,
Such certainty for us is logically impossible (at least for all substantive claims about history . . . )
(Proving History, 329)
Not even God can avoid reducing all knowledge of the past to “what probably happened”:
A confidence level of 100% is mathematically and logically impossible, as we never have access to 100% of all information, i.e., we’re not omniscient, and as Gödel proved, no one can be, for it’s logically necessary that there will always be things we won’t know, even if we’re God . . .
(Proving History, 331)
I have to disagree. We don’t need “100% of all information” or to be “omniscient” in order to be absolutely certain about certain facts of the past. Historians are indeed certain about basic facts. We know for a fact that the U.S. dropped atomic bombs on Japan in 1945, that Japan attacked Pearl Harbor a few years before that event, that Europeans migrated to and settled in the Americas, Africa, Australasia in the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries, that King John signed the Magna Carter in 1215, that Rome once ruled the Mediterranean, that the Jerusalem temple was destroyed in 70 CE.
Historical events are unique and unrepeatable and our knowledge of many of them can often be absolutely certain. Witness the “History Wars” around the world — the Americas, India, Australia. In Australia, for instance, the arguments over the killing of aborigines and removing children from their families is not about what “probably” happened but what the evidence tells us did actually happen — with no room for any doubt at all. The 1992 Holocaust trial of David Irving was not about what probably happened but what can be known as an indisputable fact to have happened.
To be certain about such events does not require us to possess 100% of all the related information. Further, being certain about such events does not mean we are certain about all the details. There are grey areas where probability does enter the picture but the core events themselves cannot be legitimately doubted.
* The quoted phrases are from Hindess, Barry, and Paul Q. Hirst. Pre-Capitalist Modes of Production. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975, page 2, in reference to Willer & Willer’s book, Systematic Empiricism: Critique of a Pseudo-Science.
A “brilliant and devastating critique”* of the probability approach to historical facts (in fact to the entire area of theoretical empiricism that once typically “characterised the academic social sciences and history”) was published in the 1972 book Systematic Empiricism: Critique of a Pseudo-Science by David and Judith Willer. The chapter that specifically addresses probability in this context was written by the sociologist Dr Cesar Hernandez-Cela. Here is what he says about probability in the context being discussed in this post:
A relative frequency is a probability only if the number of events taken into account is infinite. But when the number of instances is finite . . . the ratio is a relative frequency but not a probability. . . . . A relative frequency is a description, but a probability is a calculation. Although we may calculate a theoretical probability value of 1/2 for a universe in which A and B are equally represented when the number of instances approaches infinity, the most that can be said about the number of heads that will turn up when tossing a coin twenty times is that there will be a particular frequency which is unknown until we toss the coin. In other words, the assignment of a value of 1/2 simply because the coin has two sides is an error because we do not know that each side will be equally represented in any empirical case. Equal representation in probability is a mathematical assumption which is violated in finite empirical cases. . . . We may instead find that tossing a die results in a successive run of fives . . . .
The theory of probability . . . can be used in scientific theories, but it cannot be used to associate observables. Sociological statistical procedures are concerned with observables and therefore violate the conditions under which probability calculations may be legitimately used. But they are so often used that they are frequently accepted (in spite of their obvious absurdity) without question. We are told that the probability of rain tomorrow is 60 percent when, in fact, it will either rain or it will not. Such statements are unjustified, wrong, and misleading.
(Systematic Empiricism, 97f – italics in the original)
One is reminded here of Richard Carrier’s discussion of the “Rank-Raglan hero class”, a category of ancient figures — most of whom are mythical — who share certain mythical attributes.
This is a hero-type found repeated across at least fifteen known mythic heroes (including Jesus) — if we count only those who clearly meet more than half of the designated parallels (which means twelve or more matches out of twenty-two elements), which requirement eliminates many historical persons, such as Alexander the Great or Caesar Augustus, who accumulated many elements of this hero-type in the tales told of them, yet not that many.
The twenty-two features distinctive of this hero-type are:
1. The hero’s mother is a virgin. 2. His father is a king or the heir of a king. 3. The circumstances of his conception are unusual. 4. He is reputed to be the son of a god. 5. An attempt is made to kill him when he is a baby. 6. To escape which he is spirited away from those trying to kill him. 7. He is reared in a foreign country by one or more foster parents. 8. We are told nothing of his childhood. 9. On reaching manhood he returns to his future kingdom. 10. He is crowned, hailed or becomes king. 11. He reigns uneventfully (i.e., without wars or national catastrophes). 12. He prescribes laws. 13. He then loses favor with the gods or his subjects. 14. He is driven from the throne or city. 15. He meets with a mysterious death. 16. He dies atop a hill or high place. 17. His children, if any, do not succeed him. 18. His body turns up missing. 19. Yet he still has one or more holy sepulchers (in fact or fiction). 20. Before taking a throne or a wife, he battles and defeats a great adversary (such as a king, giant, dragon or wild beast).
and
21. His parents are related to each other. 22. He marries a queen or princess related to his predecessor.
Many of the heroes who fulfill this type also either (a) performed miracles (in life or as a deity after death) or were (b) preexistent beings who became incarnated as men or (c) subsequently worshiped as savior gods, any one of which honestly should be counted as a twenty-third attribute. . . .
1. Oedipus (21) 2. Moses (20) 3. Jesus (20) 4. Theseus (19) 5. Dionysus (19) 6. Romulus (18) 7. Perseus (17) 8. Hercules (17) 9. Zeus (15) 10. Bellerophon (14) 11. Jason (14) 12. Osiris (14) 13. Pelops (13) 14. Asclepius (12) 15. Joseph [i.e., the son of Jacob] (12)
This is a useful discovery, because with so many matching persons it doesn’t matter what the probability is of scoring more than half on the Rank-Raglan scale by chance coincidence. Because even if it can happen often by chance coincidence, then the percentage of persons who score that high should match the ratio of real persons to mythical persons. In other words, if a real person can have the same elements associated with him, and in particular so many elements (and for this purpose it doesn’t matter whether they actually occurred), then there should be many real persons on the list—as surely there are far more real persons than mythical ones. . . .
So there is no getting around the fact that if the ratio of conveniently named mythical godmen to conveniently named historical godmen is 2 to 1 or greater, then the prior probability that Jesus is historical is 33% or less.
(On the Historicity of Jesus, 229-231, 241 – italics original)
First, we have fewer than a quarter of 100 instances in our group so a per centum figure is misleading. The total number Raglan studied was twenty.
Second, on what basis can we validly decide to count only those figures who score more than half of the listed attributes? Carrier identifies ten of the twenty-two listed features as applicable to Alexander the Great and acknowledges (though disputes) the possibility of assigning him thirteen. Half seems to be an arbitrary cut-off point (or at least tendentious insofar as it excludes the exceptions, historical persons who would spoil the point being made) especially when we know that Raglan himself said that his list of twenty-two was an arbitrary number. Other scholars of mythical “types” produced different lists:
Von Hahn had sixteen incidents, Rank did not divide his pattern into incidents as such, and Raglan had twenty-two incidents. Raglan himself admitted that his choice of twenty-two incidents (as opposed to some other number of incidents) was arbitrary (Raglan 1956:186).
(In Quest of the Hero, 189. — Raglan’s words were: I have taken twenty-two, but it would be easy to take more. Would a more complete list reduce the other figures to matching fewer than half….? So we begin to see the arbitrariness of Carrier’s deciding to focus only on those with more than half of the attributes in the Raglan list of 22.)
Alexander the Great and Mithridates are not the only ancient figures to whom “hero attributes” were attributed in the literature. Sargon and Cyrus were also studied in the same context by other scholars:
Raglan wrote in complete ignorance of earlier scholarship devoted to the hero, and he was therefore unaware of the previous studies of von Hahn and Rank, for example. Raglan was parochial in other ways too. For one thing, the vast majority of his heroes came exclusively from classical (mostly Greek) sources. The first twelve heroes he treats are: Oedipus, Theseus, Romulus, Heracles, Perseus, Jason, Bellerophon, Pelops, Asclepios, Dionysos, Apollo, and Zeus. Raglan could have strengthened his case had he used some of the same heroes used by von Hahn and Rank and other scholars, e.g., such heroes as Sargon and Cyrus.
(In Quest of the Hero, 187 – my bolding)
One might even argue that the further east one went from Greece the more likely it was that historical persons matched the mythical hero reference class! Much fun can be had with statistics.
Let’s continue with Hernandez-Cela’s discussion of probability as it applies to the social sciences and history:
Social empiricists, when presenting numerical values such as the “probability” of churchgoers giving alms to the poor, might state that only in 5 percent of cases would an association as large as 60 percent or larger not obtain when instances are randomly selected. But, observing individuals, we may only say that they either do or do not give alms. In the first observation we may find that 60 percent of the total sample gave alms, but in succeeding observations this value may differ. We cannot, in fact, have any expectations of probability of giving alms to the poor, no matter how many samples we take. If, on the other hand, the sample approaches or is equal to the total population of churchgoers, then the figure represents a simple proportion, a frequency, not a probability. On the other hand, specification that only 5 percent of samples will not result in the .60 or more is meaningless. If we chose several samples all of the same size, and found that in only 5 percent of them the figure was under .60, then we still can draw no conclusions, for we know nothing about the empirical conditions prevailing in future samples. Such a claim has no basis either in theory or in observation. What the claim means is that if there were an infinite number of cases whose composition was on the average like that of the sample, then in only 5 percent of them would the percentage be smaller than .60. But, we cannot assume that any other empirical cases are on the average like the sample studied, and we cannot assume that they are infinite in number. Theoretical cases can be infinite in number, but empirical ones cannot. Such statistical claims, of course, cannot be violated empirically because they are not probability statements at all but disguised frequencies obtained by observation. Future observations cannot verify or falsify frequencies but only slightly modify their numerical value in the light of new cases. Furthermore, the statistical procedures themselves are not open to any kind of empirical verification or falsification . . .
