Chapter 5: Before the Bible - A Chorus of Competing Voices

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

"In the beginning... there was no Bible."

Not in the form we know today. No leather-bound volume with gilt-edged pages, no numbered verses, no table of contents dividing "Old" from "New" Testament. Instead, there was a magnificent, chaotic swirl of scrolls, stories, prophecies, letters, laws, and legends—some preserved in monastery libraries, others copied in private homes, still others transmitted through the fallible memories of communities scattered across the Mediterranean world.

What we have explored in Part I is not merely the prehistory of Scripture but the story of an epic contest: over what counted as sacred, who possessed the authority to decide, and whether unity represented spiritual virtue or political strategy. The Bible as we know it emerged victorious from this contest, but understanding the battle itself reveals how contingent and constructed our inherited scriptural collection really is.

The Myth of the Fixed Text

We often imagine that Scripture began as a single, divinely dictated document—perhaps the Torah inscribed by the finger of God and delivered to Moses on Mount Sinai, or the Gospels penned by apostolic eyewitnesses who faithfully recorded Jesus's exact words and deeds. This comforting vision of unmediated divine revelation, however, dissolves under historical scrutiny.

The Hebrew Bible itself circulated in multiple, significantly different versions throughout the ancient world. The Masoretic Text, preserved by Jewish scribal families and standardized around 1000 CE, represents only one textual tradition among several. The Septuagint, translated into Greek for diaspora Jewish communities in Egypt and elsewhere, contained additional books and often divergent readings of familiar passages. The Samaritan Pentateuch differed from both other traditions in hundreds of places, reflecting the theological and liturgical needs of the Samaritan community centered on Mount Gerizim rather than Jerusalem.

These weren't minor scribal variations but substantial differences that affected fundamental questions of law, prophecy, and religious practice. Some Septuagint psalms had no Hebrew counterparts. Genealogies varied between traditions. Even basic commandments could differ—the Samaritan version of the Ten Commandments includes an additional directive to worship at Mount Gerizim.¹

The discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls in the mid-twentieth century provided dramatic confirmation of what scholars had long suspected: early Judaism was not a monolithic tradition preserving a single, authorized text, but rather a vibrant ecosystem of competing interpretations and variant manuscripts. The Qumran community, likely Essenes, possessed biblical scrolls that sometimes aligned with the later Masoretic tradition, sometimes matched the Septuagint, and sometimes preserved entirely unique readings found nowhere else.²

Even more remarkably, the Dead Sea Scrolls revealed that some Jewish communities actively "corrected" biblical texts they considered corrupted, producing revised versions that better aligned with their theological convictions or contemporary circumstances. The Temple Scroll, for example, rewrites passages from Exodus, Leviticus, and Deuteronomy to create a new, supposedly more accurate version of divine law.³

Early Christianity inherited and amplified this textual diversity. There was no single, universally accepted New Testament canon for the first three centuries of Christian history. Churches in Rome treasured different collections than those in Alexandria, Antioch, or Carthage. Some communities revered the apocalyptic visions of Revelation; others rejected it as too violent or obscure. Some embraced texts like the Shepherd of Hermas and 1 Enoch; others dismissed them as recent innovations or dangerous speculation.

The Ethiopian Orthodox tradition eventually canonized thirty-five New Testament books, including 1 Enoch and other texts that most Christian communities had abandoned. Armenian Christians accepted 3 Corinthians as genuinely Pauline. Syrian churches used Tatian's Diatessaron—a harmony weaving the four Gospels into a single narrative—rather than maintaining the distinct voices of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.⁴

This diversity wasn't accidental chaos but the natural state of a rapidly expanding, culturally diverse religious movement that had not yet developed centralized institutional authority capable of enforcing textual uniformity across vast geographical and linguistic boundaries.

The Drive Toward Uniformity: Power and the Making of Orthodoxy

The gradual narrowing from textual diversity to canonical uniformity reflected not simply spiritual discernment but the increasing institutional sophistication of Christian communities as they adapted to their transformation from persecuted minority to imperial religion. As Christianity gained political influence and developed hierarchical structures modeled on Roman administrative patterns, church leaders recognized that controlling authoritative texts provided powerful leverage for controlling theological interpretation and ecclesiastical authority.

The pressure for canonical uniformity intensified throughout the fourth and fifth centuries as church councils, imperial edicts, and influential theologians worked systematically to define orthodox belief by exclusion. Athanasius's 39th Festal Letter (367 CE) not only listed the twenty-seven books that would become the New Testament but explicitly prohibited the reading of alternative texts: "Let no man add to these, neither let him take ought from these."⁵

This canonical narrowing was simultaneously theological and political. To canonize a text was not merely to declare it inspired but to grant specific communities the authority to interpret it while denying that same authority to others. Canon formation helped establish clear boundaries around legitimate Christian identity while providing institutional mechanisms for marginalizing theological dissidents.

