Still frame from RTI file of the previously unseen gladiator graffito alongside a modern tracing. Courtesy Louis Autin, Marie-Adeline Le Guennec, and Éloïse Letellier-Taillefer.

Few images capture the Roman world more vividly than the clash of gladiators in the arena. These spectacles drew enormous crowds across the empire and became one of the defining features of Roman popular culture. A small graffito recently discovered in a theater corridor at Pompeii offers a rare glimpse into how ordinary people experienced the spectacle of the games. It also connects to the broader cultural environment that shaped the New Testament, as Paul’s letters and later Christian writings show.

The etching comes from a recent study of graffiti found in a passageway linking two entertainment venues in Pompeii’s theater district. Before the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius buried the city in 79 CE, this corridor was a bustling avenue for spectators moving between performances. Over time, visitors left messages on its walls—declarations of love, jokes, insults, sketches, and prayers to the goddess Venus. In total, researchers documented nearly 300 graffiti, including 79 previously unknown examples. The textual inscriptions appear in Latin, Greek, and even Safaitic script—an Ancient North Arabian script normally found in the deserts of Syria and Jordan—revealing just how interconnected the Roman world was.

The faint gladiator etching provides a rare window into how an ordinary person absorbed and reproduced the experience of watching gladiatorial combat. Although one figure is fragmentary, the scene is surprisingly dynamic—a gladiator twists as if responding to an opponent’s strike. Researchers suggest the artist was recalling a live spectacle, attempting to capture the movement of combat from memory rather than copying an existing image.

Recovering these faint marks required advanced digital techniques. The team used Reflectance Transformation Imaging (RTI), a method that captures photographs under multiple lighting angles. When combined digitally, these images reveal surface texture and shallow reliefs that are otherwise difficult to detect. This technology allowed unprecedented precision in documenting the corridor’s walls.

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Gladiatorial culture was not confined to Rome or Italy. It extended deep into the eastern provinces of the empire—including the regions associated with the Bible.

Under Herod the Great, Roman-style entertainment venues appeared across Judea. Archaeological and textual evidence points to theaters, stadiums, and arenas at sites such as Caesarea Maritima, Jerusalem, Sebaste, Jericho, and Herodium. The historian Flavius Josephus reports that Herod even organized large public games honoring the emperor Augustus. He also notes that many Jews viewed these events as foreign customs linked to pagan worship and imperial ideology, and that the violence of the arena clashed with Jewish ethics. Gladiatorial combat was nevertheless part of the Roman environment in which Second Temple Judaism and early Christianity emerged.

This context helps explain why writers like Paul frequently used arena imagery. In his letter to the Corinthians, Paul describes the apostles as a “spectacle to the world,” language drawn directly from Roman public entertainment. He even speaks metaphorically of “fighting with beasts” at Ephesus—imagery that would have resonated immediately with audiences familiar with arena spectacles.

In the generations after the New Testament, such imagery sometimes became grim reality for Christians. Early Christian traditions describe believers being executed in public arenas by wild animals. The bishop Ignatius of Antioch, writing in the early second century, expected to face death by beasts in the arena at Rome. A century later, The Passion of Perpetua and Felicity records how the Christians Perpetua and Felicity were exposed to animals before being killed in the arena at Carthage in 203 CE.

Although such persecutions were sporadic rather than constant, these accounts show that the arena was a stage not only for entertainment but also for dramatic confrontations with Roman authority. Against this backdrop, the graffito at Pompeii—etched by a spectator remembering the thrill of combat—takes on an additional dimension, reminding us how deeply the culture of spectacle permeated the Roman world in which Christianity took shape.

Lauren K. McCormick is an assistant editor at Biblical Archaeology Review and a specialist in ancient Near Eastern religions, visual culture, and the Bible. She holds degrees in religion from Syracuse University, Duke University, New York University, and Rutgers University, and completed a postdoctoral fellowship on religion and the public conversation at Princeton University.

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Microscope image of blue fabric (Tx1) found at Bronze Age Beycesultan in western Turkey. Courtesy Çiğdem Maner, Eşref Abay, Recep Karadağ, Emine Torgan Güzel, “Untwisting Beycesultan Höyük: The Earliest Evidence for Nålbinding and Indigo-dyed Textiles in Anatolia” Antiquity 99 (2024), CC BY 4.0.

Textiles play an important role in the world of the Bible. From the finely crafted garments described in the book of Exodus to the special robe given to Joseph in Genesis, clothing in biblical narratives often signals status and wealth. Yet actual textiles rarely survive in the archaeological record because they are made of organic fabrics that decay easily. Usually, scholars reconstruct ancient textile production indirectly through tools such as spindle whorls, loom weights, and textile impressions left on clay. A recent study of two burnt textile fragments discovered at Beycesultan in western Anatolia (Turkey) offers a rare glimpse into textile production during the Middle and Late Bronze Ages (roughly 2000–1200 BCE)—eras often associated with the patriarchal period of the Bible.

