cross



Fields of academic study are typically named using a Greek word related to the field combined with the Greek root logos, which means word or reason. So for example, biology is the study of life (Greek bios).

When it came to the study of words, however, whoever decides these things apparently decided against the redundant logology, opting instead for philology, which literally means love of words. Whatever the reason for the choice, I think it’s appropriate, since I can’t imagine anyone ever studying the development of words simply because they thought it was useful. To get into something that technical, I think you have to love it.

And in this sense (as well as professionally, to an extent), I consider myself a philologist, which I suppose is the only possible explanation for this post.

An English transliteration of a Latin translation of a Greek translation of a place

Because Christians are constantly dealing with texts that have been translated from other languages, words and names from Scripture are frequently misunderstood or distorted as the tradition is passed along. Here I’ll deal with one that I find interesting: Calvary.

Believe it or not, this word––used so often in Christian sermons, songs, and church names––is not in the Bible, except for the King James Version.

It had bothered me for awhile that I couldn’t think where I had seen the word in Scripture, so finally I looked in my Greek concordance (where I would expect it to look something like Kaluaria) and found that it wasn’t there. A computer search of the KJV, however, turned up the word in Luke 23:33: “And when they were come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified him, and the malefactors, one on the right hand, and the other on the left.”

(Brief, important definitions: to translate something is of course to write what it means in another language. To transliterate is to just take the letters of the original word and write them, in the same order, in a different language or with a different alphabet. As an example, hallelujah is the English transliteration of a common Hebrew phrase; its translation would be Praise the Lord.)

What’s odd about the KJV reading of Calvary is that when you look at Luke 23:33 in Greek (the original language), the name of the place is Kranion, which means skull. In the three other Gospels (Matt 27:33, Mark 15:22, and John 19:17), when this same Greek word shows up at the story of Jesus’ crucifixion, the KJV translates it accordingly, as skull.

But even though they were supposed to be working from the original Greek, the KJV translators let their Latin creep into the process: it turns out that the Latin translation of Kranion is Calvaria, which is surely where the KJV translators got the name Calvary. Problem is, the original New Testament was wasn’t written in Latin, so there’s no reason a word transliterated from Latin should end up in any English translation.

There is at least a plausible explanation for why the KJV translators didn’t make this same mistake in the other Gospels, and this is where the situation gets (more) complex. In Matthew, Mark, and John, the name of the hill is identified as Golgotha, which is a Greek transliteration of the Hebrew word Gulgoleth. The transliteration into Greek at this point makes sense, since Gulgoleth is probably the actual name that native speakers called the place near Jerusalem.

The authors of Matthew, Mark, and John wanted their audiences to know both the name of the place and what it meant, so all three of them included both Golgotha (the transliteration of the name from Hebrew) and Kranion (a translation of the Hebrew word that their Greek-speaking readers/hearers would understand).

It’s easy to see why the KJV translators didn’t make the mistake of using Calvary in these three passages like they did in Luke, since it would have made little sense for the text to say, “Golgotha, which means Kranion” or “Golgotha, which means Calvary.” English readers wouldn’t have understood what Kranion or Calvary meant, so instead the KJV refers to Golgotha and place of the skull.

But Luke never gives us the name Golgotha. He only writes, “they came to the place called Kranion,” which might suggest to a Greek reader that Kranion was the actual proper name of the place. In this case, the translators from Greek to Latin were quick enough to realize (probably from knowing the parallels in the other Gospels) that Kranion was just a translation of the name, so they translated it also, to the Latin Calvaria.

But the KJV translators, who probably knew the Latin translation of the Bible quite well, seem to have let the familiar reading affect their work. And so instead of translating the name (i.e., as Skull), they inserted the Latin transliteration and passed it along.

Great, so what?

I’m actually not sure what I’m contributing here; everyone knows that Calvary refers to where Jesus was crucified, so there should be no problem with going on using it.

I do suppose that I’m potentially ruining a bunch of pretty Christian songs for some people (think: “Jesus keep me near the cross: There a precious fountain / Free to all, a healing stream / Flows from Skull’s mountain”).

