Jesus Theory #1: Speculation About an Unusual Birth (Part 2: Mary's Baby Daddy)

First of all, a quick refresher from the end of Part 1:

If the story of the birth of Jesus has any truth to it, and if he really was the result of Mary getting pregnant without Joseph's help, then it stands to reason that somebody had to be the daddy. Being an atheist, I rule out the presence of God, so the question is obvious: is there another candidate?

It turns out that the answer is not uncomplicated, but there is a clear possibility. More than that, we may even have an artifact of the gentleman in question. 

But as we did before, we must establish some points of fact upfront related to this post's topic.

• Sex outside of marriage was frowned upon even more strongly than in today's fundamentalist Christianity. To be blunt in my choice of examples, women were called whores just for getting divorced. (An echo of this exists even in Jesus' own Sermon on the Mount, where divorce for any reason other than marital unfaithfulness is considered blameworthy.)
• This was a patriarchal culture where, as Fiddler on the Roof puts it, marriage was decided by the papas. Pretty self-explanatory.
• The long arm of the Jewish religious authorities could only extend so far. Thanks to the Jewish diaspora (i.e., Israelites dispersing from their ancestral home and settling in other parts of the world, either through compulsory dislocation or just choosing to dwell in other countries), there were limits to the abilities of Temple leaders to enforce the Law of Moses abroad. Of particular note in this instance (hang on, I'll get to it in a minute), a lot of poor Jews and other impoverished men of Near Eastern cultures in that day, who for whatever reason could not find viable alternatives in their native place, would forego the Law and hire themselves out as mercenaries, sometimes even to the hated Roman occupiers -- after all, if you hung around long enough, you got Roman citizenship and a pension in addition to your wages, which was no small reward in the days of the Empire.

Okay, now to get to the alternate paternal candidate... several second-century non-Christian sources -- ancient Greek, Roman, and Jewish historians, such as the Platonist historian Celsus, writing somewhere between the years of 150 and 178 A.D. -- name another father for Jesus.

Now, granted, those sources were looking to counteract the already-popular "virgin birth" story, and they were often virulently anti-Christian, so they went for the most shameful possible alternatives in that day and age: stating that Mary was either assaulted by (or, as Celsus puts it, had an adulterous affair with) a soldier named Pantera and that Jesus was the result. This was so persistent that it leaked into the Talmud and medieval Jewish writings. 

Some sources, such as the Toledoth Yeshu, which dates to the 900s (though the Aramaic original may be from the 400s, and the work probably contains fossil remnants of traditions that date to the second century), garbled it a little, combining Pantera with Joseph and giving Mary another husband altogether who abandoned her after the child's conception. But, regardless of the specifics, everybody comes down on a birth father named Pantera.

Even when the record is not specific as to the nature or purported circumstances of the paternity, the identification is recorded as a basic fact:

1. One document in the Tosefta, a compilation of the Jewish oral law from the late second century, records a story (dating to the year 100) of a rabbi, Eleazar ben Damma, who was bitten by a snake, and visited by a man named Jacob from Galilee who came to cure him in the name of "Yeshua ben Pantera." (Elsewhere in the Tosefta, the same Rabbi Eleazar is arrested and charged as being a Christian because he had listened to a heretical teaching "in the name of Yeshua ben Pantera," which violated the rabbinic ordinance prohibiting any intercourse with heretics. He was ultimately pardoned and released.)
2. A century later, a similar incident occurs in Galilee, when the son of a well-known rabbi is healed by a magician who did so in the name of "Yeshua ben Pantera."

If that's not enough, it's at this point that I should introduce you to a tool that New Testament scholars use to sift historically authentic material from inauthentic traditions in the Gospels. It's called the "criterion of embarrassment," and it's a type of critical analysis in which an account is likely to be true as the author would have no reason to invent a story that might embarrass them.

Well, we don't just use that tool concerning the Gospels themselves. We also use it when evaluating early Christian responses to polemical attacks. As concerns this case, the "ben Pantera" tradition was so widespread and persistent that believers could not simply dismiss it as a malicious lie propagated by opponents; they had to find a way to explain it. Why bother unless there was fire amid the smoke?