(Systematic Empiricism, 99)
So a sample of a score of mythical heroes cannot be the basis for predicting the likelihood of any particular figure being historical or not.
The statement, “All As are Bs,” . . . . really means no more than “As have been observed with Bs.” But this statement is not a universal statement, but limited to a population. . . . Consequently no empirical generalization can act as a major premise in a deductive explanation, and empirical generalizations can never be used deductively to explain or predict.
(Systematic Empiricism, 130 — no longer from Hernandez-Cela’s chapter; italics original)
An illustration of the fallacy is set out thus:
Premise A: The probability of recovery from a streptococcus infection when treated by penicillin is close to 1.
Premise B: John Jones was treated with large doses of penicillin.
Conclusion: The probability that John Jones will recover from his streptococcus infection is close to 1.
(Systematic Empiricism, 130)
One might rephrase this as:
Premise A: The probability of a figure in the hero-class being non-historical is close to 0.
Premise B: Jesus is a figure in the hero-class.
Conclusion: The probability that Jesus is non-historical is close to 0.
But as D. and J. Willer observe,
Predictions and explanations cannot be made from [such a statement]. John Jones either does or does not recover. If he does recover the probability value of statement A is slightly increased by his case, and if he does not the probability value decreases. . . . [T]he event itself cannot be predicted with any certainty. Furthermore, if John Jones either recovers or does not, he does not recover with a probability of close to 1.
Individual facts either occur or they do not. Certain facts cannot be explained by uncertain statements. Even in ordinary everyday practical empiricism we do not make that error.
(Systematic Empiricism, 131, 135)
No two historical events are ever exactly alike. People and societies are not like that. There are always variables that make each historical event unique. Of course there are common experiences such as war or economic depression but no two wars or depressions are the same. Human events are not governed by laws in the same way geological forces or the weather are governed by scientific laws. Historians do not observe the results of “laws” in the historical data. They cannot make predictions about a unique historical event or person — all historical events and persons are unique in some respect — on the basis of limited samples with variable (“arbitrary”) attributes. Generalizations can be made about the impacts of technologies on various kinds of social groups but particular historical events are each unique in some way. But generalizations cannot predict what a historian will find in the sources.
The most that probability (in the context of Richard Carrier’s discussion) can tell us about the likelihood of Jesus having existed is that Jesus was one of a few historical exceptions (or even the only exception) to general notions about mythical persons.
In the next post I’ll show what historians say about the certainty or otherwise of “their basic facts”.
Carrier, Richard. On the Historicity of Jesus: Why We Might Have Reason for Doubt. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press Ltd, 2014.
Carrier, Richard. Proving History: Bayes’s Theorem and the Quest for the Historical Jesus. Amherst, N.Y: Prometheus Books, 2012.
Hindess, Barry, and Paul Q. Hirst. Pre-Capitalist Modes of Production. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul Books, 1975.
Raglan, Lord. The Hero: A Study in Tradition, Myth and Drama. Mineola, N.Y: Dover Publications, 2011.
Rank, Otto, Raglan, and Alan Dundes. In Quest of the Hero. Mythos (Princeton, N.J.). Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1990.
Willer, David, and Judith Willer. Systematic Empiricism: Critique of a Pseudoscience. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1973.
Given that every historical event in some way is unique, how can historians have confidence that their research into the past is yielding reliable explanations for what happened?
The answer will depend on the type of event being studied and how historians frame their questions.
Two questions that particularly interest me are:
What led to the production and adoption of much of the “Old Testament” literature in Samaria (the Pentateuch) and Judea (the Pentateuch plus the historical, poetic and prophetic writings)?
What led to the production and adoption of the New Testament literature among certain Christians?
Notice I avoid, specifically, the question of origins of “Judaism” and “Christianity”. That’s because I don’t know how to define either of those two religions at the time of their beginnings. We can’t assume they looked the same as we find them in the record some centuries after their beginnings. But the texts are sources that we can define and work with as concrete data. They are something we can get our hands on and know what we are trying to understand with respect to origins.
But what would it take to make an explanation for the emergence of this literature to be more than guesswork or somehow guided by the fancy or prejudice of the researcher?
One tool the historian can pick up and apply in order to approach this goal comes from the field of sociology. There is nothing new about this approach:
Historians have begged or borrowed concepts and theories from many other disciplines, leading to an enriched debate around the course of human history, and the implications for both present and future. . . . (Green and Troup)
With respect to sociology….
In a basic sense, sociology has always been a historically grounded and oriented enterprise. . . . The major works of those who would come to be seen as the founders of modern sociology, especially the works of Karl Marx, Alexis de Tocqueville, Emile Durkheim, and Max Weber . . . . to varying degrees, all offered concepts and explanations meant to be used in truly historical analyses of social structures and social change. . . .
Each of the founders was so committed to making sense of the key changes and contrasts of his own epoch that he was a historically oriented social analyst . . . . None of the founders ever got entirely carried away by a philosophy of universal evolution, by formal conceptualization, or by theoretical abstraction for its own sake. Each devoted himself again and again to situating and explaining modern European social structures and processes of change. (Skocpol 1985, 1f)
What does all of that mean in practice? How does it apply to the study of a non-repeatable historical event, in particular an event that consists of striking changes in a social group’s ideas, beliefs, and texts?What do sociologists do when there is not enough evidence to confidently construct an explanation for a particular change or development in a social group? Skocpol explains:
According to this method, one looks for concomitant variations, contrasting cases where the phenomena in which one is interested are present with cases where they are absent, controlling in the process for as many sources of variation as one can, by contrasting positive and negative instances which otherwise are as similar as possible. (Skocpol 1976, 177 – my emphasis)
Where else do we find groups producing fresh origin myths comparable to those we find in the Bible? What circumstances are associated with the emergence of those kinds of myths? In what ways can we both compare and contrast the various myths themselves and what we can know of their social, political and other settings?
That kind of inquiry requires us to begin where we have the firmest evidence. In the case of the Hebrew Scriptures that means beginning where the archaeological record and the independent literary witness points us. That means beginning with the early Hellenistic era and working back only insofar as our data dictates. For the New Testament writings it means beginning in the second century and working back, again, only insofar as explanations for our data necessitate.
The inquiry means casting our net to embrace other instances of the emergence of new foundation myths and comparable apocalyptic writings and philosophical-theological treatises. Non-biblical instances of these abound in Hellenistic and Roman eras. Studies of pre-Hellenistic era and the first century of imperial Rome will also prove useful — whether as offering either better or worse explanations in order to yield a better hypothesis of time of origin or a support for a hypothesis of a later origin.
Take, for example, the Old Testament prophets: Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel and the Twelve “Minor Prophets”, along with narratives involving prophets like Elijah, Elisha and Jonah. We find historical instances of those kinds of persons in pre-biblical ancient Syria. See my post, Meet the Prophets of Israel’s Predecessors. The written records of those prophets provide us with a useful starting point, but we are quickly led to something quite different in the Hebrew literature. If the Syrian prophets were generally encouraging kings of city-states to continue in their piety, the biblical prophets are often chastising kings of a realm (not just a city-state) to forsake their piety and champion a different deity. Does the evidence in the Ebla and Mari archives (as well as for Assyrian prophecies) enable us to imagine those prophets adopting a similar critical stance against their kings? What conditions might help us understand such a contrast? Do we have secure evidence for the contrasting conditions?
Or to take another example, this one from the New Testament writings of Paul. Our earliest independent witness to Paul comes from the second century records of theological conflicts. Do Paul’s writings address specific contentious issues at the centre of those conflicts? (Many scholars respond reflexively with a resounding “No”. But I think they are far too hasty with that conclusion. My point is that the question is one that involves a real choice: it is not merely rhetorical.) What functions do the epistles serve among the various and competing Christian factions? Troels Engberg-Pedersen has compared some of them to Stoic treatises. What does that insight tell us about a potential audience for them as well as their possible provenance?
I have introduced only two items of inquiry. I could introduce similar questions and viable instances for comparison and contrast with the Old and New Testaments’ narratives of origins — the Pentateuch and the Gospels with Acts. Scholars have often observed similarities between the biblical literature and literature of Greek, Roman and other cultures. Other scholars have published research into the emergence of new myths and ideologies within defined social groups.. (The link is to an introductory post on Tanya S. Scheer’s study of local origin myths being manufactured in the wake of Alexander the Great’s conquest; for the emergence of new ideologies note John Dominic Crossan’s comparison of the “gospel” of Augustus with the NT gospels and Marianne Bonz’s comparison of Acts with the Roman foundation myth.)