The process involved real losses alongside obvious institutional gains. Early Christian monasticism in Egypt and Syria preserved rich traditions of mystical theology and visionary experience that drew heavily on texts like the Shepherd of Hermas and various apocalyptic writings. When these texts were excluded from the canonical collection, entire approaches to Christian spirituality were gradually marginalized or forgotten.

Feminist biblical scholarship has documented how the canonical process systematically excluded texts that portrayed women in positions of spiritual authority or leadership. The Gospel of Mary's portrayal of Mary Magdalene as Jesus's most perceptive disciple, capable of receiving and interpreting divine revelations, offered biblical warrant for female apostolic authority that was lost when the text was suppressed.⁶

Similarly, Jewish-Christian communities that maintained connections to Jewish law and practice while embracing Jesus as messiah found their distinctive theological positions increasingly marginalized as the canonical collection emphasized texts that supported the separation of Christianity from its Jewish origins.

What Could Have Been: Alternative Canonical Trajectories

Understanding the contingent character of canonical formation opens space for imagining how different textual choices might have produced alternative trajectories for Christian development. These are not idle speculations but serious attempts to understand how textual boundaries shaped theological possibilities.

If early Christian communities had preserved the broader Septuagint canon rather than following Jerome's preference for Hebrew sources, modern Christianity might emphasize books like 1 and 2 Maccabees (which support armed resistance to religious oppression), Wisdom of Solomon (which personifies divine wisdom in feminine terms), and Sirach (which offers detailed guidance on economic ethics and social responsibility). The theological implications could have been profound: stronger biblical warrant for liberation theology, more robust development of feminine divine imagery, and greater emphasis on practical ethical instruction.⁷

Had apocalyptic texts like 1 Enoch remained part of the canonical collection—as they did in Ethiopian Christianity—Western Christianity might have developed with greater emphasis on cosmic justice, angelic mediation, and the eventual restoration of all creation. The book's detailed visions of divine judgment and cosmic renewal provided theological framework for understanding historical suffering in eschatological perspective.⁸

If Gnostic or Ebionite communities had maintained greater influence in canonical formation, the resulting collection might have centered more explicitly on mystical knowledge, radical economic sharing, or the continuing relevance of Jewish law for Christian practice. Each of these alternatives represented serious theological positions held by substantial Christian communities rather than marginal sectarian innovations.

The Gospel of Thomas's emphasis on seeking divine wisdom through contemplative practice might have produced a Christianity more focused on individual spiritual realization than institutional mediation. The Didache's detailed instructions for community governance and liturgical practice might have created stronger biblical foundation for democratic church polity and economic justice.

These alternative possibilities remind us that the theological framework most Christians now take for granted emerged from specific historical circumstances and could plausibly have developed differently under alternative conditions.

Echoes Through the Gaps: The Persistence of Suppressed Voices

Even as canonical boundaries were established and enforced, suppressed voices continued to influence Christian development in subtle but significant ways. Textual traces of excluded materials appear throughout canonical writings—quotations from lost works, allusions to suppressed traditions, theological concepts that developed outside orthodox channels but eventually influenced mainstream Christianity.

The New Testament's references to 1 Enoch (especially in Jude), its quotations from unknown sources, and its apparent familiarity with traditions not preserved in other canonical texts all point to a much broader literary and theological context than the canonical collection itself preserves. These traces suggest that early Christian authors knew and valued texts that later communities would exclude or forget.

Medieval Christian mysticism rediscovered many themes and practices that had been marginalized during canonical formation. Figures like Hildegard of Bingen, Meister Eckhart, and Julian of Norwich developed approaches to divine union and visionary experience that bore striking resemblances to suppressed early Christian traditions, suggesting that spiritual insights excluded from the canonical collection continued to emerge through alternative channels.⁹

Modern archaeological discoveries continue to reveal how much early Christian diversity was lost through canonical standardization. The Nag Hammadi Library, Coptic magical papyri, and Syriac Christian literature preserve alternative theological trajectories that illuminate both the possibilities and limitations of orthodox development.

These discoveries remind contemporary Christians that the canonical collection, however valuable and authoritative, represents a curated selection rather than a comprehensive preservation of early Christian theological reflection. Understanding what was excluded can deepen appreciation for what was preserved while opening space for considering how marginalized voices might still contribute to contemporary Christian reflection.