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Beycesultan is a large settlement mound that was occupied for thousands of years. Excavations first conducted in the 1950s uncovered numerous occupation layers dating from the late Chalcolithic period through the end of the Bronze Age. Among the most notable discoveries was a large palace complex destroyed by fire. Renewed excavations beginning in 2007 have continued to reveal evidence that the settlement was an important regional center during the Bronze Age. The textile fragments discovered there were found adhered to the ground within the burned remains. The charring stabilized the fabric and prevented it from decomposing entirely.

The two textile fragments analyzed in the study were discovered in different contexts within the settlement. The first fragment (Tx1) was found in a Middle Bronze Age structure dating to approximately 1915 to 1745 BCE. Nearby, archaeologists discovered pottery vessels, storage jars, and a stone weight, as well as four systematically spaced postholes likely used for a loom frame. The second fragment (Tx2) was uncovered in a later domestic structure dating to roughly 1700 to 1595 BCE. This room contained numerous textile tools including spindle whorls, loom weights, a weaving comb, bronze needles, and beads. The concentration of tools strongly suggests that this space was regularly used for textile production.

To understand how the fabrics were made, researchers used several scientific techniques. Optical microscopy allowed them to study the structure of the threads, while scanning electron microscopy helped identify the fibers themselves. The team also used high-performance liquid chromatography to detect any dyes that may have been applied to the cloth.

The first fragment (Tx1) produced the most surprising results in terms of weave, material, and color. Microscopic analysis showed that the fabric lacked the typical structure found in woven cloth. The threads formed loops created by passing a single needle through earlier stitches, indicating that the textile was made using the technique known as Nålbinding or “single-needle” knitting. This looping method predates modern knitting and creates a dense, durable fabric. If this interpretation is correct, the fragment may represent the earliest physical example of this technique discovered in Anatolia and possibly the broader Near East. Further analysis revealed that the yarn was made from hemp fibers, a material rarely identified in Bronze Age textiles from this area. Chemical testing revealed another remarkable feature: the cloth had been dyed blue. Researchers detected indigotin, a compound likely derived from the plant Isatis tinctoria (woad), making this the earliest known example of blue-dyed fabric from a Bronze Age context in Anatolia.

Microscope image of Tx1 (cropped), evincing the Nålbinding or “single-needle” looping technique. Courtesy Çiğdem Maner, Eşref Abay, Recep Karadağ, Emine Torgan Güzel, “Untwisting Beycesultan Höyük: The Earliest Evidence for Nålbinding and Indigo-dyed Textiles in Anatolia” Antiquity99 (2024), CC BY 4.0.

Finds from the second fragment (Tx2) were simpler but still informative. Microscopic analysis showed that it featured the most basic weaving pattern, tabby weave. The fibers were likely plant-based, though heavy burning made precise identification difficult. Chemical analysis detected no dye, suggesting that the cloth was probably intended to show its natural color.

Together, these finds reveal that the inhabitants of Beycesultan produced a range of fabrics using different techniques, fibers, and levels of craftsmanship. Such discoveries help scholars reconstruct the economic and technological landscape of the ancient Near East. For readers of the Bible, they provide valuable context for the many references to clothing, weaving, and dyed fabrics—reminding us that behind the biblical texts stood a vibrant world of skilled artisans. Blue textiles are of particular significance: Israelite priests wore blue threads in their garments (Exodus 28:31–35), the broader Israelite community was instructed to use blue cords to attach tassels to the corners of their cloaks (Numbers 15:38–39), and the tabernacle curtains featured blue alongside purple and scarlet (Exodus 26:1). The blue-dyed fabric from Beycesultan offers a tangible example of how such prized colors could be produced, helping us better imagine the luxurious, symbolically charged textiles that colored the biblical world.

Lauren K. McCormick is an assistant editor at Biblical Archaeology Review and a specialist in ancient Near Eastern religions, visual culture, and the Bible. She holds degrees in religion from Syracuse University, Duke University, New York University, and Rutgers University, and completed a postdoctoral fellowship on religion and the public conversation at Princeton University.

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Ptolemaic period mummified individual. Courtesy Paul Hudson from United Kingdom, CC-BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons.

Few things captivate the imagination like Egyptian mummies. Their intricate wrappings and lifelike preservation carry both religious significance and enduring mystery. A recent study focuses on something far more earthly: their smell.