I have a question after having read so much about the proposed origins of the Judeo-Christian canon. Despite the many variant views about origins — and there have been many studies introducing sociological concepts here (e.g. Bruce Malina, Bengt Holmberg, Richard Horsley, James Crossley) — I have seen precious little offering comparative studies. Richard Horsley and John Hanson had an excellent opportunity to do so with Bandits, Prophets, and Messiahs: Popular Movements in the Time of Jesus, but alas, they, too, hewed to a description of Palestine alone despite the known existence of other resistance movements elsewhere in the Roman empire.
Maybe my memory has failed me for the moment or maybe there are works/authors I sorely need to seek out. So this post is a plea for assistance. If you, dear reader, know of the kinds of comparative studies I am missing and are deplored at my lack of awareness, please kindly inform me!
Green, Anna, and Kathleen Troup. The Houses of History: A Critical Reader in History and Theory, Second Edition. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2016.
Skocpol, Theda. “France, Russia, China: A Structural Analysis of Social Revolutions.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 18, no. 2 (1976): 175–210.
———, ed. Vision and Method in Historical Sociology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985.
In a recent post I praised Douglas Campbell for drawing attention to the laziness (if not “dishonesty”) of rebutting an argument with the blanket “I am not persuaded” line. In this post I come to blame him for rejecting a genuinely critical reading of source material. It is with the very essence of critical reading that he objects:
Descartes suggested, in a classic argument widely influential in the modern period, that everything is in effect guilty until proved innocent. The result was, rather famously, the reduction of all certain knowledge to the conviction that his mental processes at least guaranteed his existence. In other words, he used radical doubt as a fundamental method. Everything must be doubted until it can be demonstrated indubitably to be true. (16)
Now Descartes’ method (shorn of the extremism with which Campbell presents it) does serve well enough in everyday life and especially in the legalistic professions and scientific research enterprises. But it is possible to take issue with it on a philosophical level, as demonstrated by Wittgenstein. But is there not a valid comparison here? We know that Newtonian physics “fails” at the subatomic particle level; but we do not reject the fundamentals of Newtonian physics when taking care climbing ladders or driving a car.
Campbell wrote — and note the pejorative language in which he couches Descartes’ scepticism:
But the Cartesian method has struggled to get anywhere significant and has, moreover, been subjected to ferocious critique, not least from Wittgenstein, who pointed out (characteristically indirectly) that the use of language implies participation in a broader linguistic community, which is in turn difficult to detach from a complex broader reality that cannot be doubted in the first instance without lapsing into utter incoherence. So Descartes’s key initial claims are in fact delusional. Unfortunately, however, the critical method, which played such a significant role in the rise of the modern university, has had a long dalliance with Cartesianism, so the latter tends to live on, haunting the corridors of the academy like a restless shade. It allowed figures like Kant to reject tradition out of hand and to argue from simpler and more certain first principles, although Kant too struggled to develop his principles with the certainty and extension that he really sought. It is not a completely crass oversimplification to suggest, then, that many modern Pauline scholars, shaped in part by the traditions at work in the modern university, seem to assume, at least at times, that the “critical” assessment of evidence simply involves the application of doubt in a generic way, ultimately in the manner of Descartes. It is a posture of comprehensive skepticism. One must be unconvinced until one is convinced of something’s probity on certain grounds. But I would suggest that when practiced in this generic and universal manner, this is an invalid and self-defeating methodology and a false understanding of criticism.’ (16)
Campbell had faulted as “posturing” the “I am not persuaded” rejoinder as a substitute for critical engagement. He faults Cartesian scepticism with the same label — “posturing”.
I doubt that I would be excused from jury service if I tried to opt out by explaining that Wittgenstein tells me that my particular semantic world may not be capable of deliberating in a truly objective manner the information conveyed to me as it is coded in semantic variations other than mine. Newtonian physics is still valid, its quantum companion notwithstanding.
Campbell then proceeds to justify another misguided “howler”:
We will rely on slender snippets of evidence in what follows, because that is all that we have — occasional and fragmentary remains of conversations that took place millennia ago. But we do have evidence, and it will not do to dismiss parts of the following reconstruction with a generic claim that “this is insufficient” or “there is still not enough evidence.” If this is the evidence that we have and it explains the data in the best existing fashion, then the correct scientific conclusion must be to endorse it and not to complain that we need more data that unfortunately does not exist. (18)
That may sound like a correct scientific approach but it is not. A scientific hypothesis must rely on multiple datasets. A single experiment is never sufficient. An experiment, a survey, must of necessity be repeated in different places with different samples to be sure of the results. The medical profession will not rely on a single survey of data to recommend a particular program to treat a physical condition.
The scientific method does not build on “slender snippets of evidence” if there is no other choice. If the evidence is inadequate to answer a particular question, or on which to base a certain line of inquiry, then it is the question and the line of inquiry that must be changed.
I frequently encounter the following kinds of statements in by biblical scholars in their works relating to early Christianity or Judaism:
We historians confront a supposed event in the past, as in some text or object, as though to “try it in court,” in order to reach a verdict to establish the truth of the matter. And the principles we can best employ are those used in the practice of law:
(1) The accused is presumed (not judged) innocent unless proven guilty. (2) The preponderance of the evidence (anything over 50%) is decisive. (3) The verdict rendered is considered proven beyond reasonable doubt (not absolute).
(Dever 140f — Old Testament scholar arguing against fundamentalist readings of the Bible)
and arguing the case for accepting the overall integrity of the canonical text of New Testament writings…
As in a court of law, the evidence deserves to be judged innocent of being an interpolation until proven guilty. This proof must be able to stand up before the jury of scholarship, which must decide whether “guilt” has been established beyond a reasonable doubt. If there is reasonable doubt about the extraneousness of the accused data then it should not remain any longer under a cloud of suspicion. In that case the verdict must be acquittal in order to protect the innocent. If scholarship does not follow such a “rule of law,” serious injustice will be done to much innocent data.
(Wisse 170)
Sometimes the biblical scholar will cite a (“nonbiblical”) historian for support:
Unless there is good reason for believing otherwise, one will assume that a given detail in the work of a particular historian is factual. This method places the burden of proof squarely on the person who would doubt the reliability of a given portion of the text. The alternative is to presume the text unreliable unless convincing evidence can be brought forward in support of it. While many critical scholars of the Gospels adopt this latter method, it is wholly unjustified by the normal canons of historiography. Scholars who would consistently implement such a method when studying other ancient historical writings would find the corroborative data so insufficient that the vast majority of accepted history would have to be jettisoned.29 In the words of the historian G. J. Renier:
We may find . . . an event is known to us solely through an authority based entirely upon the statements of witnesses who are no longer available. Most of the works of Livy, the first books of the history of the Franks by Gregory of Tours, belong to this category. Since there is no other way of knowing the story they tell us, we must provisionally accept their version. This brings us back full sail to accepted history as the starting point of all historical investigation.30
30. Renier, History, pp.90–91.
(Blomberg 304)
Although Blomberg cites a 1982 reprint of the classical historian’s (Renier’s) work, the original publication date stands at 1950. That is important for a reason I will explain.
But first, note the muddled metaphor in the above quotations. In a court of law it is not the witness who is “presumed innocent until proven guilty” but the one charged with a crime. Witnesses are cross examined to test their claims. Though the witness swears an oath to tell the truth their testimony is never accepted at face value. Their claims must be tested. Yet the above comparisons of the historical method confuse witnesses (sources) with the person who is on trial and seeking to prove his innocence.
In response to Dever above: In a court of law it is the one accused and on trial who is presumed innocent: it is the claims of the witnesses, the sources — not the accused — that must be tested.
In response to Wisse above: It is not the “evidence” that “deserves to be judged innocent”. It is the evidence that is tested for authenticity, relevance and reliability to determine the guilt or innocence of the one on trial.
Finally, in response to Blomberg: The Renier method of accepting the testimony of Livy for believing in the historicity of events for which there is no other evidence may have been par for the course among classicists in 1950, but by 1983 that naive approach was well and truly debunked by a series of lectures delivered by the classicist historian Moses Finley:
For reasons that are rooted in our intellectual history, ancient historians are often seduced into [accepting as historically factual] statements in the literary or documentary sources … unless they can be disproved (to the satisfaction of the individual historian). This proposition derives from the privileged position of Greek and Latin, and it is especially unacceptable for the early periods of both Greek and Roman history…
(Finley 21)
Renier referred to Livy as an example of a historian whose word he felt he had no choice but to follow. Finley pointed out the cruel truth, however:
Yet a Livy or a Plutarch cheerfully repeated pages upon pages of earlier accounts over which they neither had nor sought any control. . . .
Where did they find their information? No matter how many older statements we can either document or posit – irrespective of possible reliability – we eventually reach a void. But ancient writers, like historians ever since, could not tolerate a void, and they filled it in one way or another, ultimately by pure invention.
