For the greater part of two thousand years (at least since the time of the second-century writer Ireaneus [Haer. 3.11.8]), the Gospel of Matthew has been traditionally associated with the image of a man; Mark has been represented by a lion; and John, by an eagle. And the Gospel of Luke? This text has been classically signified by an ox. The choice of symbol for Luke is fitting for at least two reasons.
In the first instance, having eighty more verses than the second runner-up Matthew (and over 1,110 more words), Luke’s Gospel is the longest book in the New Testament. As the ox of the New Testament canon, Luke muscularly carries the biggest load. Indeed, together the two complementary volumes (Luke–Acts) account for 28% of the New Testament materials, providing 16% more text than Paul. I suspect that many well-versed Bible readers would be surprised to discover this fact: among all the New Testament authors Luke is the most prolific.
Second, and perhaps more relevant to how this Gospel came to be associated with an ox in the first place, are the facts, first, that the ox is an animal of sacrifice and, second, that Luke’s story begins and ends in cultic spaces. In the ancient world, the temple, typically perceived as the microcosm and centre of the universe, defined reality as a whole. Therefore, in the first-century world, when you set out to redefine the temple, you were setting out to redefine reality itself. Thus Luke’s story is not just about the ‘ox’ and other bits of cultic business; it is about the cosmos and the scope of world history.
Of course, at the time of Luke’s writing, the devotees of other religious spaces and religious-political systems, not least the synagogues and the temples dedicated to Caesar, had their own competing narratives. Fully aware of this dynamic, Luke consciously wrote his story of Jesus in dialogue with these alternative voices. According to the Gospel writer, shockingly so for those new to the Christians’ message, everything revolved around not the law or Caesar but Jesus. Above all, the Evangelist knew that his hearers needed a clear account as to how and why Jesus came to be marked out as Messiah, Lord and Saviour of the world. Not only did his audience need to know that Jesus Christ had through his coming redefined all reality around himself; they also needed guidance on how to live in the light of the new in-breaking reality, the kingdom of God. Maybe, just maybe, the image of an ox gestures not only to a key Lukan interest, but also to the size of his argumentative yoke.
Within a handful of generations after its composition, Luke’s story began to provide raw resources for both Gnostic and proto-orthodox writers alike. Writing towards the last quarter of the second century, Irenaeus (Haer. 3.11.7) famously lamented the Gnostic Marcion and his ‘mutilation’ of Luke several decades earlier. Other ‘Gnostic’ writers, such as the composer of the (mid-to-late-second-century) Gospel of Thomas, made free use of Luke as well. Closer to the proto-orthodox vein, the Epistle of the Apostles (c. AD 140) seems to have drawn on texts familiar to us from Luke. The same goes for 2 Clement, another very early Christian text which has been ascribed a range of dates from the beginning of the second century to the middle.
As broadly as the Gospel of Luke circulated in the Mediterranean world, it seldom travelled alone. Right around the time of Irenaeus’s writing, Tatian incorporated Luke (along with Matthew, Mark and John) into his fourfold Gospel harmony. Though the ‘Western order’ of the Gospels (Matthew, John, Luke, Mark) is preserved in Codex Bezae and some Old Latin codices, the vast majority and the earliest of the codices preserve the Gospels in the now-canonical order: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. This order finds further support in the Early Church Fathers, not least Irenaeus, Origen, Eusebius and Athanasius.
Though our text was very quickly subsumed into a fourfold Gospel collection, Lukan scholarship of the past hundred years has repeatedly confirmed that the author of this Gospel also wrote its sequel, Acts. What is more, the Evangelist clearly intended his readers to recognize a fundamental unity between these two volumes. This is borne out not only by the two works’ matching prologues (Luke 1:1–4; Acts 1:1–5) but also by a number of linguistic and structural markers shared between the larger stories. In one sense, Luke–Acts is two stories, the story of Jesus and the story of the apostolic church. Yet in another sense, the two stories are one story, held together by the thread of divine activity. So, then, Luke’s Gospel is the first of two stories, yet also the beginning of one large still-unfolding story.
On the assumption that Luke knew and used at least one of the other now-canonical Gospels (whether Mark or Matthew or both), the writer must have construed his own project as a ‘gospel’ after the pattern of his precursor text(s). Whereas the genre of ‘gospel’ was a first-century literary innovation and that genre initially admitted only a very few members to its ranks, Luke knew that he was throwing his hat into a very small ring. The author must have written self-consciously within this newly established genre.
