Book of Wisdom

Based on Wikipedia: Book of Wisdom

A Book That Almost Wasn't

Imagine writing a book so persuasive that it shapes the thinking of the New Testament authors, gets quoted at the execution of America's most famous abolitionist, and influences one of the greatest American novels ever written. Now imagine that same book spending nearly two thousand years in a kind of scriptural limbo, with different branches of Christianity arguing about whether it even belongs in the Bible.

That's the strange fate of the Book of Wisdom, also called the Wisdom of Solomon.

Here's the central irony: despite its uncertain canonical status, this book may have done more to bridge the gap between Greek philosophy and Jewish theology than almost any other ancient text. It's a philosophical hybrid, a work that speaks fluent Plato while remaining deeply rooted in the traditions of Moses. When Herman Melville encountered it in the nineteenth century, he scribbled in the margins that it seemed "partly Mosaic & partly Platonic in its tone," adding with characteristic wit: "Who wrote it I know not. Someone to whom both Plato and Moses stood for godfather."

Melville was onto something profound.

The Wisdom That Walks Like a Woman

At the heart of this book is a figure called Lady Wisdom—referred to simply as "she" starting in chapter six. This isn't wisdom as we typically think of it: the accumulated knowledge of a long life, or cleverness in solving problems. This is Wisdom personified as a divine feminine presence who has existed since the creation of the world.

She is to be loved. She is to be desired. Kings seek her out.

The author, speaking through the voice of Solomon, claims he preferred Wisdom to wealth, health, and every other good thing. This wasn't mere rhetoric. In ancient thought, wisdom wasn't just about knowing facts—it was about aligning yourself with the fundamental order of reality. To possess wisdom was to live in harmony with how things actually are.

What makes this portrayal fascinating is how it borrows from Egyptian religious imagery. Scholars have noted that the author draws on depictions of the goddess Isis to describe personified Wisdom as a divine female figure. This wasn't plagiarism or syncretism exactly—it was a sophisticated Jewish author using the cultural vocabulary of his environment to express something he believed was profoundly true.

Who Actually Wrote This Thing?

Let's dispense with the obvious: Solomon didn't write it.

The book strongly implies Solomonic authorship without ever explicitly naming him, but Solomon lived in the tenth century before the common era. The Book of Wisdom was composed in Greek—probably in Alexandria, Egypt—somewhere around the turn of the era, give or take a few decades on either side.

How do we know this? Several converging lines of evidence.

First, the author quotes extensively from the Septuagint, the Greek translation of the Hebrew scriptures that wasn't assembled until the third and second centuries before the common era. You can't quote a translation that doesn't exist yet.

Second, the Greek vocabulary includes about thirty-five words that don't appear in any other Greek literature until the first century of the common era. Language evolves, and this book's vocabulary places it firmly in that later period.

Third, there may be allusions to the Roman emperor cult that began under Augustus after his conquest of Egypt in 30 before the common era. If the author is indeed criticizing emperor worship, he's writing in a world that only existed after that date.

Some scholars have tried to pin down the date even more precisely. One prominent theory places the book during the reign of Caligula, from 37 to 41 of the common era, when the Alexandrian Jewish community faced particularly severe persecution. This would explain the harsh anti-Gentile tone that pervades parts of the text.

But most scholars prefer a safer range: roughly thirty years on either side of the year zero.

Alexandria: Where Cultures Collided

To understand the Book of Wisdom, you need to understand Alexandria.

Founded by Alexander the Great in the fourth century before the common era, Alexandria became one of the great cosmopolitan centers of the ancient world. It housed the famous Library of Alexandria, which aspired to collect every book ever written. It was where the Hebrew scriptures were first translated into Greek. And it was home to a large, sophisticated Jewish community that was thoroughly bilingual and bicultural.

These Alexandrian Jews faced a particular challenge: how to remain Jewish while participating in the broader Greek intellectual world. They read Plato. They understood Stoic philosophy. They could hold their own in Greek philosophical debates. But they also observed the Sabbath, followed dietary laws, and traced their heritage back to Abraham.

The Book of Wisdom emerges from exactly this tension.

Consider this passage from chapter nine, verse fifteen: "For the corruptible body burdens the soul and the earthly tent weighs down the mind with its many concerns." This sounds like pure Plato. The idea that the body is a kind of prison or burden for the soul is classic Greek dualism.

But notice what the author does with this Platonic framework. He doesn't conclude, as Plato might, that we should seek to escape the body through philosophical contemplation. Instead, he pivots to something very biblical: God remains a mystery. The ultimate answer isn't escape through reason—it's trust in a God whose purposes we cannot fully comprehend.