Rather than ignore the Pantera stories, they decided they'd hide him somewhere in Jesus' genealogy and claim anti-Christian sources were mistaken. In the fourth century, Epiphanius claimed that Joseph's father Jacob's surname was Pantera, which -- by his own admission -- would preserve the "virgin birth" he believed in and still make "Jesus, son of Pantera" technically accurate by that day's standards. As late as the eighth century, they were still trying to explain it away. This time, John of Damascus wrote that Pantera was Mary's great-grandfather's name.

(All of the above, and more, are discussed in more detail in Morton Smith's Jesus the Magician, Jane Schaberg's The Illegitimacy of Jesus, and James D. Tabor's The Jesus Dynasty.)

In fairness to the Church Fathers, Charles Simon Clermont-Ganneau discovered an ossuary with the name "Pentheros" in a Jewish first-century tomb in Jerusalem in 1891, which is evidence that the name was in use in Palestine by Jews at the time. But both explanations smack more, at least to this reader, of two attempts to make a square peg fit a round hole.

Later Christian apologists -- otherwise reliable scholars, at that -- argue that pantera is a pun on the Greek word parthenos ("virgin," as you'll recall from Part 1) and not a real name; in other words, detractors were making fun of the idea of Jesus being the "son of a virgin" by calling him the "son of a panther," i.e., a lusty animal. But it has zero historical or linguistic basis. (For one thing, if it was as simple as a mean-spirited pun, why did the Church Fathers deem it necessary to scramble to place the name on either side of Jesus' family tree?) In addition to the ossuary discussed above, as far back as 1906, Adolf Diessmann showed conclusively that the name "Pantera" is a real name, not unusual, and further that it was favored by Roman soldiers, who used it fairly commonly.

At the end of the day, we are left with "Jesus, son of Pantera." This would be enough by itself, but we even have an existing candidate for exactly which soldier named "Pantera" laid the pipe. (And I say candidate only because the evidence is circumstantial at best; after all this time, definitive proof does not exist, nor -- I think -- would it ever.)

In October 1859, during the construction of a railroad in Bingerbrück, Germany, tombstones for nine Roman soldiers were accidentally discovered. Among them was the memorial marker, now preserved at the Römerhalle museum in Bad Kreuznach, of one Tiberius Julius Abdes Pantera, a soldier of 40 years, a former standard bearer for the First Cohort of Archers, who had died at the age of 62. According to his epitaph, he came from Sidon, on the coast of Phoenicia just west of Galilee. You'll recall Galilee as the place where Jesus is reported to have lived most of his life.

You may say, "Okay, so it's a soldier named Pantera who came from the right place. Big deal." You may even know other scholars have tried to draw that bow and come up short. Well, it's time for an etymology lesson.

The Roman names speak for themselves. Both may have been given in recognition of serving in the army as he obtained Roman citizenship, with the particular significance of Tiberius being that Tiberius was the Caesar on the throne when Pantera was discharged, and so he'd have added the emperor's name to his own when granted citizenship. But "Abdes" is especially interesting. It seems to be the Latin form of an Aramaic name. (You know, the language Jesus and his fellow Jews spoke?) According to etymologists, Abdes comes from Ebed, which means "servant of God" in Aramaic. Which, of course, begs the question: why would a Roman have an Aramaic name? Seems like a good time to remind you of the third bullet point (far) above, about Jews who hired themselves out as mercenaries, sometimes even to Rome.

Based on the known movements of the First Cohort of Archers, they transferred from Palestine to Dalmatia in 6 AD, and to the Rhine in 9 AD. So Pantera was not only likely to have been in Palestine at the right time for Jesus to be conceived (if only because we don't know exactly when he joined the First Cohort), but "Abdes" suggests he wasn't Roman by birth; he may have enlisted locally, from an area close enough geographically that his likeliness as a paternal candidate is not impossible.

Tiberius ruled from 14 AD to 37 AD. Pantera's 40 years of service would therefore have started between 27 BC and 4 BC. As Pantera would probably have been about 18 when he enlisted, it means he was likely born between 45 BC and 22 BC. He could have been as young as 15 at the probable time of Jesus' conception.