The closest Graeco-Roman equivalent to Luke’s Gospel is the Hellenistic bios. Whereas this form of the ancient biography regularly takes an interest in its hero’s youth, seeks to establish his merits, while exculpating him from slanderous accusations, Luke’s Gospel does all these things and more. The scientific ring of Luke’s prologue (1:1–4) confirms the seriousness of his biographical task. On a basic level, then, Luke’s story aims to be understood as a biography like many other biographies of illustrious men.
Still the Hebraic cast of the narrative suggests that the issue of genre is not as clear-cut as might first be assumed. After all, if Luke’s genealogy (Luke 3) reminds us of any ancient writing, it is texts like Genesis and 1 Chronicles. Perceiving the pervasive sense of fulfilment (not to mention the repetitive use of chiasms, repetitions and parallelisms), the well-versed first-century reader would have quickly recognized that Luke was setting up his literary shop in the world of the Scriptures. This is also the world of prophetic narrative, a world that often seeks to show the correlation between promise and fulfilment – an important theme in Luke.
And so Luke is something of a hybrid. With its vocabulary, concerns, structural elements and outlook, the Gospel presents itself as an extension of Old Testament Scripture, written into the present, as it were. At the same time, it fits right into a genre that would have been quickly recognized by Luke’s first-century contemporaries. In order to take up a conversation on multiple cultural fronts, Luke appropriated a blended genre form, part bios and partially a pastiche of various scriptural forms, that resists simple literary categorization.
If as a rule we know frustratingly little about the historical circumstances surrounding the origins of the four canonical Gospels, Luke is no exception to this rule. Historical evidence demonstrates that Luke was circulating with some authority by the second half of the second century. But as to who wrote the third Gospel, where it was written, why it was written, when it was written and how it was written – these questions do not always fetch straightforward answers. That said, there is still much that we can say about the Gospel’s authorship, provenance, audience, purpose, date and sources.
Over the past hundred years of critical scholarship, it has been generally – though perhaps erroneously – maintained that in the case of Matthew and John, the burden of proof falls on those wishing to maintain traditional authorship, while in the case of Mark and Luke, the burden of proof remains on those seeking to dispute traditional authorship. In relation to Luke, then, the greater part of modern New Testament scholarship would assert this: if one argues that Luke did not write the Gospel traditionally ascribed to him, then one must explain how a historical figure of such relative obscurity and unimportance came to be identified as its author. And precisely because that argument seems a rather difficult one to make, Lukan authorship should initially be presumed rather than doubted. External evidence (early tradition) and internal evidence only seems to support this presumption.
By the last quarter of the second century, Irenaeus (Haer. 3.1.1; 3.11.8; 3.13.3; 3.14.1) and the Muratorian Canon (§§2–8, 34–39) identify Luke’s Gospel by name; the Anti-Marcionite prologue likewise associates Luke with the Gospel. Closer to the middle of the same century, Justin Martyr (Dial. 103.19) states that Luke was a travelling companion of Paul and also the author of one of the ‘memoirs’, a term which many take to be Justin’s circumlocution for the Gospels. The earliest surviving manuscript containing Luke is contained in the remains of larger codex P75 (third century AD), most likely used for readings in church. There it sits alongside the Gospel of John, seemingly as part of a fourfold Gospel collection. Patristic evidence, together with early papyrological evidence, supports not only the traditional view of Lukan authorship but also that this Gospel was received as an authoritative text no later than the first half of the second century.
Lukan authorship is further supported by the ‘internal evidence’, meaning evidence from within Luke and the larger New Testament canon. In Luke’s prologue, we discover that the author addresses his work to one ‘Theophilus’ (Luke 1:3). Though the addressee could be a fictive construct, most scholars are inclined to see this as either Luke’s patron (financially underwriting the Evangelist’s project) or his disciple – or both. At any rate, it is hard to imagine that Theophilus and his in-the-know acquaintances would have been silent as to the authorship of the text dedicated to the former. It stands to reason that Luke’s first readers also knew the author’s identity and that this would have been easily confirmed, directly or indirectly, by the dedicatee himself. And if that author was someone other than Luke, how is it that either the circles surrounding Theophilus or the broader scope of the text’s readership would have allowed the pseudonymous ascription to deprive the real author of due credit?
