The historian Josephus, writing in his work Against Apion, gives us a glimpse into the Jewish perspective on this very question. He contrasts the Jewish reverence for scripture with what he sees as a more casual Greek attitude towards their own writings. And it's a powerful contrast.
Josephus points out that, unlike the Greeks with their "innumerable multitude of books, disagreeing from and contradicting one another," the Jewish people have a very specific and defined set of texts: twenty-two books, to be exact. These are the books we know today as the Tanakh, or Hebrew Bible (though there's a bit of debate, as we'll see, about the exact list). As the footnote in Whiston's translation of Josephus' text suggests, these books are essentially what we consider canonical in the Old Testament, with some interesting exceptions like excluding the Song of Songs (Canticles) and including a version of Esdras instead of Ezra.
He divides these books into three categories. First, there are the five books of Moses, the Torah, which tell the story from the creation of the world up to Moses' death. Josephus notes that this covers nearly three thousand years! Then, there are thirteen books written by the prophets who followed Moses, recounting events from his death until the reign of Artaxerxes, the Persian king. Finally, the remaining four books contain hymns to God (think Psalms!) and precepts for how to live a good life (like Proverbs).
Josephus is keen to emphasize the incredible importance of these texts to the Jewish people. He admits that history has been written since Artaxerxes, but these later writings aren't held with the same authority. Why? Because, he says, there hasn't been an unbroken succession of prophets since then. The age of prophecy, in a sense, has ended.
But here's the real kicker: Josephus declares that the Jewish people's devotion to these books is evident in their actions. He boasts that for generations, no one has dared to add, subtract, or change a single thing in these sacred texts. From birth, Jews are taught to believe these books contain Divine doctrines, to persist in them, and even—this is the powerful part—to willingly die for them.
Think about that for a moment.
Josephus then drives home the point with a stark example: Jewish captives, facing torture and death in the arena, would rather endure unimaginable suffering than deny their laws or the writings that contain them. He contrasts this with the Greeks, who, he claims, wouldn't lift a finger to protect their own writings. He argues that the Greeks see their texts as simply the opinions of the authors, and he criticizes contemporary Greek historians for writing about events they didn't witness firsthand, relying on hearsay and speculation.
Josephus is making a powerful argument here. He's not just talking about religious texts; he's talking about identity, about the very soul of a people. The Tanakh, in his view, isn't just a collection of stories and laws; it's the foundation upon which Jewish identity is built. It's a testament to their unwavering faith and their willingness to sacrifice everything for what they believe.
And it makes you wonder, doesn't it? What texts, what stories, what beliefs are so deeply ingrained in us that we would defend them with our lives? What does it truly mean to believe?