Why is his age important? Adulthood looked very different to first-century Jews than it does to us. (More precisely, today it might run into controversial age of consent issues.) Males were considered adults for purposes of marriage, sex, and the military not too long after puberty, albeit they were typically thought of as "youths" if they were between the ages of 12 and late adolescence. From what we know of Jewish society back then, a boy would have been learning his trade by age 10, engaged at 13 (girls would typically be 12), and married by 14 (girls, 13). Precocious and unconscionable by today's standards, no doubt, but nonetheless the reality.

Let's tick the boxes together: right place, right time, right name, the right age for things not to be icky, the kind of background where he and Mary could conceivably have met. It's circumstantial, bordering entirely on rank speculation, but it's there.

And isn't it interesting, given the long-standing speculation about assault and illegitimacy, that if one strips the supernatural angle from the Gospel of Luke, we are left with the story of a "servant of God" who visits Mary with words of flattery, "tells her she'll have a child" (I mean, he even says the Holy Spirit will "come upon her," and don't criticize me for my dirty mind, men considered it a divine mandate to spread their seed based on the early chapters of Genesis, whether they were consciously setting out to do that or not), she is reluctant at first because no man has ever touched her but ultimately accepting of the outcome, and she immediately goes to visit her pregnant cousin once she's aware of what she's dealing with? Honestly, none of this is especially different from the Bible when you remove your rose-colored glasses.

Having said that, rose-colored glasses serve a purpose. When Oliver Stone released his controversial film JFK, he defended his film in the Los Angeles Times with the words "So I've created a counter-myth to the official one -- is that so bad?" So, let me do a little tapestry-weaving of my own. If the New Testament cannot withstand a little rank speculation, it wasn't that strong, to begin with. 

DISCLAIMER: The following is an exercise in creative writing. I am by no means claiming it's the real story, but it's certainly possible based on everything we've established so far.

I propose we consider the possibility of Ebed Pentheros, a Galilean. His given name promised duty to the Lord; his surname told a different story, one of a lusty animal. Ebed had ambition. He felt he wasn't destined to stay in some obscure backwater, and he wanted to make something of himself. More than that, he was hungry. But odd jobs weren't cutting it.

Across Ebed's path came Mary, a young teen by today's standards. Like any other young teen at any time in recorded history, she may have been a force of nature, with hormones and with emotions so powerful they shock even her. (Healthy teenage development can look pretty irrational. A minor annoyance can turn into an emotional earthquake that knocks everyone in the house off balance. Not much has changed.)

Had they known each other their entire lives? Was he a passing fancy who was new in town? Either way, in their time and place, marriages were arranged, and he had nothing to offer. If he put his foot forward to betroth Mary, her father might laugh in his face. Indeed, he may already have made a choice.

Matthew 1:18:

...his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph...

Being a tekton (often translated as "carpenter," but more accurately a stonemason or architect) making decent money from Herod and Rome reconstructing Palestine in their image, he'd be a sound choice for her future.

But the budding passion of the young is highly flammable, so the best-laid plans of mice and men are about as effective at putting a damper on their... enthusiasm... as spitting on a forest fire. We've seen it in every teen movie: the courtship ritual of a strapping young lad who wants to plant his seed, the timid girl who nervously confesses she's never been with a man that way, he convinces her it will be special, and so it is. 

Unfortunately for Mary, in her time, place, and circumstance anyway, she was left with a reminder of his love when he found his way out, a way to make his mark on the world (even if by running off to join the Romans). And the minute she knew she was pregnant, like anyone in her position who's scared and needs advice and time to plot her next steps, she ran off to hide with her cousin, who had just conceived a child herself. Elizabeth tried to put a positive spin on it: they'd be pregnant together, and both their babies would be special. Maybe Mary already had faith; maybe her cousin's support buoyed her spirits.

At any rate, three months later, word arrived at Elizabeth's: "Do not forget you are betrothed. Come home." Now, what could Mary do in that situation? Deciding never to return wouldn't just disgrace her; it would put Joseph in the middle of things and leave a black mark on his reputation. Whatever she felt about him, she knew he didn't deserve that. So naturally, with no other choice, she went home.