As noted above, scholars regularly regard Luke and Acts as the work of a single hand. Therefore, any responsible investigation of the Gospel’s authorship must also weigh the evidence for the authorship of Acts. Here we are helped by the so-called ‘we’ passages (Acts 16:10–17; 20:5–15; 21:1–18; 27:1 – 28:16), those sections where the otherwise anonymous narrator of Acts unobtrusively joins Paul as his on-again, off-again travelling companion. Since the list of Paul’s named companions is fairly limited, and since Luke remains one of those companions (Col. 4:10–14; 2 Tim. 4:11; Phlm. 24), the case for Lukan authorship of the third Gospel is indirectly supported by a comparison of these texts from Paul and Acts. Furthermore, on considering the many similarities between Pauline theological concerns and those of Luke, not to mention their very similar formulation of the Lord’s Supper, both at variance with the traditions of Matthew and Mark (cf. Luke 22:14–20; 1 Cor. 11:23–27), Luke and Paul’s close acquaintanceship is eminently plausible. If Paul’s friend Luke is indeed the author of Acts (as our best guess would indicate), then he is also almost certainly the composer of our Gospel. The witness of the church leaves us no other option.
Internal and external evidence conspire to paint a fairly coherent portrait of Luke the man, consisting of at least four strokes. First, Luke’s Greek is very good, perhaps the best in the New Testament (though Hebrews would also be a contender). That would seem to indicate that he is well educated and that Greek was his mother tongue (cf. Acts 1:19). Second, our Evangelist knew his Scriptures, especially the Greek version of the Old Testament, the Septuagint or LXX. Third, Colossians 4:10–14 might indicate that Luke was a Gentile, though neither the grammar nor the logic of these verses strictly requires as much. Fourth, if Paul’s Luke was indeed the author of the Gospel of Luke (as argued above), then the same Gospel writer was also a physician (Col. 4:14). This is borne out not only by the relative specificity of Luke’s medical descriptions (compare, for example, the ‘high fever’ of Luke 4:38 with the nondescript ‘fever’ of Matt. 8:14//Mark 1:30) but also by the author’s scientific genre as signalled in the prologue. The second-century Anti-Marcionite prologue affirms each of these points and adds, at no extra charge, that he also hailed from Syria, an assertion seconded by Eusebius (Hist. eccl. 3.4.6–8) and Jerome (Vir. ill. 3.7).
Despite the strength of the arguments for Lukan authorship, a long line of scholarship has resisted such a conclusion. Setting aside outmoded arguments from earlier (nineteenth-century) scholarship, we can focus on four leading points, characteristic of the contemporary discussion. First, it is said that the author of this Gospel makes no claim to be an eyewitness; in fact, the historical distance he imagines (Luke 1:1–4) makes Lukan authorship a priori more unlikely than likely. Second, it is asserted that arguments for Lukan authorship which depend on Colossians 4:10–14, 2 Timothy 4:11 and Philemon 24 are intrinsically weak, since Colossians and 2 Timothy are widely (though not universally) considered to have been authored not by Paul but by a much later figure. Third, insofar as the argument for Lukan authorship relies on the judgment that the author of Acts and Paul were two peas in a theological pod, this argument is undermined by the fact that the theology of the Gospel and Acts is in some respects very un-Pauline. For example, whereas the Paul of the epistles focuses in on justification by faith and an atoning cross, the Paul of Acts emphasizes, quite differently, the resurrection. Fourth and finally, whereas the case for Lukan authorship relies on the historical integrity of the ‘we’ passages (as authentic recollections of the author of Acts), scholarly judgments that these same passages were inserted as fictive interpolations help to offset the case for Lukan authorship.