Mummified remains have a distinctive musty and woody aroma, which has been shown to preserve a chemical record of ancient embalming practices. The  study is showing how scientists can read that record without harming the priceless burials. Even the faintest scents from mummified remains carry a wealth of historical information, offering new ways to connect with Egypt’s ancient past without unwrapping a single bandage.

Mummification in ancient Egypt was not just a burial practice but a spiritual one. Preserving the body ensured safe passage into the afterlife. Over thousands of years, Egyptians experimented with natural materials that slow decay, including animal fats, plant oils, beeswax, resins, and, later, bitumen. Each material leaves a chemical “fingerprint,” releasing tiny molecules into the air called volatile organic compounds.

The study’s innovation lies in analyzing these compounds non-invasively. Scientists capture them on fiber waved in the air around the mummified remains. The compounds stick to the fiber and are then analyzed to identify which embalming materials were used. Instead of cutting into the remains, researchers “sniff” it chemically. The researchers report that short-chain fatty acids reveal oils, mono-carboxylic fatty acids and cinnamic compounds indicate beeswax, sesquiterpenoids point to resins, and naphthenic compounds signal bitumen.

This approach even distinguishes differences between mummified individuals from different historical periods, showing how embalming materials age over time. Some compounds degrade quickly; others persist for millennia. Understanding these patterns helps explain why two mummified individuals may smell different despite similar treatments. It also illuminates the evolution of Egyptian embalming, from simple fats and oils to complex mixtures including costly resins and bitumen.

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The study has relevance for biblical archaeology as well. Ancient Israelite custom held that corpses be washed, anointed with oils and spices, and wrapped—a process also reflected in New Testament accounts of Jesus and Lazarus. After Jesus’s crucifixion, for example, his body was washed, anointed with myrrh and aloes, and wrapped in linen before being laid in a tomb (John 19:39–40). While Israelite and early Christian practices did not involve chemical embalming, the careful washing, anointing, and wrapping reflects a similar spiritual care: honoring the deceased, masking decay, and preparing the body for what comes next.

Lauren K. McCormick is an assistant editor at Biblical Archaeology Review and a specialist in ancient Near Eastern religions, visual culture, and the Bible. She holds degrees in religion from Syracuse University, Duke University, New York University, and Rutgers University, and completed a postdoctoral fellowship on religion and the public conversation at Princeton University.

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Roman-period column with inscribed base found during renovation of the Great Mosque of al-Nuri in Homs, Syria. Courtesy Maamoun Saleh Abdulkarim.

Archaeology at Emesa (modern Homs, Syria) does not give a single dramatic moment of religious revolution. Instead, it offers something more historically valuable: layers. Coins, tombs, mosaics, and reused sacred spaces—including recently uncovered inscriptions on column bases—reveal the slow transformation of a powerful pagan city into a Christian and then Muslim one. For Bible readers, the site allows a glimpse into the long arc of Christianity’s development within the Roman world.

The earliest well-attested stratum at Emesa shows the dominance of pagan culture. A mosaic of Hercules reveals the city’s syncretistic religious culture, where local Syrian worship blended with broader Greco-Roman traditions. A richly furnished mausoleum—yielding a gold funerary mask and other elite grave goods—points to a powerful ruling priestly family, one of whose members, Elagabalus, would later become the Roman emperor.

Roman-period coins depict the grand Temple of the Sun housing the sacred black stone embodying the Emesan sun god Elagabal (later linked to Emperor Elagabalus), while column-base inscriptions praise divine cosmic power and royal authority linked to this deity. These Greek inscriptions, uncovered during restoration of the Great Mosque of al-Nuri, survived centuries of redevelopment. Professor Maamoun Abdulkarim of the University of Sharjah (UAE), who published the finds, explained in personal correspondence: “In my view, the Temple of the Sun should not be understood as a lost structure, but as a dynamic sacred space that was religiously redefined across successive periods.”

Roman coin minted in Homs depicting a sacred stone inside the Temple of the Sun. Classical Numismatic Group, Inc. http://www.cngcoins.com, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

The strong pagan character of Emesa began changing in the third century CE. Burial practices shifted. Catacombs in the al-Shorfa area contain corridors, niches, lamps, and symbolic decoration associated with early Byzantine Christianity. Grave inscriptions emphasize themes resonant with Christian theology, like resurrection and eternal life. The evidence from Emesa is not explosive or revolutionary, but subtle. Christianity first appeared at the margins—in burial customs, naming patterns, and small communal spaces.

This layered material record mirrors what unfolds in the Acts of the Apostles. Acts describes Christianity beginning as a small, socially vulnerable movement operating within cities dominated by temples and civic cults. Paganism coexists alongside emerging Christian practices, gradually giving way to transformation.