What is worth considering is how religious language functions for us. The frequency with which the word Calvary is used, coupled with the fact that I’ve never heard anyone question where exactly it comes from, suggests that the root meaning of a word need not have anything to do with its meaning for real people who participate in a religious tradition.

At the very least, the word points to how useful it is to have certain words that function as shorthand. You can say to any Bible-belt Christian, “Remember Calvary,” and they’ll probably know what you’re talking about. The Cross has a similar function.

Perhaps we like Calvary because it is a pretty word that fits well in names like Calvary Baptist Church, whereas the darker Golgotha, or the morbid Skull, might put people off. Of course, I suppose that if we can make crosses of gold, we could also knock the rough edges off the word skull if we wanted to.


I want to take up a question I asked earlier: “Is the cross a condemnation of human violence, an act of divine violence, or both (or neither)?”

For starters, let me postulate that God hates sin.

I’ll define sin as a breakdown of humans’ ability to love and relate to God and one another; alienation (to be mended later by reconciliation) is a good word for it. This alienation defies God’s purpose for creation, with the result that God (often violently) punishes whoever is responsible. He may avenge sin in this way because it is in nature to do so, or he may do so out of an insistence that humanity know how much he hates sin. The flood suggests the former, the cross the latter.

Genesis 1–7 begins with God’s intimacy with creation and shows how humanity breaks and increasingly defies that intimacy. I believe the flood is a key to the story of Scripture, because it shows God’s response to sin: God ultimately removes it or punishes it, whatever the cost.

It is difficult to over-emphasize the importance of the flood (whether one thinks it literally happened or is a myth intended to make a theological point), in that God was willing to destroy almost all of creation, out of both wrath and a loving desire to make creation good again. God starts again with Noah, who does love God and his family, but of course he and his descendants fall again into sin and alienation.

These early stories describing the pervasive sin both before and after the flood suggest a key point about humans: while the occasional individual (like Enoch or Noah) whole-heartedly seeks a realtionship with God on his/her own, humanity on the whole will inevitably descend into sin and alienation from God if left to ourselves.

So God makes it easier for humans by setting certain terms to define the relationship. He begins with Abraham and eventually establishes the covenant with Israel, in an effort to win back their love and to use them to win back the love of the world. But, of course, the people break this relationship early and often and continue to fall into sin. God responds to their sin, as he did during the flood, by destroying Israel’s world, via the exile, to make the nation good again.

In the incarnation, God conclusively defies divine/human alienation; though already present with Israel in many ways over the centuries, God now becomes a human to achieve the full intimacy of relationship.

The cross, I’m convinced, is beyond human comprehension. Scripture describes Christ’s work in various ways, many of them centering on animal sacrifice, and yet we never quite understand why sacrifice (animal or divine) should mend the broken relationship between us and God. I suspect that animal sacrifice was intended to demonstrate the weight of our iniquity, but of course it could not really settle the matter conclusively.

Here I would suggest that the crucifixion must be understood in light of the flood. I shouldn’t over-press the point, since the NT itself doesn’t draw this connection, but I do think it can help us make sense of divine violence in general and the cross in particular.

Both the watery destruction of the entire world and the death of the incarnate God underline the weight of sin in God’s eyes, but in powerfully different ways. In Genesis, God executes his wrath upon humanity and creation; in the crucifixion, God takes it upon himself. In one sense, this means that Christ suffers the punishment we deserve, but in another sense it is a proclamation to us that God will not allow human weakness to prevent relationship between God and his creation.

God was unwilling to leave sin ultimately unpunished, lest we think it unimportant. The cross, then, is not a condemnation of human violence, but a condemnation of human sin. If divine violence was inevitable, God chose the most gracious act of violence possible, in that God in the flesh was the willing victim.

The hope, it seems, was that all people in the world would look at the cross and recognize both (1) that we are sinners who need to repent and (2) that God loves us passionately and will forgive our sin so that we can be reconciled to the creator who loves us.

The beauty of the cross is this: only the crucifixion has proclaimed to humanity both the boundlessness of God’s love and the full weight of our sin without destroying us to teach us the lesson.