Though these arguments against Lukan authorship are by no means frivolous, they are open to rebuttal. First, to invalidate the Gospel’s testimony on account of the author’s failure to claim eyewitness status seems to miss the Evangelist’s point, for he is not claiming to be an eyewitness to Jesus’ life and ministry but rather to present a range of eyewitnesses and events, spanning from the time of Jesus’ birth to Paul’s imprisonment at Rome. Second, even if we were to discount the Pauline authorship of Colossians 4:10–14 and 2 Timothy 4:11 (granted for the purposes of argument but not conceded), this still leaves Philemon 24. (And if in response to this point it is countered that one Pauline witness is not sufficient, one might well ask in return, ‘Well, why not?’) Third, while there are obvious differences with Paul’s theology as it is represented in, say, Romans, Galatians and the Corinthian correspondence, one might counter with the twin points (1) that Luke composed his narrative in order to make certain theological points appropriate to the occasion of his audience, and (2) that Paul wrote each of his epistles with somewhat different purposes in mind. One danger of conceptualizing theology as a series of abstract propositions is that it deludes us into thinking that the early church’s kerygmatic message required uniform expression, no matter the author or the occasion. Fourth, if the ‘we’ passages of Acts are indeed a spurious insertion or fictive trope, then this begins to raise serious doubts about the historical faithfulness of Luke–Acts as a whole. This approach, though a path well travelled in much critical scholarship, seems to raise far more questions than it answers. A better path, even if it is a road less travelled, is to assume (1) that the author of the Gospel aspires to offer a credible history (per his own claims in Luke 1:1–4) and (2) that Luke implicates himself in the text precisely in order to vouch for his own account of the past.
Where did Luke write his Gospel? For whom and to what purpose? These are difficult questions but still questions deserving some comment, beginning with the matter of provenance. Some scholars suppose that Luke and his Gospel hailed from Syrian Antioch, a claim which is indirectly (though perhaps weakly) supported by the Western text (D) of Luke at Acts 11:28, which has Antioch as the point of departure in the first of its ‘we’ sections. Meanwhile, patristic traditions might incline us in the direction of Achaia (Greece). Still other traditions locate Luke’s composition in Rome. The truth is we are unlikely to register anything more than a guess on this matter. And, frankly, given Luke’s itinerant lifestyle, provenance hardly seems to matter.
As noted above, the stated audience is one ‘Theophilus’. In our judgment, Theophilus was likely the Evangelist’s benefactor who wished to be better schooled in the ‘certainty’ of what he believed. Of course, Luke is not simply writing his massive two-volume work for one man: he has a much broader audience in mind. If ever there were, among the four Gospels, a Gospel for all Christians, Luke has as strong a claim as any one of them. Luke wrote his Gospel not for one believer but for Christian believers everywhere.
And why did he write it, especially if he knew of other narratives already in existence (Luke 1:1)? Perhaps the Evangelist was motivated by the sense that Christian believers were in pressing need of further assurances. For example, persecuted by fellow synagogue members (Phil. 1:28; 1 Thess. 1:6–7), Paul’s churches would have certainly appreciated a compelling narrative case that their allegiance to Jesus the Messiah was not in vain, despite the remonstrances of (fellow) Jews. At the same time, the strong-arm claims of Rome and the pull of emperor worship would have also challenged the early church’s story of a suffering and crucified Messiah. Yet ultimately, if the Romans saw their epic founding story in Virgil’s Aeneid, what Christians needed was something analogous, an epic spanning years and continents. Such a story would ideally lay the foundational narrative of the believing community, all the while showing that the real plot line was not bound up with the fortunes of Rome or the Jerusalem temple but in Jesus’ life, death, resurrection and ascension, and the giving of the Spirit to a mission-oriented church. Though the reasons precipitating Luke’s Gospel were likely manifold and complex (apologetics, for example, is strongly in the mix), the Gospel was likely written simply because the church needed its own story, precisely like the one found in Luke–Acts. Such a story, so Luke hoped, would underwrite the churches’ own corporate self-understanding and mission.
In dating the composition of the Gospel of Luke, contemporary scholars have posited four time periods as possibilities. The earliest (mid first century) and the latest (the first half of the second century) are very much minority positions. Much more common in the commentaries and handbooks are datings of either the 60s or even more commonly AD 75–85. We will restrict consideration to these two theorized time frames.
The case for a composition date of AD 75–85 depends primarily on two premises. The first, uncontroversially, is that Luke knew and used Mark. The second is that Mark should be dated in the early 70s. One of the leading reasons for dating Mark to the early 70s has to do with its account of the destruction of the temple (Mark 13). Because Mark’s Jesus predicts the destruction of the temple with such accuracy, it can only be the case – so it is argued – that Mark put words into Jesus’ mouth, creating a prophecy after the event (vaticinium ex eventu). Of course, the same argument applies to Luke with its prediction of the temple’s destruction. If one assumes that it was not Jesus who predicted the future but the Evangelists who only made it look as if Jesus did so, then one must also surmise a dating after AD 70 for both Gospels, and a dating which allows lead time from the writing of Mark to the writing of Luke.