The Three-Part Structure

Scholars typically divide the Book of Wisdom into three major sections, though like all such divisions, the boundaries are somewhat artificial.

The first section, running roughly through the early chapters, is sometimes called the Book of Eschatology. Eschatology is the study of last things—death, judgment, the ultimate fate of souls. Here the author contrasts the righteous with the wicked, the wise with the foolish. The righteous may suffer in this life, but they will be rewarded with immortality. The wicked may prosper temporarily, but their fate is destruction.

This section includes a remarkable speech put into the mouths of the impious, in which they reason that since death is the end of everything, they might as well enjoy whatever pleasures they can grab. It's a surprisingly modern-sounding argument—essentially the view that later philosophers would call nihilism or hedonism. The author isn't just rejecting this view; he's engaging with it seriously before offering his alternative.

The second section, dominated by Solomon's voice, focuses on Lady Wisdom herself. Solomon describes his pursuit of her, his love for her, and the benefits she brings. This is the philosophical heart of the book, where Greek and Jewish ideas interweave most intricately.

The third section turns to history, specifically the Exodus from Egypt. But it's history with a polemical edge. The author uses the Exodus narrative to argue against Egyptian religion, particularly the Egyptian practice of worshipping animals. This animal cult—in which various creatures were venerated as divine or as manifestations of the divine—struck Jewish observers as particularly absurd. How could you worship the very creatures that were created to serve humanity?

The Canonical Question

Is the Book of Wisdom actually part of the Bible? The answer depends on which Bible you're holding.

For Catholics and Eastern Orthodox Christians, the answer is yes. The Book of Wisdom is considered deuterocanonical, a Greek term meaning "second canon." It's fully authoritative scripture, on par with Genesis or the Psalms. Several church councils—Rome in 382, Hippo in 393, Carthage in 397 and again in 419, Florence in 1442, and Trent in 1546—explicitly included it in their lists of canonical books.

For Protestants, the answer is more complicated. Most Protestant traditions classify the Book of Wisdom as Apocrypha, a Greek word meaning "hidden things." Apocryphal books are considered edifying and worth reading, but not authoritative for establishing doctrine. Martin Luther famously said of such books that they are "useful and good for reading" but not equal to Holy Scripture.

For Jews, the book isn't in the Hebrew Bible at all. The Jewish canon was established primarily in Hebrew and Aramaic, and the Book of Wisdom was composed in Greek. It never made the cut.

The early church fathers were themselves divided on the question. Origen, writing in the second century of the common era, noted uncertainty about the book's status. Athanasius, the great fourth-century defender of orthodox Christianity, said the Book of Wisdom was among those books that were "appointed by the Fathers to be read" but were not technically part of the Canon. Rufinus of Aquileia, writing around 400, classified it as "ecclesiastical" rather than "canonical"—a distinction without much practical difference, but a distinction nonetheless.

John of Damascus, the eighth-century theologian, offered perhaps the most memorable rejection. In his Exposition of the Orthodox Faith, he wrote that the Book of Wisdom is "not in the ark"—a reference to the Ark of the Covenant, where the most sacred Jewish texts were believed to have been kept. It's a striking image: worthy of respect, but not worthy of that central place.

Echoes in the New Testament

Whether or not the Book of Wisdom is canonical, it clearly influenced the writers of the New Testament.

Consider this parallel. In the Gospel of Matthew, chapter twenty-seven, the chief priests mock Jesus on the cross with these words: "He trusted in God; let him now deliver him if he will have him; for he said: I am the Son of God."

Now compare this to Wisdom chapter two, verse eighteen: "For if he be the true son of God, he will defend him, and will deliver him from the hands of his enemies."

The similarity is striking. It's not a direct quotation, but it's close enough that scholars believe the Gospel author had the Wisdom passage in mind. The chief priests are unwittingly fulfilling a script written centuries earlier about how the wicked mock the righteous.

The Epistle to the Hebrews offers another example. In chapter one, verse three, the author describes Jesus as "the brightness of his glory, and the figure of his substance." Compare this to Wisdom chapter seven, verse twenty-six, which describes Lady Wisdom as "the brightness of eternal light, and the unspotted mirror of God's majesty, and the image of his goodness."

The author of Hebrews appears to be taking language originally applied to personified Wisdom and applying it to Jesus. This isn't accident or coincidence. It's a deliberate theological move, identifying Jesus with the divine Wisdom that has existed since before creation.