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Geography reinforces this textual connection. Emesa lay a little more than 100 miles from Antioch, the early Christian hub where disciples were first called “Christians” (Acts 11:26). Situated on trade routes linking Antioch and Damascus, Emesa was well within the communication network of Roman Syria. Antioch served as a launching point for missionary activity. For example, Saul (Paul) departed from there on his first journey. Cities like Emesa would have made natural destinations of early Christian missions.

The archaeological silence of monumental churches at third-century Emesa suggests that Christianity had not yet reshaped public space. This was a time when Christians faced persecution under emperors like Decius, Valerian, and later Diocletian. Public Christian expression was risky and often suppressed. The decisive transformation of Emesa likely came in the fourth or fifth century. After legalization under Constantine the Great and later imperial decrees under Theodosius I, many pagan temples were repurposed for Christian worship in that time.

The Book of Acts ends with Paul preaching in Rome, leaving the future unwritten. In a sense, Emesa shows what that future looked like on the ground. Christianity did not immediately erase paganism; it infiltrated, adapted, endured persecution, and over time took root.

Lauren K. McCormick is an assistant editor at Biblical Archaeology Review and a specialist in ancient Near Eastern religions, visual culture, and the Bible. She holds degrees in religion from Syracuse University, Duke University, New York University, and Rutgers University, and completed a postdoctoral fellowship on religion and the public conversation at Princeton University.

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Modern path along water system in Tel Megiddo, Israel. Courtesy Mboesch, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons.

Biblical archaeology is not a niche offshoot of archaeology. It was there at the beginning. In the 19th and early 20th centuries, excavations in Egypt, Mesopotamia, and the Levant became laboratories for refining the methods that would define modern archaeology. These places—steeped in biblical history—helped establish stratigraphy, ceramic typology, and systematic field recording as essential tools for the discipline. While interpretations have evolved and been contested over time, the methodological innovations born in these ancient lands continue to underpin archaeology today. In a real sense, modern archaeology and biblical archaeology grew up together.

That shared origin makes our current moment particularly striking. In his recent essay, “Putting the Bible Back in Biblical Archaeology,” for the Winter 2025 issue of Biblical Archaeology Review, Aaron A. Burke revisits long-standing anxieties about the field’s future—echoing earlier warnings from William Dever that biblical archaeology might be in decline. Faculty lines have been reduced. Funding has tightened. Long-term field projects have become more difficult to sustain. Burke acknowledges these pressures but argues that institutional strain is only part of the problem.

The deeper issue is identity.

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Burke argues that it does. Biblical archaeology occupies a distinct intellectual space. It brings material culture into conversation with one of the most influential texts in human history. It serves as a check against both religious fundamentalism and political misuse of archaeology. It also guards against superficial readings of biblical texts by insisting that they be interpreted within historically grounded contexts. In short, biblical archaeology refuses to let either artifacts or texts speak in isolation.

That refusal is increasingly difficult in an age of specialization. Biblical archaeology sits at the intersection of multiple disciplines: field archaeology with its stratigraphy and ceramic chronologies; biblical studies with its demands of ancient languages, textual criticism, and literary history; ancient Near Eastern history; anthropology; and an expanding array of scientific methods—from residue analysis to isotopic and DNA studies. No single discipline can adequately address all of these dimensions.

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Burke worries about an “either-or” mentality taking hold: either scientific archaeology or textual scholarship; either laboratory data or literary analysis. But such fragmentation risks creating silos that no longer engage each other. Archaeologists who ignore textual sources may underinterpret their finds. Text scholars detached from material culture risk abstracting the Bible from the world that produced it. Scientific data, untethered from historical context, can generate headlines faster than understanding.

The future of biblical archaeology, for Burke, depends on scholars trained broadly enough to hold these conversations together—people who can read stratigraphy and Biblical Hebrew, evaluate laboratory results and historical criticism, and conduct question-driven research. Interdisciplinary competence is a necessity.

In this light, the field’s future is not simply about preserving a name. It is about preserving a mode of inquiry. Biblical archaeology embodies a productive tension: how to use the Bible as a historical source without subordinating archaeology to it; how to pursue scientific rigor without evacuating interpretation of textual depth. If modern archaeology was partly forged in that tension, perhaps its continued vitality depends on refusing to abandon it.

Can archaeology afford to forget the texts that shaped some of the major cultures it excavates? And can biblical studies afford to ignore the material world that gave those texts form? Burke’s essay suggests the future of the discipline depends on refusing that false choice.