The ability of the ancients to invent and their capacity to believe are persistently underestimated. How else could they have filled the blatant gaps in their knowledge once erudite antiquarians had observed that centuries had elapsed between the destruction of Troy and the ‘foundation’ of Rome, other than by inventing an Alban king-list to bridge the gap? Or how could they contest an existing account other than by offering an alternative, for example, to provide ideological support for, or hostility to, a particular ethnic group, such as Etruscans or Sabines, who played a major role in early Roman history? No wonder that, even in the hopelessly fragmentary state of the surviving material on early Rome, there is a bewildering variety of versions, a variety that continued to increase and multiply as late as the early Principate. Presumably no one today believes the Alban king-list to be anything but a fiction, but any suggestion that there is insufficient ground to give credence to the Roman king-list is greeted with outraged cries of ‘hyper-criticism’ …. (8f)
There was a time — it is long past — when classicists would reconstruct ancient history from their Greek and Latin sources as naively as many biblical scholars continue today to reconstruct the origins of Judaism and Christianity from the texts in the Bible. Finley added:
I suspect that Ogilvie’s slip [naive readings of ancient historians] reflects , no doubt unconsciously, the widespread sentiment that any thing written in Greek or Latin is somehow privileged, exempt from the normal canons of evaluation. (10)
Classicists have long since moved on. Perhaps it’s time for more biblical scholars to follow them.
Blomberg, Craig L. The Historical Reliability of the Gospels. 2nd edition. Nottingham: IVP Academic, 2007.
Campbell, Douglas A. Framing Paul: An Epistolary Biography. Grand Rapids, Michigan: Eerdmans Publishing, 2014.
Dever, William G. “Christian Fundamentalism, Faith, and Archaeology.” In Misusing Scripture: What Are Evangelicals Doing with the Bible?, edited by Mark Elliott, Kenneth Atkinson, and Robert Rezetko, 131–52. Routledge, 2023.
Finley, M. I. Ancient History: Evidence and Models. London: Chatto & Windus, 1985. [Chapter 2 was part of a series of J. H. Gray Lectures at the Faculty of Classics of the University of Cambridge]
Wisse, Frederik W. “Textual Limits to Redactional Theory in the Pauline Corpus.” In Gospel Origins & Christian Beginnings : In Honor of James M. Robinson, edited by James E. Goehring, Charles W. Hedrick, and Jack T. Sanders, 167–78. Sonoma, Calif. : Polebridge Press, 1990.
How often does one encounter the “I am not persuaded” copout? I call it a copout because it usually functions as an easy escape for one who is unable to say why a disliked argument is faulty. Here’s a formal response to the “I am not persuaded” line:
How might we recognize inappropriate doubt masquerading as valid criticism? Such doubt generally does not attend to the actual data and its explanation, falsifying it directly. It begs the question. Or, more commonly, it suggests a comparative situation but fails to supply the comparison; a given argument might be pronounced insufficient to convince, but what exactly establishes argumentative sufficiency is not stated (and usually cannot be). Of course, such judgments are meaningless without an overt standard or measure of sufficiency. And that measure is the data itself in relation to the broader object under investigation and the current explanation in play! Do these actually match up, or is a problem discernible in their relationship(s)? If the latter, the appropriate critical process should elicit doubt, along with the modification or abandonment of the hypothesis. Modification or the clear provision of an explanatory alternative is a signal that the appropriate critical method and doubt are operative. Without these elements, a doubting critic runs the danger of merely posturing.
Campbell, Douglas A. Framing Paul: An Epistolary Biography. Grand Rapids, Michigan: Eerdmans, 2014. p. 18
Is it necessary to have archaeological evidence to be reasonably confident that Christianity in some form existed prior to the fourth century? Some people think so, or at least they claim that the lack of archaeological evidence is reasonable grounds for doubting the existence of Christianity prior to Constantine. Let me explain why I believe that that view arises from a misunderstanding of the nature of evidence and how historical events are reconstructed by historians.
Now it is certainly true that there are clear cut cases where archaeological evidence does nullify written historical narratives. Archaeological evidence has demonstrated that the medieval stories of King Arthur, said to have performed his various exploits in late Roman times, are fictions. Similarly, archaeology has overthrown the historicity of the Genesis Patriarchs, the Exodus, the Israelite conquest of Canaan and the vast united kingdom of Israel under David and Solomon.
But what happens when we have no explicit archaeological evidence for a historical narrative? The archaeological evidence that specifically informs us about the conquests of Alexander the Great is virtually nonexistent. We have coins with Alexander’s bust stamped on them but they don’t tell us about his military adventures from Egypt to India. For that information we only have very late (Roman era) written accounts. Fortunately, however, the authors of those histories inform readers that they were drawing upon historical records composed by Alexander’s contemporaries. Further, given the widespread influence of Greek culture and Greek settlements throughout the Levant and Mesopotamia after Alexander’s time, we have good reason to believe that something dramatic happened to give rise to this new situation, and the surviving testimonies of historians who read writings of Alexander’s contemporaries are thus by and large made credible.
Again, we have no archaeological evidence from the fifth century BCE testifying to the historical existence of Plato. There are no surviving manuscripts of Plato’s works from his own time. But we do have scores of later manuscripts that are evidence for an activity of reasonably faithful copying of Plato’s dialogues. We can cross check these writings with manuscripts of copied works of other authors who were evidently contemporaries of Plato. So we again have reasonable grounds for believing in the historical existence and literary productivity of Plato.
But what is the difference between primary and secondary sources? It is on this question that I understand some doubts about pre-Constantinian Christianity arise.
Primary sources are those that clearly belong to the period being investigated. Secondary sources are from times later than the events or persons being studied. One biblical historian whom I have quoted in the past because he wrote at some length on this question is Niels Peter Lemche. Lemche takes readers ‘back to the basics’, in this case to the writings of the “father of modern history”, Leopold von Ranke.
When von Ranke and historians since his time are referring to an acknowledged contemporary source, they indicate first of all that kind of information which can be dated without problems. They also say that the source must physically belong to the period about which it is taken to be firsthand information. A slab of stone with an inscription found in situ, that is, where it was originally placed by the person who erected the stone to commemorate some event of his own day, is without doubt a primary and contemporary source. A description of the same item found in some ancient literary source is, however, not a contemporary source except in the case where it goes back to the same time as the stone inscription. Thus Livy’s description of the Second Punic War is not a contemporary source, as it is removed by about two hundred years from the days of Hannibal and Scipio. Suetonius’s life of August is not a primary source because it is about a hundred years later than the time of August. The Monumentum Ancyranum1 can, however, be considered a firsthand piece of evidence from this period, since it relies on an official document from the days of August, and was placed on his temple in Ankara shortly after his death.
1. An inscription found on the Temple of August in Ankara, based on an official document authorized in the last year of August’s reign (C.E. 14), partly based, however, on an earlier source, the Res Gestae, and edited before it was published. The inscription has been known since 1555.
Lemche, Niels Peter. The Israelites in History and Tradition. London : Louisville, Ky: Westminster John Knox Press, 1998. p. 22
A Digression on Leopold von Ranke and Positivist History
Now the mention of Ranke has the unfortunate side effect of causing some readers to roll their eyes in despair while complaining, “But von Ranke was a positivist and that kind of history went out of fashion by the middle of the twentieth century.” To those who react that way (and there are a good many biblical scholars who are guilty) I must point out that “positivism” is too often confused with a preoccupation with “getting the facts right”, or with a history that is “all about ‘the facts'”. No, that’s a misunderstanding of positivism.
Positivism in history is an attempt to treat history as a science, as an effort to discover laws of historical processes, as summed up in an earlier reference if mine to Collingwood. The facts are still bedrock.
We have heard of “history wars” in recent times. Historians continue today to research to find “the actual facts” that lie behind various controversial questions. Was there a culpable genocide of Australian aborigines by white settlers throughout the nineteenth and into the early twentieth centuries? Facts and evidence lie at the very heart of that debate. Focus on “the facts” is still of first importance. Hewing to facts is not committing the sin of positivism.
But there is another way of understanding “positivist history” and in this second sense Ranke is sometimes upheld as an exemplar. The idea that history can be an objective reconstruction of what “exactly” happened in the past — a fact-based, “objective and true” portrayal of events, especially political events — is another form of history that is no longer practised, generally speaking. Nobody can escape bias of some kind; everybody necessarily perceives events through a particular point of view. Nor are political and military events the totality of human experience: history has branched out into investigating economic, social, cultural, family and personal events.
As for being “completely objective”, the American Civil War is viewed by some historians as a conflict over states rights; by other historians as a conflict over slavery. That does not mean that there is no absolute truth to the question but it does remind us that all events are perceived through our preconceptions and biases. The historian ideally will be aware of their biases and make allowances for them in their research and presentation of their narrative. To support one point of view against another a historian will seek to present more factual evidence on which their point of view rests.
As for Ranke, he is perhaps best known for his famous phrase . . .
To history has been given the function of judging the past, of instructing men for the profit of future years. The present attempt does not aspire to such a lofty undertaking. It merely wants to show how it essentially was (wie es eigentlich gewesen).
From Preface to the First Edition of Histories of the Latin and Germanic Peoples (October 1824), in: Ranke, Leopold von. The Theory and Practice of History. New York, N.Y: Irvington Publishers, 1983. p. 86
Some critics translate the phrase as “how it actually was” and thus present a more “positivist” view of Ranke than others would necessarily warrant.
Today historians are more aware of the inevitable bias or subjectivity of a “point of view” when examining events, and of the impossibility of fully objectively recreating a wholly true account of a past event, but searching out and understanding “the facts” is still paramount in most cases.
