Chapter 1: The Chaos Before the Canon

This chapter is part of the book The Sacred Editors: Christianity.

"Not everything that was sacred was saved. And not everything that was saved stayed sacred."

Rome, around 190 CE. The bishop Polycrates of Ephesus has just refused to bow.

Pope Victor I, bishop of Rome, has written demanding uniformity across the churches. The dispute? The date of Easter. Victor wants the Roman custom followed: Easter must fall on Sunday. But in Asia Minor, churches have long celebrated it on the 14th of Nisan, the Jewish Passover—regardless of the weekday. Victor threatens to cut them off from communion. Excommunicate them.

Polycrates replies boldly. He lists bishops and martyrs—seven from his own family—who followed the older tradition. "We observe the exact day," he writes. "We are not afraid of threats, for those greater than I have said: 'We must obey God rather than men.'"¹

Victor pushes for unity. Others plead for peace. Irenaeus of Lyons steps in, writing from Gaul to urge tolerance. The churches don't split. Not yet.

But something deeper is exposed.

There is no central authority. No agreed calendar. No fixed canon. Each community reads, prays, and interprets according to local tradition. Some follow Paul. Others lean toward Peter. Some celebrate Easter with a three-day fast. Others with a week of joy. They read different books. Tell different stories. Follow different rhythms.

This wasn't fringe chaos. It was the norm.

The Wild Library of Early Christianity

Today's New Testament contains twenty-seven books. But for the first three centuries of Christianity, that number—and the content itself—was far from fixed.

The Gospel of Matthew might be read alongside the Gospel of Thomas. Paul's letters might share space with the Shepherd of Hermas, the Didache, or 1 Clement. Some communities embraced the Book of Revelation; others rejected it as too strange, too violent, or too obscure. Even major church figures like Eusebius and Athanasius disagreed over which books should be included—and when.

This period has been termed by scholars the "fluid canon" era. According to Bruce Metzger, the leading authority on canon history, "the boundaries of the canon were not drawn sharply for a considerable period of time."² It wasn't until the mid-fourth century that something resembling today's New Testament appeared in formal lists.

But in the meantime, a vast library of texts circulated among Christian communities—texts that were read aloud in worship, copied by hand, treasured by believers, and debated by leaders. Before there was orthodoxy, there was diversity. Before there was a closed canon, there was an open conversation.

The oral tradition that preceded these written texts added another layer of fluidity. Stories of Jesus circulated by word of mouth for decades before being written down, shaped by the communities that told and retold them.³ Memorization techniques from Jewish rabbinic tradition influenced how early Christians preserved and transmitted teachings, while liturgical practices—baptismal formulas, Eucharistic prayers, hymns—carried theological content that would later influence which texts gained acceptance.

A Sampling from the Early Christian Library

The diversity of early Christian literature was staggering. Consider just a few examples of texts that circulated widely in the first centuries:

The Gospel of Thomas—A sayings gospel containing 114 logia (sayings) attributed to Jesus, many with no parallel in the canonical Gospels. Opening with the promise that "whoever finds the interpretation of these sayings will not experience death," it presents Jesus as a wisdom teacher revealing hidden knowledge: "Split a piece of wood; I am there. Lift up a stone, and you will find me there."

The Shepherd of Hermas—Wildly popular in Rome and beyond, this apocalyptic text recounts visions given to Hermas by an angel appearing as a shepherd. Filled with moral instruction and emphasizing the possibility of repentance after baptism, it was considered Scripture by many early Christians, including Clement of Alexandria and Origen.

1 Clement—A letter from the church in Rome to the church in Corinth, likely written around 96 CE. It addresses internal disputes in Corinth and emphasizes order, harmony, and submission to church authority. Some early Christians valued it as highly as Paul's own letters to the Corinthians.

The Didache (The Teaching of the Twelve Apostles)—A church manual dating to the late first or early second century, containing detailed instructions on Christian ethics, baptism, fasting, prayer, and the Eucharist. It includes the earliest known Christian liturgical prayers outside the New Testament and provides a window into how early communities organized their religious life.

The Gospel of Peter—A passion narrative that diverges dramatically from the canonical accounts. In its resurrection scene, Jesus emerges from the tomb as a figure so tall his head reaches above the clouds, supported by two angels. The cross itself follows him out of the tomb, and when a heavenly voice asks, "Have you preached to those who sleep?" the cross answers, "Yes."

The Diatessaron—Tatian's harmony of the four Gospels, created around 170 CE and used extensively in Syrian churches for centuries. Rather than four separate Gospel accounts, Syrian Christians often encountered Jesus's story through this single, woven narrative that merged Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John into one continuous account.

These texts were not immediately branded as heretical. Many were revered, even considered divinely inspired. The Shepherd of Hermas was read in churches well into the fourth century. The Didache was cited by church fathers as apostolic teaching. First Clement was included in some early biblical manuscripts. The boundaries between "edifying," "authoritative," and "canonical" were not yet firmly drawn.