The Living Legacy of Ancient Choices

The canonical battles explored in Part I continue to shape contemporary Christianity in ways that most believers never realize. Denominational differences often reflect alternative choices about which ancient voices deserve ongoing attention and which can be safely ignored. Catholic and Orthodox traditions preserve more of the ancient liturgical and theological diversity that was marginalized in Protestant canonical formation. Pentecostal and Charismatic movements often rediscover mystical and visionary elements that were suppressed in more institutional forms of Christianity.

Contemporary biblical scholarship has recovered awareness of the diversity and contingency that characterized early Christian textual formation, but this scholarly knowledge has only begun to influence popular Christian understanding of biblical authority and interpretation. Most Christians still approach Scripture as if it emerged from a single, unified source rather than from centuries of community discernment, institutional negotiation, and political calculation.

Understanding the contested history of canonical formation doesn't necessarily undermine biblical authority, but it does encourage more humble and historically informed approaches to scriptural interpretation. Recognizing that human communities made choices about which voices to preserve and which to marginalize can inspire contemporary Christians to listen more carefully to perspectives that challenge or complement orthodox tradition.

The ancient contest over textual authority also illuminates contemporary debates about religious pluralism, institutional authority, and the relationship between tradition and innovation. The questions that shaped fourth-century canonical discussions—How should religious communities balance inherited tradition with new insights? What criteria should govern decisions about authoritative teaching? How can institutional stability be maintained without suppressing legitimate diversity?—remain central to religious life across different traditions and historical periods.

Perhaps most importantly, the recovery of suppressed early Christian voices demonstrates that the conversation between human seekers and divine mystery cannot be permanently contained by any institutional authority, however impressive its credentials. The texts that were buried in Egyptian monasteries and rediscovered in the twentieth century bear witness to the conviction that divine revelation exceeds all human attempts to circumscribe or control it.

Looking Forward: From Text to Translation

The canonical formation explored in Part I established which texts would be preserved and transmitted, but it only began the process of making divine revelation accessible to human communities across different languages, cultures, and historical circumstances. Once the textual boundaries were drawn, a new set of challenges emerged: How should these ancient writings be translated for communities that spoke different languages and lived in different cultural contexts?

Part II will explore how the act of translation became another form of theological editing, as scribes, scholars, and church authorities made countless decisions about how to render Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek concepts into Latin, Germanic, and vernacular languages. Each translation choice carried theological implications, and the accumulated impact of these decisions would prove as consequential for Christian development as the original canonical battles themselves.

The chorus of competing voices that characterized early textual formation would find new expression in the competing claims of translators, each insisting that their linguistic choices best preserved the original divine message. As we will see, translating Scripture proved to be another way of editing God's word—sometimes faithfully, sometimes creatively, and sometimes in service of particular theological or political agendas that had little to do with ancient authorial intentions.

The contest over canonical boundaries may have been settled by the fifth century, but the battle over how to interpret and apply those canonical texts was just beginning.

Notes

For the textual differences between Hebrew and Samaritan traditions, see Emanuel Tov, Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible, 3rd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2012), 80-100.
The significance of the Dead Sea Scrolls for understanding Second Temple textual diversity is explored in James C. VanderKam and Peter Flint, The Meaning of the Dead Sea Scrolls (New York: HarperOne, 2002), 98-126.
For the Temple Scroll's editorial methods, see Lawrence H. Schiffman, The Courtyards of the House of the Lord(Leiden: Brill, 2008), 145-167.
Regional canonical variations are surveyed in Lee Martin McDonald, The Formation of the Christian Biblical Canon, rev. ed. (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2017), 345-378.
Athanasius, 39th Festal Letter (367 CE), trans. in Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 4, ed. Philip Schaff and Henry Wace (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1957), 552.
For the suppression of women's voices in canonical formation, see Karen L. King, The Gospel of Mary of Magdala: Jesus and the First Woman Apostle (Santa Rosa, CA: Polebridge Press, 2003), 158-182.
The theological implications of Septuagint inclusion are explored in Timothy Michael Law, When God Spoke Greek: The Septuagint and the Making of the Christian Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 154-178.
For 1 Enoch's influence in Ethiopian Christianity, see Roger Cowley, The Traditional Interpretation of the Apocalypse of St. John in the Ethiopian Orthodox Church (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 9-23.
The persistence of marginalized traditions in medieval mysticism is explored in Bernard McGinn, The Flowering of Mysticism: Men and Women in the New Mysticism (1200-1350) (New York: Crossroad, 1998), 23-45.