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Lauren K. McCormick is an assistant editor at Biblical Archaeology Review and a specialist in ancient Near Eastern religions, visual culture, and the Bible. She holds degrees in religion from Syracuse University, Duke University, New York University, and Rutgers University, and completed a postdoctoral fellowship on religion and the public conversation at Princeton University.

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Stone vessels from the Second Temple period found in a cave on Mt. Scopus, near Jerusalem. Courtesy Israel Antiquities Authority.

A recently uncovered stone vessel production workshop east of Jerusalem is shedding light on craft production during the late Second Temple period (first century BCE–first century CE). Found in a cave on the eastern slopes of Mt. Scopus following the interception of antiquities thieves, the site contained hundreds of chalk limestone vessel fragments, unfinished cups and bowls, and substantial manufacturing debris—clear evidence of organized, on-site production.

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Many of the vessels bear the marks of lathe-turning technology. Concentric grooves and symmetrical forms indicate that craftspeople shaped the stone vessels using a mechanical, spinning device. This method allowed for standardized cups and bowls to be produced with precision.

Four or five other vessel workshops have been found in Israel that date to the Roman period. The Mt. Scopus cave therefore joins a small but significant group of sites reconstructing an industry that may be connected to first-century Jewish life. In addition to these stone vessel workshops, ritual baths also proliferated in Jerusalem and throughout Judea and Galilee during the first century BCE and first century CE, suggesting heightened attention to purity in daily life.

Rabbinic purity laws further clarify the importance of stone vessels. The Mishnah (Kelim 10:1) states that stone does not contract impurity in the same way that pottery does. The late Second Temple period overlaps with the historical setting of the New Testament, where stone vessels are mentioned in John 2:6 at the wedding at Cana. Six stone water jars are described as being used for Jewish purification rites. Discoveries like the Mt. Scopus workshop provide tangible archaeological context for such references.

The workshop’s location adds further significance. Mt. Scopus lies along the natural northeastern approach to Jerusalem, historically used by travelers coming from Jericho, the Jordan Valley, and regions east of the Jordan River. Literary sources, including Josephus, describe military movements approaching the city from this direction during the First Jewish Revolt (66–74 CE). The scale of production suggests that vessels made in the cave were likely distributed beyond local residents, potentially serving pilgrims and other travelers arriving from the east.

Lauren K. McCormick is an assistant editor at Biblical Archaeology Review and a specialist in ancient Near Eastern religions, visual culture, and the Bible. She holds degrees in religion from Syracuse University, Duke University, New York University, and Rutgers University, and completed a postdoctoral fellowship on religion and the public conversation at Princeton University.

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John dictating his Gospel (Armenian manuscript, 1495). CC-BY 4.0 International/Wellcomecollection.

Slavery is hard to sit with. It exposes grave horrors in how people have treated each other and challenges core beliefs about human worth and goodness. Confronting slavery means confronting the gap between professed ideals and historical realities, and asking how societies remember—or suppress—uncomfortable truths. That tension becomes intensified when slavery appears within texts that shape moral and theological formation, like the Bible.

Given the sensitivity of this topic, it is important to be clear: Examining the role of enslaved scribes in the composition of the New Testament is not meant to excuse or justify slavery in any form, but to provide historical context for the texts.

The New Testament Was Produced by Enslaved Labor

In her column “The Hidden Hands Behind the New Testament” in the Winter 2025 issue of Biblical Archaeology Review, Candida R. Moss points out that, when we imagine the authors of the New Testament, we picture apostles and evangelists—Paul dictating theology, Mark recording Peter’s memories, and scribes preserving sacred words. What we almost never picture, the University of Birmingham professor writes, are the enslaved persons whose labor made those texts possible. Yet without them, the New Testament would not exist. It’s a provocative claim.

Readers generally reckon with the presence of slavery in the New Testament in one of three ways: by treating slavery as historical context rather than moral endorsement; by acknowledging that the early church accommodated slavery and therefore reflects complicity; or by arguing that the gospel offers a program of human dignity that ultimately undermines slavery, even if it does not call for immediate abolition.

Evidence from Paul’s Letters

Paul’s letters explicitly acknowledge scribal involvement in the composition of what would later form part of the New Testament. Romans 16:22 names Tertius—Latin for “third”—as the one who wrote the letter. This fits a Roman convention for enslaved persons to be named a number. In several letters, Paul recounts writing “with his own hand” (Galatians 6:11; 1 Corinthians 16:21; Colossians 4:18). These notices would be unnecessary if Paul wrote all letters himself.

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Scribal Contributions

In antiquity, scribes did more than transcribe dictation. They interpreted those dictations and made editorial choices that shaped the final wording. Because ancient shorthand required interpretation when written out in full, scribes had to make judgment calls. Those choices could subtly affect emphasis, tone, or clarity, and therefore theological nuance. Once letters circulated, scribes copied them repeatedly, correcting perceived errors and repairing damaged texts. Even small changes—word substitutions, clarifications, marginal notes absorbed into the text—could influence how later communities understood doctrine.