Matthew 1:19:

...but before they lived together, she was found to be pregnant...

This was not necessarily the kiss of death -- pardon the unfortunate pun -- for their engagement, or, for that matter, for the baby soon to arrive. 

The act of marriage was separated into two significant parts, the kiddushin (betrothal) and the nissu'in (the actual wedding, which generally took place within a year of the betrothal). And although it is uncertain whether or not first-century Judaism permitted betrothed couples to have sexual intercourse, this had certainly been the custom in the past and it might still have been so in isolated or conservative parts of the country, or even in families. Although this might seem to us to be permissive -- and, to some of us, even immoral -- the whole point was to make babies, quick as you can. These might even be born before the actual wedding, but still considered legitimate. In other words... if the two of them fudged the timeline and successfully sold Joseph as the father, the child had a shot at not being considered a bastard by the community. 

However, this would require his willing involvement and his consent to such a plan. And even if we believe that Joseph, at least per the record we have, was "a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace," forgiving Mary and condoning her actions was not one of his choices as a Jew of those times. 

There were three counts on any one of which a man was compelled to divorce his wife: adultery, clandestine or secret intercourse, and leprosy, which probably meant, by that time, any form of venereal disease rather than the classic leprosy of the Old Testament. The Law was very strict and its penalties for evasion, severe. Expressly prohibited was the slightest condonation of adultery.

Yes, adultery; so binding was betrothal that any girl who had intercourse with a strange man was guilty of adultery, and was at once liable to the penalty such a sin required. There is some argument as to whether or not this still included stoning to death. Perhaps it did. (Certainly, this is indicated by the Gospel tale of the woman taken in adultery.) Regardless, a public accusation, if proven, would have led to at least her social ostracism, if nothing worse.

The shock recorded in the Gospel of Matthew indicates that, as one might expect, he was unlikely to be receptive to helping her out. Stressing that the one thing which a man in his position must not do was nothing and that he had to take positive action, which must be prompt and in accord with the Law, he had two -- and only two -- options: denounce Mary as an adulteress, or divorce her.  And Matthew 1:19, which we resume, indicates the latter option was his choice:

...[he] planned to divorce her quietly...

If you want a happy ending (I admit I'm a sentimental person myself), you can believe what Matthew has to say: he wrestled with the weight and the possible consequences of his decision, decided it wasn't worth the mishegas, and the angel in him, if you will, won out. The child would need a father, and she would need someone to care for her, even if only to cover her shame. Gratefulness on Mary's part is certainly a possible explanation for her having at least four other kids with him down the line (see Mark 6:3), and there is unquestionably a wealth of tradition, found mostly in the Apocrypha, about Joseph's continued presence in the lives of Mary, Jesus, and their other children.

There is another possibility, one Donovan Joyce elucidated best in Chapter 6 of his 1972 tome, The Jesus Scroll, but I admit to feeling it's another "square peg in a round hole" situation. He's working backward from the theory that the "Jesus of Gennesareth, son of Jacob" in his alleged eponymous scroll was the same guy as our Nazarene, and he couldn't even prove the scroll existed by the time of publication. But he does make a valid point about the first-century practice of male Jews adopting a fashionable Greek name for public use, retaining their given Hebrew name for use by family or intimates.

Consequently, while I disagree with his conclusion that Alpheus was Jesus' real father, I acknowledge that the rest of the theory about the editing of the Gospels, in the wake of the popularity of the perpetual virginity doctrine, stacks up. However, I also disagree that the name Alpheus necessarily points in the direction of a guy named Jacob to the exclusion of all other possibilities.

The name Joseph comes from the Hebrew word yasaf, meaning "to increase," or, in some sources, "God will add." Alpheus is the Greek form of a Hebrew name derived from the verb halap, which meant "changing." (Joyce interprets it as "successor," which he uses for some rank speculation of his own to tie the name to Jacob.) I'll admit the etymological link is not nearly as firm as the connection between Alpheus and Jacob, but I think there is wiggle room, if one is so inclined, to suggest that God adding anything, especially a successor (to a wayward biological father perhaps?), is a change. (And why the Gospels would switch to calling him Alpheus over Joseph is filed under "not my problem.")