In high school I was introduced to history by a couple of teachers who were pioneering a new kind of history-teaching, J. H. Allsopp and H. R. Cowie, authors of the two-volume text Challenge and Response. Students were immersed in a questioning-and-research approach to each historical period, beginning with the French Revolution. The springboard question was derived from the famous historian Arnold Toynbee’s thesis that historical change follows a “law” of civilizations responding to specific challenges. As students we were challenged by a positivist thesis (not that we knew anything about the term ‘positivism’ in those high school years) and taught to question. That was anything but a dry fact-based study of history. When we came to studying Marxism we were introduced to another positivist form of history, a grossly simplified form of Hegel’s theory that a thesis produces an antithesis and out of the ensuing clash of these opposites emerges a synthesis . . . . which in turn becomes a new thesis, and so on. (Hence the theory that the owners of production produce a working class and the resulting clash leads to a classless society.) Especially since the later 1960s historical studies in universities have moved away from the idea that through history historians can discover laws of human behaviour. Historical positivism is “past history” now.
The point is this: Ranke’s fundamental principle is that the facts must first and foremost be determined by sources known to be from the actual time and place of the events being investigated:
But from what sources could this be newly investigated? The foundations of the present writing, the origins of its subject matter, are memoirs, diaries, letters, reports from embassies, and original narratives of eyewitnesses. Other writings were considered only when they seemed either to have been immediately deduced from the former or to equal them through some kind of original information.
Ranke, Leopold von. The Theory and Practice of History. New York, N.Y: Irvington Publishers, 1983. p. 86
That principle is still the foundation of most historical research today. (I am bypassing here discussions relating to postmodernist theories about knowledge and adhering to the same general principles as are applicable in common everyday discourse and courts of law with respect to the value we ascribe to testimonies of various kinds — hearsay, recorded, witnessed, etc.)
Back to the Question: Evidence for Pre-Constantinian Christianity
One proponent of the view that Christianity as we understand the term was a fourth century invention has proposed that historical evidence can be divided into two types:
Primary evidence — which means archaeological evidence, or “real knowledge” from the time in question;
Secondary evidence — which survives only in manuscripts physically dated long after Constantine’s time and is therefore “hypothetical” knowledge”.
Here is where I believe we are getting confused with terminology.
To begin with, notice that in the preceding section we saw that evidence is divided into two kinds:
that which can be dated without problems to the time or event under investigatio
that which is dated after that event.
It is not true that the ONLY kind of evidence that can be dated “without problems to the time or event under investigation” is archaeological evidence. As we saw above, some manuscripts dated long after the time of Alexander the Great or Plato contain information that can be dated “without problems” to the times of Alexander the Great and Plato. Our manuscript evidence is testimony to multiple efforts to copy those texts through the ages.
To contradict this point and argue that the texts were invented in late antiquity or the early middle ages is to meet the “conspiracy theory” fallacy.
Yes, it is theoretically possible that all witnesses, and all knowing associates of such witnesses, who were in any way involved in a cover-up or falsification of the historical record, such as (let’s say) the moon landing, conspired to maintain the public fiction. But life experience leads me to think that such a coherently successful accomplishment among diverse witnesses (or “non-witnesses”) is unlikely. Unless evidence can be produced that suggests that such a widespread agreement across time to falsify the historical record, or data/sources upon which the historical account is produced can be shown to have been fraudulently manipulated, then I think it is reasonable to believe in the existence of Plato as an author of dialogs and in the conquering actions of Alexander the Great.
So where does that leave the evidence for the existence of pre-fourth century Christianity?
Let’s take the Gospel of Mark. We first discover an explicit reference to this work in the writings of Irenaeus, a late second century “church father”. Those who propose a post Constantine origin for this gospel also propose a post Constantine date for the writings attributed to Irenaeus. If we were to accept such an argument we would need to be mindful of all the writings of Irenaeus and imagine a situation where they would be manufactured for nefarious purposes to belong to a time much earlier than that in which they were really written. When one looks at the totality of those writings one would surely conclude that an awful lot of effort was spent on producing such a fraud. But let’s keep it simple and confine ourselves to the Gospel of Mark.
A literary analysis of the Gospel of Mark indicates that it fits well with the first and second Jewish wars (66-70 and 135 CE). Its “little apocalypse” chapter has been dated to either war. Its theological outlook is inconsistent with the Christology of later periods. The same gospel denigrates Peter and the twelve disciples as faithless failures; it presents a Jesus who appears to have become a “son of God” at the moment of his baptism. It is unlikely in the extreme that a fourth century forger who believed in the exaltation of the Twelve Apostles and the pre-existence and inherent divinity of Christ would have written such a gospel. Other gospels followed that evidently sought to “correct” Mark’s flaws.
I think it is safe to conclude that the widely varying presentations of Jesus and the apostles (including Paul) would not have been produced by a single-minded program to make Christianity appear older (back into the second or first centuries) than it actually was. Is it really likely that such a program produced gospels that contradicted the later orthodox christology and the revered place of the apostles and then followed up by composing other gospels that found different ways to correct those evidently earlier efforts?
Dating ancient texts
Now it is certainly not valid to assume that a historical narrative that we read in a text is “true”. We all know the difference between historical fiction and real history and we look for signs that enable us to distinguish the two.
However, to continue with our Gospel of Mark example, we find in this gospel prominent allusions to false christs, crucifixion, destruction of the temple, and so forth — all of which can be found to match the events of the Jewish war from the late first century and right through the time of Trajan and Jewish messianic rebellions and on to the events of the final rebellion under Bar Kochba in the 130s CE. One may well imagine a later author fabricating a text to appear as if it were written in that period, but how could one imagine the same author presenting a view of both Jesus and the apostles that was contradicted by the established church of a much later time?
In this case we find the evidence strongest for a time and place that did not highly esteem the apostles and did not place a strong emphasis on the pre-existent “sonship” of Jesus or the importance of his resurrection appearances. (The latter are absent in the Gospel of Mark.)
The Gospel of Mark is evidently a product of pre-fourth century conditions when Jesus could be made a son of God at his baptism and when the disciples could be depicted as failures. It now belongs to the orthodox canon but it is made safe for orthodoxy by being placed alongside other gospels that “corrected” Mark’s apparent failings.
Real versus Theoretical Knowledge?
I have heard it said that archaeology is “real” evidence and later texts are “theoretical” evidence — implying that evidence derived from stones is superior to that derived from texts found on much later surviving manuscripts.
This is a false dichotomy.
A stone inscription speaking of a person’s exploits tells me nothing unless I first interpret it. Is the person described really a historical person or are they a false image of someone else pretending to be greater than they in fact were? Are the inscribed exploits true or a lie or something in between? Is the inscription a fictional propaganda employing contemporary literary tropes? Note how even a stone inscription must be first “interpreted” before it can be understood:
As with the Hammurapi, Sargon and Idrimi monuments, it is more than style and form that establish the Active qualities of Mesha’s inscription. Literary metaphor also lies behind the use of the name Omri itself. Omri ‘dwelling in Moab’ is not a person doing anything in Transjordan, but an eponym, a literary personification of Israel’s political power and presence. It is clear that the reference to Omri in the Mesha stele is literary, not historical.
Thompson, Thomas L. The Mythic Past: Biblical Archaeology and the Myth of Israel. New York: Basic Books, 1999. p. 13
You may disagree with Thompson’s interpretation but whatever your view you will need to justify your alternative reading – as Thompson does his. Either way, it should be clear that a stone inscription does not automatically give us “pure historical fact”: stone inscriptions need to be interpreted as much as does the text of a manuscript. We cannot say that the former source gives us “real” knowledge while the latter gives us “theoretical” knowledge. Both kinds of data need to be tested for provenance and original meaning.
The information gleaned from a stone inscription is just as much a product of interpretation as is the information we glean from a late surviving manuscript.
Both must be subject to analysis and interpretation before we think we know what they have to tell us.
It is a fallacy to say that we have no “real” knowledge about Christianity prior to the fourth century because we have no pre-fourth century archaeological evidence for Christianity while all our text-based knowledge is “only theoretical”.
What we have, most fundamentally, is raw data. Raw data must be interpreted. It tells us nothing apart from our interpretation of it. Raw data can come from stone monuments and manuscripts alike, whatever their date. (I could cover all of this argument in many pages of text but am hoping for now that the above context makes my point clear.)
Conclusion
In fact I believe we do have archaeological evidence for Christianity before Constantine but in this post I am addressing the claim that manuscript evidence is somehow less “real” than archaeological evidence.
My argument is that all “historical knowledge” is at some level “theoretical” but that fact does not make it any less “real” or “valid” at the same time. I could argue on philosophical and epistemological grounds that newspaper reports and diaries from relevant persons in the last century do not “prove” that Australian aborigines were displaced wholesale, but that would not change the reality of the interpreted evidence from a layman’s — or courtroom juror’s — perspective.
The claim that all of our evidence for Christianity physically post dates the time of Constantine and was actually the creation of scribes from that era and later falls for the same reason other conspiracy theories fall. Yes, of course Christian scribes were “biased” and yes, we do have some evidence that they doctored manuscripts. At the same time, we also have evidence that they preserved and copied texts that were not doctrinally consistent with fourth century orthodoxy. They found ways to preserve “unorthodox” writings without denying their own faith.
Archaeological evidence, when tested, can be securely dated to a particular time in question but the “truth” or otherwise of its inscriptions is just as “real” as are the “truths or otherwise” of text written in ink on manuscripts. All data needs to be tested for authenticity, provenance, context and interpreted. The absence of archaeological evidence from the fifth century BCE testifying to the existence a dialog-writing Plato does not mean our knowledge of Plato is “theoretical” as distinct from “real”, and the same applies to the existence of gospels, epistles and other Christian literature prior to the time of Constantine.