Later Tradition Erased Enslaved Contributors

Moss argues that the contributions of enslaved individuals to early Christian texts have been minimized in later tradition. People like Mark and Onesimus—whose backgrounds suggest servile status—are later remembered as bishops or saints. Similarly, Mary’s self-identification as a doulē (“enslaved woman”) of the Lord is frequently rendered “servant” or “handmaid” in English translations. The New Testament also mentions numerous aides around Paul whose names and roles align with those of enslaved people. Yet, as Moss recounts, later tradition tends to recall them as “freeborn companions or enthusiastic volunteers.” These glosses obscure the social realities of slavery that shaped the earliest Christian communities.

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What This Means for Inspiration and Biblical Authority

Moss contends that modern literary traditions and assumptions about authorship lead us today to focus on named figures and overlook the labor of those who actually produced and transmitted the texts. Her argument gestures toward a dispersed understanding of inspiration: Theology emerged through a network of collaborators, rather than a single inspired man. Acknowledging this hidden labor, she suggests, enables a more historically grounded and ethically honest engagement with the Bible—one that does not evade uncomfortable truths. By highlighting the role of enslaved scribes, Moss deepens the question of what scripture reveals about human dignity and the treatment of those on the margins. In her framing, grappling with this history does not undermine biblical authority—it complicates and enriches our understanding of it.

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Lauren K. McCormick is an assistant editor at Biblical Archaeology Review and a specialist in ancient Near Eastern religions, visual culture, and the Bible. She holds degrees in religion from Syracuse University, Duke University, New York University, and Rutgers University, and completed a postdoctoral fellowship on religion and the public conversation at Princeton University.

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Base of Phoenician Iron Age steatite scarab seal found at Nuraghe Ruinas in Sardinia, Italy. Courtesy Soprintendenza Sassari e Nuoro.

A small object with a big story has emerged from the excavations at Nuraghe Ruinas in Sardinia, Italy. The Superintendency of Archaeology for the Sassari and Nuoro provinces in Sardinia reported on Facebook that, during recent archaeological work in the area, archaeologists uncovered a remarkable Iron Age artifact—a scarab seal. Likely originating from ancient Phoenicia (modern day Lebanon), this small but significant object provides tangible evidence of the commercial and cultural networks at work in the biblical world.

The scarab found at Nuraghe Ruinas is made of steatite and is engraved with hieroglyphic characters. The team has not yet described the inscription or iconography, but the hieroglyphs strongly suggest eastern Mediterranean craftsmanship or influence. Further, the discovery is not isolated. Similar scarabs have been found at S’Arcu ’e Is Forros, about 5 miles from Nuraghe Ruinas, and at Nuraghe Nurdole, between Orani and Nuoro. Taken together, these finds suggest sustained interaction between the ancient inhabitants of Sardinia (the Nuragic civilization) and Phoenician traders operating across the Mediterranean basin.

What Are Scarabs?

Scarabs are small ancient artifacts modeled after the dung beetle. These objects, which connoted status, were typically made of stone or faience. While sometimes worn as jewelry or amulets, scarabs primarily functioned as seals. The tops were carved to resemble a beetle and their flat undersides were often inscribed with symbols or names, pressed into clay to stamp documents and goods.

Sardinia at the Crossroads of the Mediterranean

Sardinia is a large island in the western Mediterranean Sea, situated about halfway between the Italian Peninsula and the coast of North Africa. In antiquity, Sardinia was strategically located along a major maritime trade route linking the eastern Mediterranean—including Phoenicia and the Levant—with North Africa and Iberia. Phoenician contact with Sardinia intensified from the ninth to eighth centuries BCE. In the Levant, this period overlaps with the era of the Israelite monarchy and the later divided kingdoms (c. 1000–586 BCE).

Trade in the Biblical World

Sardinia—rich in copper, lead, and silver—was an important partner in Iron Age Mediterranean exchange networks. Phoenician merchants were the most renowned seafarers of the ancient world. They established trade routes and settlements stretching from the Levant to North Africa and the western Mediterranean and are even credited with standardizing and disseminating the alphabet. The same networks that carried Egyptian-style scarabs to Sardinia also connected to Levantine cities like Tyre and Sidon, both of which play central roles in the Hebrew Bible, including the supply of cedar for Solomon’s Temple. Biblical figures participated in long-distance commerce, political alliances, and cultural exchange.