The case for a date in the 60s rides on three premises. First, those who adhere to this position generally hold that either Jesus in fact had extraordinary insight into the forthcoming temple destruction, or that Jesus is using generalized scriptural language to describe the temple’s destruction given its disobedience (which may or may not entail miraculous predictive ability). Second, this position asks, if Acts breaks off so suddenly with Paul’s Roman house arrest, would this not suggest the possibility that Luke wrapped up his two-volume work right around this time (mid 60s)? Third, given the trauma of the Neronic persecution in the later years of the 60s, how is it possible that a post-AD 70 Gospel could leave no hint of this terrible period in its pages? Surely, so it is reasoned, Luke completed his work before the Neronic persecution got underway. Though the matter cannot be definitely settled, the present author considers this last view the most persuasive: Luke was written in the 60s very close on the heels of Mark.
On the two-source hypothesis, Luke availed himself of Mark and the allegedly now-lost source Q (from the German Quelle, meaning ‘source’), along with the special source L, in composing his Gospel. On the Farrer hypothesis, Luke used only Mark. On the Augustinian hypothesis, he used Matthew and Mark. The present commentary does not presume any particular solution to the so-called Synoptic problem. Agnostic on the issue of textual sources, we will generally avoid source-critical assumptions except for the assumption that Luke used Mark, which we will take for granted.
Though ‘many have undertaken to set down an orderly account of the events that have been fulfilled among us’ (1:1), Luke surely had non-textual sources at his disposal as well. Indeed, he claims to have consulted many ‘eyewitnesses’ (1:2). Included among these would have probably been the likes of Mary, the disciples, and certainly Paul who spent a good two years with Luke at Caesarea and laid claim to special revelations directly from the Lord. The thoroughness of Luke’s method suggests that his approach was to leave no stone unturned and to present the facts as winsomely and effectively as possible.
Luke tells the story of Jesus Christ with the goal of identifying him as the fulfilment of the Scriptures as well as the eschatological climax of redemption. This comes to surface not only through the Evangelist’s recurring themes of fulfilment and divine necessity (Greek: dei ), but also through countless allusions to previous redemptive moments in Israel’s history, not least the exodus and return from exile. For Luke, this core redemptive-historical fact about Jesus relates centrally to his distinctive salvation-bearing mission (its goals, values and strategies), which in turn serves as a template for the church as it undertakes (on the model of Jesus) its Spirit-directed and Spirit-empowered mission. This mission is characteristically marked by a hospitality that witnesses to Jesus’ role as guest and host at meals, and by a concern for the poor, that is, the socially marginalized, including women, children and the Gentiles. Yet at bottom, all these threads conspire to set Jesus out as the author of salvation and the only hope for Israel and the world. The Gospel of Luke is the gospel of salvation.
In another writing, I have characterized Luke’s structure as a seamless spiralling staircase, circling back repetitively while taking the reader higher and higher.1 That said, some structure can be discerned. One of the most basic approaches stipulates four sections: the coming of Jesus (1:5 – 4:13); the Galilee ministry (4:14 – 9:50); the journey to Jerusalem (9:51 – 21:38); and the passion and resurrection (22:1 – 24:53). A more detailed version of this outline would add a prologue (1:1–4) and tease out a break between the infancy narrative (1:5 – 2:52) and Jesus’ preparation for ministry (3:1 – 4:13). We would also submit the importance of distinguishing Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem (9:51 – 19:27) from his ministry in Jerusalem (19:28 – 21:38). The passion (22:1 – 23:56) and resurrection narratives (24:1–53) also evince a clear break. A more detailed structure is now presented in the ‘Analysis’.
1. Perrin, Kingdom of God, pp. 193–194. Werner Kelber (‘Exposition’, p. 14) similarly comments that Luke, like the other Gospels, is ‘an intricately designed religious universe, with . . . retrospective and prospective devices, linear and concentric patterning, and a continuous line of thematic cross-referencing and narrative interlockings’.