More than just inspiration, more than just beautiful writing. Sometimes, it takes a good old-fashioned curse.
I’m talking about the story of the Septuagint, the Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible. The Letter of Aristeas, our source for this tale, recounts this monumental effort. It tells of how 72 Jewish scholars were brought to Alexandria to translate the Torah – the first five books of Moses – into Greek. It was a huge undertaking, commissioned by Ptolemy II Philadelphus himself.
So, the translation is complete. Picture this: the entire company of scholars, deeply invested in this project, gather together. According to the Letter of Aristeas, they collectively pronounce a powerful curse. This wasn't just a casual "bless your heart" kind of curse. This was a serious, religiously binding declaration. It targeted anyone, anyone at all, who would dare to alter the text – adding, subtracting, or changing even a single word.
Why such a drastic measure? Well, They were handling something considered divinely inspired. The goal wasn't just to create a readable translation, but to preserve the very essence of the Torah for future generations. This curse, then, was a kind of insurance policy, a spiritual safeguard to keep the text pure and unaltered through the ages. It was a "very wise precaution," as the Letter of Aristeas tells us, "to ensure that the book might be preserved for all the future time unchanged."
Can you imagine the weight of that moment? The assembled scholars, united in their commitment, invoking a curse to protect their work. Talk about pressure!
And what about Ptolemy, the king who commissioned the whole thing? When he heard the translation was complete, he was ecstatic. The Letter of Aristeas tells us he "rejoiced greatly." He had a vision, and it had been realized. The entire book was read to him, and he was deeply impressed by the wisdom and spirit of the original lawgiver, Moses.
But then he asks a fascinating question. He turns to Demetrius, likely Demetrius of Phaleron, the one who originally suggested the project, and asks: "How is it that none of the historians or the poets have ever thought it worth their while to allude to such a wonderful achievement?"
It's a question that lingers, isn’t it? Why hadn't the world recognized the significance of the Torah before? Was it simply unknown? Or was there something more profound at play? Perhaps Ptolemy's question speaks to the unique power and enduring impact that this translated text, protected by a carefully worded curse, would ultimately have on the world.