I toyed with the idea of presenting the dishonest, decontextualized quotation of Marx that one finds in both Lost Cause as well as libertarian “scholarship,” and then work back until I revealed the original intent. But then I remembered from psychology classes that the primacy effect is extremely potent and realized that I risked sabotaging my own efforts. So instead I’ll begin with what Karl Marx actually thought, to avoid all ambiguity
.
What Marx Thought
In an essay written for the The Vienna Presse, he wrote:
The whole movement was and is based, as one sees, on the slave question: Not in the sense of whether the slaves within the existing slave states should be emancipated or not, but whether the twenty million free men of the North should subordinate themselves any longer to an oligarchy of three hundred thousand slaveholders; whether the vast Territories of the republic should be planting-places for free states or for slavery; finally, whether the national policy of the Union should take armed propaganda of slavery in Mexico, Central and South America as its device. (Marx 1861, p. 71, attributed to Marx and Engels, bold emphasis mine)
What the Many in the British Press Thought
For the moment, let’s lay aside whether or not we agree with Marx. The question is not what we think, but what he thought. In this essay, Marx and Engels were taking a position against many in the British press. Many of the loud and sanctimonious voices in newspapers of the day were saying that the war had nothing to do with slavery. Early on, in this same essay, Marx wrote, concerning contemporary London media:
In essence the extenuating arguments read: The war between the North and South is a tariff war. The war is, further, not for any principle, does not touch the question of slavery and in fact turns on Northern lust for sovereignty. (Marx 1861, p. 58)
The Quote, Out of Context
The modern mischief begins with stripping away all context, and then presenting the implicit (and false) notion that Marx thought the Civil War was simply a war of aggression and dominance, perpetrated by the North. I first came upon this quotation in a truly dreadful book by Samuel W. Mitcham, Jr. called It Wasn’t about Slavery.
The reason my posts relating to Biblical questions so often express a view that is inconsistent with mainstream narratives has nothing to do with wanting to be different (as the moderator on the earlywritings forum has patronizingly insisted) but everything to do with examining the evidence according to the same methods that are accepted as normative best-practice in other fields of history and classical studies. It was for this reason — identifying what I considered a fundamentally sound method of research and interpretation of evidence — that attracted me to the methods of what is sometimes (and dismissively) termed “minimalism” in explorations of the origins of Judaism, Christianity and the Bible.
So I feel a little reassured when I read that the same so-called “minimalist” authors themselves acknowledge that their approach is nothing other than what is considered uncontroversial in other areas of historical studies. It is only controversial, it seems, in the context of biblical studies — for reasons not hard to fathom. It is even more reassuring and encouraging to see that some of the “minimalist” scholars have taken practical steps to change the way Palestine’s history is understood more generally and taught in Palestinian schools and universities. Given the current ongoing slaughter of Palestinians in Gaza by the IDF it is very difficult to conceptualize anything positive for the future in Palestine-Israel, so one does hope that the candle-flame of The Palestine History and Heritage Project (PaHH) will not be fully extinguished.
The methods — doing history the way other historians are expected to do it
The PaHH project follows research principles set forth in the Copenhagen School’s insistence on producing clear methodological and epistemological evidence based historiography, such as is required in classical history writing, and rejecting the biblical-archaeologically designed history of “ancient Israel” most often presented in historiographies of ancient Palestine. (Hjelm 15)
We do use late historical works (e.g. Arrian of the mid-second century CE) to learn about Alexander the Great around 330 BCE, but in that case we know that Arrian was in turn using writings from Alexander’s own time.
In short, the only legitimate method of finding out “what really happened” in the past is to begin with primary evidence, the evidence from the time and place being studied. If we have much later narratives, accounts, myths, we don’t by default reject them as “lies” but we do examine them and try to trace their origins according to the culture that produced them. And that originating culture has to be determined by independent evidence. We cannot simply assume that a story about King David (or King Arthur for that matter) originated in the time of King David or King Arthur. The only legitimate method demands that we do not mix up the two types of sources. We don’t use Homer’s epics to learn about the historical Helen of Troy, nor Walter Scott’s novels to learn about the historical King Richard and Robin Hood, nor should we use the Bible’s stories to inform us about events that are known to have happened centuries before the Bible’s books were written.
The application of what I call normative historical method to the “history of Israel” has led to some considerable heat:
The debate cemented the minimalist-maximalist positions with accusations of ‘revisionism’, ‘anti-semitism’, ‘anti-zionism’, ‘anti-biblical’, and ‘nihilism’, on one side, and ‘fundamentalism’, ‘evangelism’[sic] and ‘bad scholarship’ on the other side. Moving from the discussion of methods in history writing which had been the focus of scholarship since the deconstructionist tendencies of the ‘60s-‘80s, the Bible’s role as witness to its own histories, rather than its ancient mental history, became the primary issue. It became almost “illegitimate” not only to deny or criticize the Bible’s historicity, but also to discuss its origin later than the Babylonian Exile, although the Dead Sea Scrolls had made it absolutely evident that no Hebrew Bible existed that early. The approach taken by the so-called “minimalists” is, however, a basic demand in scientific history writing and is called for if biblical scholars are to be included in the guild of historians. Rather than being the ideologically driven program of a small group it has been adopted, to some extent, ‘by a fairly large number of scholars in response to the collapse of “biblical archaeology”, and the absolute necessity of reconsidering the way in which archaeological data and biblical texts are best related in the search for a critical history’. (Hjelm 50)
The content — imagining a non-biblical history of Palestine
Biblical-influenced history of Palestine or Israel is not limited to evangelicals. But I hope by the time interested readers reach the end of this post they will recognize the need to move beyond our common Bible-influenced histories.
Biblically based history does not only feature in histories written by biblical scholars, but is common in writings by archaeologists and historians alike. (Hjelm 15)
Ingrid Hjelm adds examples to demonstrate what that statement covers, some of which no doubt many readers will at least have seen referenced in online discussions:
W. G. Dever, What Did the Biblical Writers Know and When Did They Know It? What Archaeology Can Tell Us about the Reality of Ancient Israel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001);
Israel Finkelstein and N. A. Silberman, The Bible Unearthed: Archaeology’s New Vision of Ancient Israel and the Origin of Its Sacred Texts (New York: The Free Press, 2001);
P. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander. A History of the Persian Empire (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2002);
T.C. Mitchell, ‘The Assyrian and Babylonian Empires and Other States of the Near East from the Eighth to the Sixth Centuries’, in J. Boardman et al. (eds.), The Cambridge Ancient History. Sec. ed., vol. Ill, Part 2 (1991): 322-460;
A. Kuhrt, The Ancient Near East. Vol. II, (London: Routledge, 1995);
K. A. Kitchen, On the Reliability of the Old Testament (Grand Rapids: MI, Cambridge, U.K.: Eerdmans, 2003)
There is Israel and there is Palestine. Unfortunately, among many of us who have been immersed in a certain view of the Bible and history the term Palestine can easily conjure up images of the other, the outsider, the crude pagan destined to be supplanted, or other Orientalist visions of “the Arab” or even “Islamism”. But the term Israel is also problematic. As Philip R. Davies pointed out in 1992 we find ourselves with shifting images of three different Israels:
1. Historical Israel:
Historical Israel is the Kingdom of Israel / Bit Humri / House of Omri (9th century -720 BCE) — the kingdom that archaeologists have uncovered in the northern region of Palestine. It is known from Moabite and Assyrian inscriptions.
2. Biblical Israel:
Biblical Israel is the 12 tribe confederation, the United Monarchy, the Kingdoms of Israel and Judah, and the “Israelites” throughout history and tradition in the 2nd – 1st millennium BCE (Hjelm 16)
3. Ancient Israel:
Finally, the Ancient Israel perspective offers a harmonization of biblical traditions with archaeology and epigraphy and uses the name “Israel” indiscriminately of its historical use and verification. In regard to historical research, such traditional “ancient Israel” histories are oxymoronically neither biblical nor historical, but reductionist conflation of biblical myth and historical fact. (Hjelm 16)
See the above list of titles for examples of that kind of harmonization.
Where is there room for Palestine here? We know that Palestine is even denied as a legitimate name in itself by various extremist pro-Zionists and Islamophobes.
Imagining Palestine
Speaking of the Palestine History and Heritage Project, Hjelm explains:
We have chosen to use the term “Palestine” generally, because it is the most consistent name of the area stretching from as far north as Sidon to the Brook of Egypt and from the Mediterranean into the Transjordan with ever changing borders since the Iron Age. It is testified in inscriptions from Ramses III (ca. 1182-1151 BCE) with increased regional comprehension in the 12th-10th cent. BCE. From the neo-Assyrian period (10th-7th century BCE) onwards it is the most common etic collective designation, manifested in the Roman period (1st cent. BCE – 4th cent. CE), and it has been in continuous use until 1967, whence the name became a modern political term for areas that are not Israel or are occupied by Israel. Our use relates to the various meanings of the name throughout three millennia, in which many polities have co-existed, including the ancient kingdoms of Sidon, Ashkelon, Gaza, Gezer, Israel, Judah, Edom, etc. in addition to later Assyrian, Babylonian, Persian, Hellenistic, Roman and Byzantine provinces and the imperial polities established from conquests by Sassanid Persians, Arab (peninsular) tribes, crusading Europeans, Mamelukes, Seljuks, Ottoman Turks and the British Commonwealth. (Hjelm 10f)
That image reduces the notion of the above three Israels to passing visions in a kaleidoscope of richly varying histories. Certainly a study of “historical Israel” (the first of the three listed above) is a necessary undertaking for anyone who wants to understand the Bible — if only to come to appreciate that the Biblical Israel cannot be identified with the historical Israel. In other words, before studying the Bible’s view of history one would do well to study history on its own terms first. Instead of seeing cultures and today’s descendants of past eras through biblical lenses we would do well to study those cultures and descendants in their own right first.