Why This Canon Prevailed

So how did we get from this literary chaos to a closed canon of twenty-seven books?

Several forces pushed the early church toward standardization. First, Christianity's rapid spread beyond Jewish contexts into the broader Roman world created urgent needs for reliable teaching materials. New converts needed clear instruction. Church leaders needed authoritative texts for worship and doctrine. Linguistic and cultural diversity demanded common reference points.

Second, theological controversies—particularly the challenge posed by various Gnostic movements—forced early Christians to define what counted as "orthodox" teaching. When rival teachers claimed apostolic authority for radically different versions of Christianity, church leaders felt compelled to establish clear boundaries around acceptable doctrine and the texts that supported it.

One pivotal moment came with Marcion of Sinope (c. 140 CE), a wealthy shipowner who proposed his own drastically reduced canon. Marcion's "Bible" consisted of an edited version of Luke's Gospel and ten letters of Paul—all carefully scrubbed of anything that seemed to connect Christianity too closely with Judaism. He argued that the God of the Hebrew Bible was a different, inferior deity from the God revealed by Jesus.⁴

Marcion's radical pruning horrified church leaders like Justin Martyr and Irenaeus. His challenge forced them to articulate not just what they believed, but which books supported those beliefs. Ironically, Marcion's attempt to shrink the canon may have been the catalyst that prompted orthodox Christians to expand and define their own.

Other factors contributed to canon formation as well. Persecution under emperors like Diocletian (303-311 CE) forced Christians to decide which books were worth dying for—literally. When Roman officials demanded that Christians surrender their sacred texts for burning, communities had to determine which writings were truly Scripture and which were merely helpful or edifying.⁵

Gradually, certain texts achieved near-universal acceptance. The four Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke, John), Acts, and most of Paul's authentic letters were widely used across Christian communities by the end of the second century. But other texts remained disputed for centuries. Revelation was too apocalyptic for some; Hebrews lacked clear apostolic authorship; James seemed to contradict Paul on faith and works; 2 Peter appeared too late to be genuinely Petrine.

By the early fourth century, Eusebius of Caesarea had created a classification system for Christian writings: "acknowledged" (universally accepted), "disputed" (questioned by some but accepted by many), and "spurious" (clearly inauthentic).⁶ This represented an attempt to bring scholarly order to the canonical chaos.

The first time the exact list of our current twenty-seven New Testament books appeared in history was in 367 CE, in an Easter letter from Athanasius, bishop of Alexandria. "These are fountains of salvation," he wrote, "that they who thirst may be satisfied with the living words they contain."⁷

That list was later affirmed by regional church councils at Hippo (393 CE) and Carthage (397 CE). But even then, consensus was far from universal. Eastern churches sometimes included additional texts. The Armenian Church accepted 3 Corinthians. The Ethiopian Orthodox Church eventually canonized thirty-five New Testament books. The Syriac tradition used a New Testament with only twenty-two books well into the fifth century.

The final canon, in other words, emerged through a complex process of liturgical use, theological debate, political maneuvering, and what believers understood as divine guidance—not through a single moment of revelation or decision.

What Would Have Changed?

The canonical process was not inevitable. Different outcomes were possible at multiple points. If other texts had been included—or if some of today's canonical books had been excluded—Christian theology might have developed along dramatically different paths.

If the Gospel of Thomas had been canonized: This text contains no narrative of Jesus's birth, death, or resurrection. Instead, it presents him as a wisdom teacher delivering cryptic, mystical sayings that promise secret knowledge to those who can decode them. Had this gospel entered the canon, Christian spirituality might have emphasized personal enlightenment and hidden wisdom over historical redemption and public proclamation. The focus might have shifted from what Jesus did to what Jesus knew—and what he could teach others to know.

If the Shepherd of Hermas had been canonized: This apocalyptic text places heavy emphasis on the possibility and necessity of repentance after baptism, contradicting the emerging view that baptism washed away all sin permanently. Its inclusion might have prevented the development of strict penitential systems in medieval Christianity, or alternatively, it might have led to more rigorous discipline around post-baptismal sin. Either way, the relationship between baptism, penance, and salvation would likely have evolved differently.

If the Didache had been canonized: As an early church manual, the Didache offers detailed instructions on fasting (Wednesdays and Fridays), prayer (the Lord's Prayer said three times daily), and Eucharistic celebration ("Let grace come, and let this world pass away"). Its canonization might have led to much earlier liturgical uniformity across Christianity and perhaps a more regulated approach to church governance and discipline.

If the Gospel of Peter had been canonized: This passion narrative includes supernatural elements that make the canonical Gospels seem restrained by comparison—angels whose heads reach the heavens, a walking and talking cross, Jesus emerging from the tomb as a giant. Its inclusion might have normalized more visionary, mystical approaches to Christian worship and theology, potentially leading to a church more comfortable with ecstatic experiences and apocalyptic imagery.