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The Spread of Religious Symbols

Scarabs originated in Egypt but were widely adopted and adapted throughout the eastern Mediterranean. In Egyptian belief, the scarab symbolized rebirth, renewal, and divine protection. It was closely associated with the solar god Khepri, who represented the rising sun. Just as the dung beetle rolls a ball of dung—seemingly bringing life from decay—Khepri was understood to roll the sun across the sky each day, embodying the daily renewal of life. Both the beetle and the deity thus became powerful symbols of regeneration and cosmic order.

Over time, however, the scarab became more than a religious emblem, it was a portable cultural form. Phoenician artisans adopted and adapted Egyptian motifs, circulating Egyptianizing objects widely throughout the Mediterranean. Even without knowing the specific imagery of the Sardinian scarab, the scarab form invites discussions of Egyptian symbolism, Phoenician adaptation, and the presence of Egyptian-style artifacts in the Levant. Once conservation and study are complete, the iconography may offer more precise clues about its origin—whether Egyptian, Phoenician, or a hybrid Levantine style—further illuminating the interconnected world of the Iron Age Mediterranean.

This evidence reflects a larger reality of the ancient world: symbols migrated across cultures, often independently of the belief systems that first produced them. Cultural borrowing was normal in the Iron Age Mediterranean. Religious imagery traveled along the same routes as metals, textiles, and luxury goods. Ancient Israel existed within this shared symbolic ecosystem. During the centuries when biblical kingdoms rose and fell, long-distance trade networks connected distant coasts, moving not only commodities but also artistic forms, technologies, and ideas. A small carved scarab, carried across the sea millennia ago, is in that sense evidence of the Mediterranean system that shaped the world of the Bible.

Lauren K. McCormick is an assistant editor at Biblical Archaeology Review and a specialist in ancient Near Eastern religions, visual culture, and the Bible. She holds degrees in religion from Syracuse University, Duke University, New York University, and Rutgers University, and completed a postdoctoral fellowship on religion and the public conversation at Princeton University.

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Third to mid-first millennia BCE Ishtar temple complex (white dashed line) in Assur (Iraq), showing four sediment sample locations. Courtesy Mark Altaweel et al., “The Sand Deposit Underneath the Ishtar Temple in Assur, Iraq,” Journal of Archaeological Science (2026), CC-BY 4.0.

A recent study of the Ishtar temple at Assur has identified an unusual feature beneath the temple’s earliest floor: a thick layer of prepared sand. Analyses reveal that this sand was intentionally selected and deliberately laid, rather than accumulating naturally or serving as ordinary construction fill. Similar sand foundations are known from ritual contexts in southern Mesopotamia, but this is the first clear evidence of such a practice at Assur, making the discovery especially significant. Also, radiocarbon results—dating materials above the sand to 2896 to 2702 BCE—push the temple’s earliest phase before the conventional Early Dynastic III period. This suggests that the sand foundation practice either spread from south to north at an early date or that it reflects a more widely shared Mesopotamian tradition than previously thought. The researchers argue that the sand layer functioned as a ritual foundation, purifying the temple ground before the superstructure was erected.

Even more striking is the sand’s origin. Geological analysis indicates that the sand was not sourced locally from the Tigris or nearby river systems, but derives from deposits linked to the Zagros mountains to the east. The Zagros mountains formed a vast and imposing barrier between Mesopotamia and the Iranian plateau, separating the lowlands from the highland world beyond. In the third millennium, these highlands were associated with Hurrian cultural traditions and the goddess Shawushka, a Hurrian form of Ishtar. The researchers propose that the choice of Zagros-derived sand may have been symbolic, potentially connecting the temple to Hurrian or wider Ishtar cultural traditions.

Location of Assur in northern Iraq, with the Zagros mountains to the east. Courtesy Mark Altaweel et al., “The Sand Deposit Underneath the Ishtar Temple in Assur, Iraq,” Journal of Archaeological Science (2026), CC-BY 4.0.

Ishtar was one of ancient Mesopotamia’s most important goddesses, associated with sex, fertility, and war, and often linked to royal power and city identity. She was worshiped widely across the region, but her cult could take different local forms that reflected cultural blending. In southern Mesopotamia (Sumer), Ishtar is thought to have been syncretized with Inanna. In northern Mesopotamian sites like Assur and Ninevah, she was frequently identified with the Hurrian goddess Shawushka.

The Ishtar temple at Assur was one of the city’s key sanctuaries. The new evidence of a ritual sand foundation suggests that divine space was not simply found or assumed but constructed. The presence of Zagros-derived sand implies deliberate material choice, which may have carried religious meaning.