Even the concept of "the fall of man"—that narrative of Adam and Eve's disobedience leading to corruption and death—may owe its terminology to the Book of Wisdom. According to Easton's Bible Dictionary, the term "fall of man" doesn't actually appear in the Hebrew Bible. It probably originates here.

John Brown's Last Day

On December 2, 1859, the abolitionist John Brown was executed by hanging in Charles Town, Virginia, for his raid on the federal armory at Harpers Ferry. Brown had hoped to spark an armed slave rebellion; instead, he was captured, tried, and condemned to death.

That same day, in Concord, Massachusetts, a memorial service was held. And at that service, someone read a considerable portion of the Book of Wisdom, starting with chapter two.

Why this choice? Consider what chapter two says about the wicked. They reason that life is short and meaningless, that they should enjoy whatever pleasures they can, and that they should oppress the righteous man who inconveniences them with his moral claims. "Let us lie in wait for the righteous man," they say, "because he is inconvenient to us and opposes our actions."

The parallel to Brown's situation would have been unmistakable to those gathered. Here was a man who had opposed the wicked—the slaveholders—and been killed for it. The Book of Wisdom promised that such suffering would be rewarded, that the righteous would receive immortality while their persecutors faced judgment.

It was a text for a moment of martyrdom.

Melville and the Great American Novel

Herman Melville, author of Moby-Dick, was a serious reader of scripture. His personal copy of the Bible shows heavy annotations throughout, and the Book of Wisdom received particular attention.

What fascinated Melville was precisely what fascinated scholars: the interplay of Hellenistic and Jewish thought. Here was a text that refused to choose between philosophical traditions. It spoke Greek but thought Hebrew. It quoted Plato but remained faithful to Moses.

This wasn't merely an intellectual curiosity for Melville. His own work—Moby-Dick especially—is a similar attempt to hold together multiple philosophical and religious frameworks without letting any one of them become dominant. Captain Ahab's obsessive quest for the white whale draws on Christian symbolism, Greek tragedy, Transcendentalist philosophy, and scientific rationalism all at once.

Melville understood that the nineteenth century was a time of profound uncertainty about religious and philosophical questions. The old certainties were crumbling, but nothing had yet risen to replace them. In the Book of Wisdom, he found a kindred spirit: an ancient author who had faced a similar moment of transition and had responded not by choosing sides but by synthesizing traditions.

The Gift That Cannot Be Taught

Perhaps the most provocative claim in the Book of Wisdom is this: wisdom cannot be taught.

This runs counter to everything we usually assume about education. We send children to school to acquire knowledge. We hire tutors and buy textbooks. We assume that with enough instruction, anyone can become wise.

The Book of Wisdom disagrees. According to this text, wisdom is not an inherent human quality that can be developed through practice. It's not a skill that can be trained. Wisdom comes from outside—it's a gift from God that arrives only to those who have prepared themselves through righteousness.

This is a humbling doctrine. It means that cleverness is not wisdom, that intelligence is not wisdom, that knowledge is not wisdom. You can be a brilliant philosopher and remain foolish. You can accumulate all the information in the world and still not understand how to live.

What prepares you for wisdom, according to this book, is righteousness—living in right relationship with God and neighbor. Only then does wisdom come to you, as a gift you could never have earned.

Lady Wisdom, the text says, comes to the aid of the righteous. She came to Adam. She came to the patriarchs. She guided the Israelites through the Exodus. And she continues to come to those who love her and seek her.

But you cannot capture her by force. You cannot earn her through study alone. You can only prepare yourself to receive her, and then hope that she arrives.

Why This Still Matters

The Book of Wisdom was written for people caught between worlds. Its original audience was Alexandrian Jews tempted to abandon their heritage for the allure of Greek culture. The author wasn't asking them to reject Greek philosophy—he himself was deeply influenced by it. Instead, he was showing them how Jewish faith could incorporate the best of Greek thought while remaining distinctively Jewish.

We live in a similar moment. Multiple philosophical and religious frameworks compete for our allegiance. We're surrounded by voices telling us that meaning is whatever we create, that death is the end, that we should pursue pleasure while we can. The speech of the impious in chapter two wouldn't sound out of place in many contemporary discussions.

The Book of Wisdom offers an alternative. It insists that meaning is real, that righteousness matters, that wisdom exists and can be sought even if it cannot be forced. It holds together the intellectual rigor of Greek philosophy with the moral seriousness of Hebrew scripture.

And it does so in language that has echoed through centuries of Western civilization—in the New Testament, in the speeches at the execution of martyrs, in the annotations of America's greatest novelists.

Whether or not it belongs in your Bible, it's a book worth knowing.