Palestine is much bigger than “biblical Israel”. A study of Palestine embraces a study of other great city states that dominated the region at various times yet which the Bible only alludes to with a passing or a negative glance, if at all.
Nor is its history limited to a few centuries in ancient times followed by a “dark age” of early Christian and Islamic domination only to be “liberated” and “revived” in 1948 or especially in 1967 with the seizure of Jerusalem — again as the highlighted portion of the above quotation demonstrates.
The relevance of the PaHH must go without saying though I think it must be said at this time, howeverhardthatsaying is.
The Palestine History and Heritage Project (PaHH)
The Palestine History and Heritage Project (PaHH) was formed in 2014 with the twofold aim at producing a trustworthy history of Palestine and of offering this history as a basis for the production of new school textbooks which may reflect Palestine’s multi-vocal and multi-facetted history in a form that is scholarly evidence based rather than rooted in traditional religious interpretation.
PaHH is an international and interdisciplinary project, at present counting some 40 members (half of whom are academically situated in the Middle East or are of Middle Eastern origin) related to or working at academic institutions in Palestine, Europe, Africa, and North and South America.
The initiative to form the project came from Dr. Thomas L. Thompson and Dr. Niels Peter Lemche of the University of Copenhagen; Dr. Hamdan Taha, Former Director of the Department of Antiquities and Cultural Heritage, Palestinian Authority; Dr. Ilan Pappe, Director of the Institute of Palestine Studies, University of Exeter; Dr. Issa Sarie, Head of the Archaeological Department, Al Quds University, Abu Dis; and Dr. Basem Ra’ad, the University of London.
The project has been housed at the Faculty of Theology at the University of Copenhagen, with me as project leader until 2017, Dr. Mahmoud Issa as project coordinator and Thomas Thompson as project developer. Although we are now all retired, the faculty has accepted to keep the relationship and non-economic support. Over the years, the project has been funded by minor Danish and British funds to cover workshop and conference expenses. In addition, many Palestinian educational institutions have graciously hosted parts of our workshops and invited us for lectures and discussions. (Hjelm 9f)
Thompson, Thomas L., and Ingrid Hjelm. The Ever Elusive Past: Discussions of Palestine’s History and Heritage. Ramallah, Palestine: Dar Al Nasher, 2019.
Peter Kirby cites an argument for interpolation not from a source agreeing with the argument but rather from a source disposing of it. He quotes Robert Webb:
A second argument is that the nouns used for ‘baptism’ in this text (βαπτισμός and βάπτισις, Ant. 18.117) are not found elsewhere in the Josephan corpus, which may suggest that this vocabulary is foreign to Josephus and is evidence of interpolation. However, we may object that using a word only once does not mean it is foreign to an author. Josephus uses many words only once . . . .
(Webb, p. 39)
I try to make a habit of always checking footnotes and other citations to try to get my own perspective on the sources a book is referencing. If one turns to a scholar who is agreeing with the argument that Webb is addressing, one sees that Webb has presented the argument in a somewhat eviscerated form. Here is how it is presented by a scholar who is trying to persuade readers to accept it as distinct from Webb’s format that is aiming to persuade you to disagree with it.
Against this, it seems that scholars try to blur the fact that this brief passage also contains unique words unparalleled in any of Josephus’s writings, notably words that, as I shall attempt to prove, are semantically and conceptually suspect of a Christian hand — βαπτιστής, βαπτισμός, βάπτισιν, έπασκουσιν, αποδεκτός.
(Nir, p. 36)
I covered the bapt- words in the previous post so this time I look at the other two, έπασκουσιν (as in “lead righteous lives”) and αποδεκτός (as in “if the baptism was to be acceptable“) along with some others. Keep in mind that what follows is sourced from Rivka Nir’s more detailed discussion in her book The First Christian Believer, and all the additional authors I quote I do so because Nir has cited at least some part of them. (To place Rivka Nir in context see my previous post.)
The word appears in this section of the John the Baptist passage:
For Herod had put him to death, though he was a good man and had exhorted the Jews who lead [επασκουσιν] righteous lives and practise
justice towards their fellows and piety toward God to join in baptism . . .
There are two possible interpretations here. Should we translate the passage to indicate
John was exhorting Jews to practice, labour at, lead virtuous and righteous lives and so undergo baptism?
Or
should the scene be translated to indicate that John is commanding those Jews who were known for their righteousness and special virtue to be baptized (for the consecration of their bodies, since they had already become righteous through their living prior to baptism)?
Scholarly opinions are divided. Rivka Nir takes the side of those who interpret it in the latter manner: John is addressing a sectarian group who “practise” a righteous way of living and telling them to be baptized. What is in Nir’s mind, of course, is that the author of this passage was from such a sectarian community.
That we are dealing with an elect group is equally evident in how the passage depicts John’s addressees, whom the author designates as ‘Jews who lead righteous lives and practice justice towards their fellows and piety towards God’. This description lends itself to two readings. Most read the two participles forms έπασκουσιν [lead, practise, labour at] and χρωμένοις as circumstantial attributives modifying the exhortation itself.
Nir, p. 49
It can be interpreted to mean EITHER that John is exhorting Jews to lead righteous lives OR that John is exhorting Jews who lead righteous lives to undergo baptism. In this case the Jews spoken of are initiated into a community…. (See below for the grammatical details of these two possible interpretations.)
A cult defined by righteousness
If we follow the second reading, that the passage is depicting a call for a sectarian group that is identified as “labouring at, practising” righteousness to undergo and “join in” baptism. But if that is the case, what is so distinctive about “righteousness” in this context? Here again scholarly analysis has opened up insights the lay readers like me might easily miss. Righteousness in this context is not a common morality or keeping the rules of the Pharisees or Temple authorities. It is even used in the New Testament to distinguish between the Christian “righteous” sect and the “superficially/hypocritically righteous” Pharisees, scribes and Sadducees. The same is found in the Qumran scrolls. “Righteousness” can denote a sectarian identity. Nir, pp. 50f:
John Kampen examined the term ‘righteousness’ in the Qumran scrolls. He reached the conclusion that unlike its usage in tannaitic sources to denote charity and mercy, at Qumran it denoted sectarian identity and belonging to an elect group having exclusive claim to a righteous way of life. Matthew applies this term in the same sense, in connection to John’s baptism (3.15; 21.32). as well as in the Sermon on the Mount (5.10-11), where the author urges a sectarian way of life distinguished by righteousness. In other words, righteousness marked the sectarian identity of the group and served to preserve its boundaries.56 In this passage, as with Matthew and the Qumranites, ‘righteousness’ defines the lifestyle of this elect sectarian group as well as the boundaries separating it from society at large.
56. J. Kampen. “‘Righteousness’ in Matthew and the Legal Texts from Qumran’, in Legal Texts and Legal Issues: Proceedings of the Second Meeting of the International Organization for Qumran Studies. Cambridge 1995. Published in Honour of Joseph Μ. Baumgarten (ed. Μ. Bernstein, F. Garcia Martinez and J. Kampen; Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1997). pp. 461-87 (479, 481, 484, 486); Wink, John the Baptist in the Gospel Tradition, p. 36: ‘The word δικαιοσύνη does not spill out by accident; it is Matthew’s peculiar way of designating the faith and life of Christians and of Christianity in general (cf. Mt. 5.6. 10; 6.1-4). Meier (A Marginal Jew, II. p. 61) points out the resemblance between John’s description in Josephus and in Lk. 3.10-14. which portrays him as exhorting to acts of social justice. This may be accountable to two Greek-Roman writers, Josephus and Luke, who independently of each other sought to describe an odd Jewish prophet according to the cultural models known in the Greek-Roman world. Similarly, Ernst, Johannes der Täufer, p. 257.
Those footnoted references are not the easiest for lay readers to locate but I have copied extracts from a couple of them. See below for the full passages being cited in footnote 56.
The passage does not simply say that John’s followers were obeying the Jewish traditions, but that they were “practising” a righteousness that set them apart from others and that qualified them to enter the cultic community through baptism, a baptism that would, because they were practicing this righteousness, also ritually sanctify their bodies.
A further pointer to the passage being written from the perspective of a distinctive cult practice, a cult that Nir finds signs of in Qumran, the Fourth Sibylline Oracle and various (anti-Pauline) Jewish-Christian sects, is the language used to express the disciples “coming together”, “joining” in baptism.
For Herod had put him to death, though he was a good man and had exhorted the Jews who lead [επασκουσιν] righteous lives and practice [χρωμένοις] justice towards their fellows and piety toward God to join in baptism [βαπτισμω συνιεναι]. . . . When others too joined the crowds about him, because they were aroused [ήρθησαν] to the highest degree by his sermons, Herod became alarmed.