If the Diatessaron had become standard: Had Tatian's Gospel harmony been universally adopted instead of the four separate Gospels, Christianity might never have developed the rich tradition of comparing and contrasting different Gospel accounts. The diversity within the canonical Gospels has sparked centuries of theological reflection; a single, harmonized narrative might have produced a more uniform but perhaps less theologically generative tradition.

Each excluded text carried different emphases—on mysticism, moral instruction, liturgical practice, or cosmic drama. Including them might have led to a more diverse Christianity, or perhaps a more fractured one, depending on how they had been interpreted and applied across different communities and centuries.

Scholar Debate: Inspiration, Usage, or Politics?

Modern scholars continue to wrestle with fundamental questions about canon formation: Why these twenty-seven books? What made them special? Was the process driven by spiritual discernment, practical necessity, or political expediency?

Bruce Metzger emphasizes liturgical usage as the primary factor. In his classic work The Canon of the New Testament, he argues that the books included in the canon were those most widely read and used in Christian worship across diverse communities. The canon, in this view, simply formalized what had already been established by centuries of liturgical practice.⁸

Bart Ehrman offers a more critical perspective, highlighting the role of power and orthodoxy. In Lost Christianities, he argues that as Christianity aligned itself with Roman imperial power in the fourth century, texts that supported centralized authority and "orthodox" theology gained favor, while those associated with minority positions or mystical approaches were marginalized or suppressed.⁹

Lee Martin McDonald advocates for a multifactorial approach. In The Formation of the Christian Biblical Canon, he argues that canon formation involved a complex interplay of factors: widespread community acceptance, perceived apostolic origin, theological consistency with emerging orthodox positions, and practical usefulness for worship and instruction.¹⁰

Harry Gamble emphasizes the material and social aspects of early Christian book culture, noting how factors like the expense of manuscript production, literacy rates, and the development of Christian schools all influenced which texts survived and flourished.¹¹

Importantly, many scholars now recognize that early Christian communities often distinguished between "inspiration" and "canonicity." A text could be considered spiritually valuable, even inspired, without necessarily being canonical. First Clement and the Shepherd of Hermas continued to be read publicly in churches long after they were excluded from the final New Testament. The category of "inspired but non-canonical" allowed for a broader appreciation of early Christian literature while still maintaining clear boundaries around the core scriptural collection.

The scholarly consensus today is that no single factor explains canon formation. It was a dynamic, centuries-long process shaped by theological, social, political, and practical forces—not a tidy moment of divine dictation or human decision-making.

Why It Still Matters

Understanding the historical development of the New Testament canon doesn't diminish its spiritual authority—it grounds that authority in the lived experience of Christian communities across centuries. The canon didn't descend fully formed from heaven; it emerged through the prayers, debates, conflicts, and communal discernment of real people wrestling with how to preserve and transmit their most sacred traditions.

Modern debates over biblical authority, interpretation, and theology often assume the current canon was inevitable or divinely predetermined. But history reveals a different picture: the canon was contingent, contested, and contextual. Recognizing this doesn't threaten faith—it can actually deepen it by highlighting the remarkable process through which diverse Christian communities came to recognize certain texts as uniquely authoritative for their ongoing life and mission.

The early Christian world was full of voices—prophetic, pastoral, mystical, practical, poetic, and visionary. Some of those voices made it into the final canon; others were preserved in different ways; still others were lost or suppressed. The New Testament as we have it represents not just what was included, but also what was left out. Understanding that fuller history doesn't undermine Scripture's authority—it helps us appreciate both the richness of early Christian literature and the particular gift of the texts that have been entrusted to us.

In an age when Christians encounter unprecedented access to early Christian writings through archaeological discoveries and digital databases, the question is not whether we should read beyond the canon, but how we should read both canonical and non-canonical texts in ways that honor their historical contexts while remaining open to their spiritual challenges and gifts.

Notes

Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History 5.24.6-7, trans. Roy J. Deferrari, Fathers of the Church 29 (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1955).
Bruce M. Metzger, The Canon of the New Testament: Its Origin, Development, and Significance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), 254.
For the role of oral tradition in early Christianity, see James D.G. Dunn, Jesus Remembered (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 173-254.
For Marcion's theology and its impact on canon formation, see John Barton, A History of the Bible: The Story of the World's Most Influential Book (New York: Viking, 2019), 141-158.
The role of persecution in canon formation is discussed in Harry Y. Gamble, Books and Readers in the Early Church: A History of Early Christian Texts (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), 144-202.
Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History 3.25.1-7.
Athanasius, Thirty-Ninth Festal Letter (367 CE), trans. in Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, vol. 4 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1957), 552.
Metzger, Canon of the New Testament, 286-293.
Bart D. Ehrman, Lost Christianities: The Battles for Scripture and the Faiths We Never Knew (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 230-253.
Lee Martin McDonald, The Formation of the Christian Biblical Canon, rev. ed. (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2017), 414-456.
Gamble, Books and Readers, 58-81.