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The sand foundation practice suggests a broader ancient Near Eastern view in which materials could carry sacred meaning based on their origin and ritual use. Mountains, in particular, were seen as liminal zones—places where the veil was thin between the earthly and heavenly realms. For readers of the Bible, the Assur discovery provides a useful point of comparison: The Ten Commandments, formed at Mt. Sinai, are later placed in the Ark of the Covenant within the Tabernacle and ultimately deposited in the Jerusalem Temple, allowing the authority of a sacred mountain to be materially invoked.

The Ishtar temple at Assur thus serves as a reminder that, across the ancient Near East, holiness was often expressed through raw substances. These materials, drawn from meaningful landscapes, were believed to contain and make present some portion of the divine.

Lauren K. McCormick is an assistant editor at Biblical Archaeology Review and a specialist in ancient Near Eastern religions, visual culture, and the Bible. She holds degrees in religion from Syracuse University, Duke University, New York University, and Rutgers University, and completed a postdoctoral fellowship on religion and the public conversation at Princeton University.

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Oxen hauling Elamite deportees captured by Ashurbanipal in 664 BCE. Panel found on a wall in the North Palace at Ninevah (Iraq). Louvre AO19907 Louvre Museum, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Why are cattle such a big deal in the Hebrew Bible?

Imagine your car, your savings account, and your power grid were all the same thing, and alive. In the ancient Near East, that was the ox. Oxen pulled plows through hard soil, turned harvests into surplus, powered economies, and quietly determined who prospered and who did not. That is why cattle appear so often in Israel’s laws, sacrifices, and metaphors. Often overshadowed in popular imagination by sheep, the ox (and its uncastrated counterpart, the bull) was a central biblical animal—an embodiment of how connected land, labor, worship, and power were.

Archaeologists working at Gordion, the Iron Age capital of Phrygia in central Anatolia, have shown just how much effort went into managing oxen in the ancient world. Using multiple methods—including analysis of bone damage, joint stress, and chemical traces of food in cattle bones from the Bronze and Iron Ages—the study reveals that draught cattle were fed cultivated cereals and wild forage, while non-draught cattle grazed more freely. Their skeletons also display pathologies consistent with prolonged traction labor, including rear bones worn down from prolonged plowing and hauling. The authors find that deliberate provisioning of nutrition-dense food for draught cattle correlates with periods of political and economic expansion, especially during the rise of the Phrygian kingdom.

Draught cattle received special treatment because they were seen as engines of development. Unlike sheep or goats, cattle transform landscapes. They were the literal means by which ancient people broke ground, planted fields, hauled grain, and moved goods. Their ability to plow heavier soils expanded the farmable land, supporting permanent settlements and higher population density. Oxen enabled the all-important shift from subsistence farming to surplus production.

This is the agricultural world the Hebrew Bible inhabits.

Initially appreciated, as the Gordion study suggests, as beasts of burden, oxen then became symbols in biblical prophecy, law, and metaphor. A yoke is not an abstraction but a wooden beam pressed across an animal’s neck and shoulders, fixing direction and distributing weight. In the Bible, this becomes the language of political domination. To live under foreign rule is to live yoked. Liberation, by contrast, is imagined as the breaking of that yoke. Leviticus describes God freeing Israel from Egypt by snapping the bars that bent their backs—a metaphor that only works in a society familiar with traction labor.

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Cattle were also central to worship. Oxen are the most costly sacrificial animals in the Hebrew Bible, required for communal atonement and priestly ritual. To offer a bull was to surrender accumulated labor and future productivity.

Biblical law resists the logic of endless extraction. Sabbath rest extends even to oxen, acknowledging the limits of labor and the cost of exploitation. As Israel’s economy grows and surplus becomes concentrated, the prophets warn that the same systems generating blessing can also become instruments of oppression. The ox that works under a yoke becomes a metaphor for slavery, and the extraction of surplus by kings mirrors the harnessing of human labor. Prophets like Amos and Micah critique societies that benefit elites by placing unbearable burdens on the poor, exposing how the tools of productivity can be turned into mechanisms of domination.

The Gordion study shows that these biblical concerns were not abstract theology. They emerged from the lived realities of ancient agricultural systems. In both archaeology and the Bible, cattle are shown to generate wealth and demand restraint. They also risk exploitation, provoking ethical reflection. Oxen did an immense amount of physical labor in ancient Israel—pulling plows and threshing grain—but they also did a lot of conceptual work, shaping how power, blessing, and communal responsibility were understood.

Lauren K. McCormick is an assistant editor at Biblical Archaeology Review and a specialist in ancient Near Eastern religions, visual culture, and the Bible. She holds degrees in religion from Syracuse University, Duke University, New York University, and Rutgers University, and completed a postdoctoral fellowship on religion and the public conversation at Princeton University.

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