What commentators have discerned here is that the “joining” in baptism means entering into membership of a sectarian group, indicated by the inference that the call is for all of those who practise righteousness to gather together in a (collective) baptism. See details below.
Others, too, joined : Who were the others?
According to Meier in A Marginal Jew, II, pp. 58f
At first glance, the previous concentration of the passage on “the Jews” as the audience of John’s preaching might conjure up the idea that the unspecified “others” are Gentiles. There is no support for such an idea in the Four Gospels, but such a double audience would parallel what Josephus (quite mistakenly) says about Jesus’ audience in Ant. 18.3.3 §63 (kai pollous men Ioudaious, pollous de kai tou Hellenikou epegageto). However, if we are correct that epaskousin [ἐπασκουσιν] and chromenois [χρωμένοις] in §117 express conditions qualifying tois Ioudaiois, there is no need to go outside the immediate context to understand who “the others” at the beginning of §118 are.
So Meier concludes that the “others” were from the general Jewish population coming to see the righteous community respond to John’s call for baptism, but there is also a possibility that “others” might also refer to Gentiles, as in the Testimonium Flavianum (Ant. 18.63): ‘He [sc. Jesus] won over many Jews and many Greeks’, as well as Christians: Mt. 27.42: Lk. 7.19: Jn 4.37: 10.16: 1 Cor. 3.10: 9.27.
In this passage, John says that ‘if baptism was to be acceptable [αποδεκτήν αύτώ]’ to God.60 ‘they must not employ it to gain pardon for whatever sins they committed, but as a consecration of the body’.
What kind of baptism might ‘be acceptable’ to God?
In biblical usage, this expression relates to the sacrificial system at the temple to designate an offering accepted by God.61 In the New Testament, the compound adjective αποδεκτός, meaning ‘acceptable’, occurs in connection with sacrifices only in 1 Peter: ‘spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God’ (2.3-5). . . .
The author of this passage speaks of John’s baptism in terms paralleling the atonement sacrifices in the temple, by means of which individuals ask God’s acceptance of their offering that their sins may be forgiven. Joseph Thomas64 focused on one of the features of Baptist sects (Ebionites, Nazarenes, Elcasaites) that withdrew from the traditional temple and sacrificial worship and conceived of baptism as a substitute for sacrifices. To his mind, cessation of sacrifices and the baptismal rite are interrelated: instead of sacrifices in atonement for sins, it is holy baptism that atones for sins.65 The notion of baptism as replacement for the Jewish sacrificial system is distinctly Christian: Jesus is the expiatory sacrifice in place of the temple sacrifices and his death atones for all the sins of the world.66 By baptism, the baptized identify with Jesus’ atoning sacrifice, becoming a sacrifice themselves, and their sins are forgiven, as expounded in Rom. 6.2-6.
61. Webb, John the Baptizer and Prophet, pp. 166, 203.
64. Thomas. Le mouvement Baptiste, pp. 280-81: J.A.T. Robinson, ‘The Baptism of John and the Qumran Community’, HTR 50 (1957). pp. 175-91 (180).
65. Thomas. Le mouvement Baptiste, pp. 55-56: Webb, John the Baptizer and Prophet, p. 120. On baptism in place of sacrificing al Qumran, see subsequently.
66. Eph. 5.2: Rom. 12.1.
Nir, pp. 51f
In the account in Josephus we read that for John’s baptism to be “acceptable” (αποδεκτος) it must not be used to grant forgiveness of sins but for the consecration or sanctification of the body, a function of erstwhile temple sacrifices.
Baptism, a central rite
John’s baptism was being preached and proclaimed, a point in common between Josephus and the Gospels. The Gospel of Matthew underscores the central importance of baptism when he has Jesus command his disciples to go into the world and baptize new disciples.
Moreover, other scholars have wondered why Josephus did not explain the term “baptism” here.
What would Greek and Roman readers unfamiliar with Christian sources understand by this term? They were familiar with the verb βάπτω, which means ‘to dip/be dipped’ or ‘to immerse/be submerged’, and with the verb βαπτίζω, which in classical sources denotes ‘to immerse/be submerged under water’.49 How would they understand a designation referring to someone who immerses others with this particular immersion? How could Josephus use this designation without defining it?50
Moreover, this passage uses two terms for John’s immersion: βαππσμός and βάπτισις. which Christian tradition applied as distinctive of Christian baptism. And it is only here that they occur in Josephus, diverging markedly from the terminology he applies to the Jewish ritual immersion for purification from external physical defilement.51
49. Metaphorically: soaked in wine. See Oepke. ‘βάπτω’, TDNT, I. p. 535.
50. This bewilderment was already raised by Graelz (Geschichte der Juden. III. p. 276 n. 3): and Abrahams (Studies in Pharisaism, p. 33) noted that this designation might be an interpolation. Mason (Josephus and the New Testament, p. 228) attempts to distinguish between ‘Christ’ and ‘called the Christ’, as in the latter case Josephus would not need to explain the title, and this applies to John, ‘called the Baptist’. Some argue (e.g. Webb, John the Baptizer and Prophet, pp. 34, 168) that John’s being called by this name in the Gospels and in Josephus proves it became distinctive of John and the permanent Greek designation, hence its usage by the evangelists as well as Josephus. Indeed, John is called ‘the Baptist’ in the Synoptics, but this epithet is not attached to his name in Acts and in the Fourth Gospel.
51 To describe Jewish immersions, Josephus usually uses the verb λούεσθαι or άπολούεσθαι, as he does for the Essenes and Bannus; see K.H. Rengstorf, A Complete Concordance to Flavius Josephus (Leiden: EJ. Brill. 2002). I. p. 290. But βάπτισις is a term Christian sources apply to the baptism of Christ or Christian baptism; see Athanasius Alexandrinus, Quaestiones in scripturas 41 (M.28.725A); LPGL, p. 284. Origen uses βαπτισμός for John’s baptism, but in many sources this term applies to Christian baptism in general: see Heb 6.2: βαπτισμών διδαχής; Col 2.12: ‘you were buried with him in baptism (έν τω βαπτισμώ), you were also raised with him’; Chrysostom, Hom. in Heb. 9.2 ( 12.95B). This term also applies to the repeated baptismal rites of heretical sects, e.g., Ebionites, Marcionites, etc. See LPGL, p. 288. On the possibility that John’s baptism in Josephus was also a repeated ritual, see subsequently.
Nir, p. 48
It is through discussions of such technical points that Nir argues for a Jewish-Christian provenance of the John the Baptist passage in Antiquities of the Jews. When criticisms against the interpolation view point to comparisons with specific New Testament terminology they are missing a key facet of the argument: the interpolation is said to be consistent with certain Jewish Christian practices and thus contrary to the Christian ideas represented by the New Testament.
I still have some questions about Rivka Nir’s presentation but I have tried to set it out in these posts as fully (yet succinctly) as I reasonably can. The less background knowledge we have the easier it is to be persuaded by new readings. The more we learn about the Jewish and Christian worlds in their first and second century contexts the more aware we become of just how little we really know and how vast are the gaps in our knowledge. There is little room for dogmatism, for certainty, for “belief”, in a field of inquiry where even the sources themselves are not always what they seem. That’s true of much ancient history and it is especially true of the history of Christian origins.
So where does John the Baptist fit in history?
Our most abundant historical sources are Christian. In the canonical gospels John the Baptist is the prophetic voice announcing the advent of Jesus. He is depicted variously as a second Elijah, an Isaianic voice in the wilderness, and as the son of a temple priest. Always he represents the Jewish Scriptures prophesying their fulfilment in Jesus Christ. As such, he functions as a theological personification.
If John’s literary function is to personify a theological message we might think that he could still be more than a literary figure. Could he not also have had a historical reality? Yes, of course he could. But a general rule of thumb is to opt for the simplest explanation. If we have a literary explanation for the presence of John the Baptist that explains all that we read about him in the gospels, then there is no need to seek additional explanations. If there is independent evidence for John in history then we are in quite different territory.
The earliest non-Christian source we have is found in Antiquities18.116/18.5.2 (by Josephus). If this passage was indeed penned by Josephus or one of his scribal assistants then it would be strong evidence — strong because it is independent of the gospels and in a work of “generally reliable” historical narration — that there was a John the Baptist figure in history, however that figure might be interpreted.
The passage would not confirm the gospels’ theological role of John. After all, in Josephus the JtB passage is set some years after the time of Jesus and Jesus is never mentioned in relation to John.
In the eyes of some scholars, those stark differences from the gospels stamp the passage with authenticity. This would mean that Christian authors took John from history and reset him in time to make him a precursor of Jesus. If this is how John entered the gospels then the common notion among scholars of Christian origins and the historical Jesus have no grounds on which to reconstruct a historical scenario in which Jesus joined the Baptist sect only to break away from it. John would then remain as nothing more than a theological personification of the OT pointing to fulfilment in Christ.
But if there are reasonable grounds for suspecting that the passage in Josephus is from a Jewish-Christian hand, then we are left without any secure foundation for any place of such a figure in history. Another proposal is that the passage is genuinely Josephan but removed from its original context where it spoke of another “John” from the one we associate with Christian tradition. What is certain is that the passage raises questions. It is susceptible to debate. It can never be a bed-rock datum that establishes with certainty any semblance of a John the Baptist figure comparable to the one we read about in the gospels.