Biblical Texts - Origin and Dogmatic Manipulation

Throughout history, the texts of the Bible have undergone significant human handling—copying, translating, editing, and even outright tampering.

Far from being a static document handed down unchanged, the Bible’s content was shaped by scribes, theologians, and editors with various motives.

In this essay, we will delve deeply into how biblical texts were manipulated over time, examining concrete examples of textual alterations and editorial decisions. We will explore famous cases of New Testament textual variants added or removed to suit doctrinal needs, as well as the Old Testament’s evolution, including its borrowing from older Mesopotamian sources and the role of ancient editors. We will also consider how powerful authorities determined the biblical canon, suppressing alternative writings, and compare biblical ideas with insights from earlier traditions such as Sumerian mythology and Vedantic literature. Through this journey, our goal is to uncover eternal and significant truths that lie beyond any one dogmatic version of scripture. By shining light on the Bible’s complex textual history, we as truth seekers can better discern the timeless wisdom it contains and recognize where human hands may have obscured that truth.

New Testament Textual Changes and Additions

One of the clearest examples of biblical text manipulation is found in the New Testament, where scribes occasionally inserted, altered, or omitted passages. Some changes were accidental, but others appear deliberate—aimed at reinforcing certain doctrines or stories. These modifications, once introduced, could persist for centuries in manuscripts and printed Bibles. Modern textual criticism has identified many such variants by comparing thousands of ancient manuscripts. Let us examine a few of the most noteworthy cases:

The Trinity Proof-Text (1 John 5:7-8) – Perhaps the most famous deliberate insertion is the Comma Johanneum, a clause in 1 John 5:7-8 that explicitly affirms the Trinity. In the King James Version (KJV) it reads: “For there are three that bear witness in heaven, the Father, the Word, and the Holy Ghost: and these three are one.” This passage is absent from all the oldest Greek manuscripts of 1 John. It does not appear in any Greek copy before the 14th century and was originally only a gloss in Latin texts[1][2]. How then did it enter the mainstream Bible? The story, documented by scholar Bart D. Ehrman and others, centers on the 16th-century Catholic humanist Desiderius Erasmus. Erasmus compiled the first printed Greek New Testament in 1516, relying on a handful of late-medieval Greek manuscripts. None of Erasmus’s sources contained the Trinitarian phrase, so his first editions omitted it. This omission caused an uproar among theologians of his day, who accused him of undermining the doctrine of the Trinity[3][4]. Under pressure, Erasmus reportedly promised to include the verse if presented with even a single Greek manuscript containing it[5]. Sure enough, such a manuscript was “found” (actually created on demand): a copy produced around 1520 by a Franciscan scribe, translating the Latin Vulgate’s Trinitarian gloss back into Greek[6][7]. True to his word, Erasmus inserted the dubious verse into his 1522 edition, albeit with a footnote voicing suspicion that the Greek manuscript had been prepared “expressly in order to confute him.”[7] From Erasmus’s third edition, the fake passage made its way into later Textus Receptus editions (the so-called “received text” of the Greek New Testament) and thereby into the King James Bible of 1611. For centuries, Christians read this verse as if it were authentic scripture, unaware it was absent from the oldest manuscripts. It was only in the 19th–20th centuries, with better scholarly Greek editions based on ancient manuscripts, that most modern Bible translations dropped the Comma Johanneum as spurious. This dramatic tale illustrates how a theologically motivated addition manipulated the perception of doctrine: a clear Trinitarian proof-text was essentially manufactured in the late Middle Ages and inserted into the sacred text by the machinery of printing and tradition[7][8]. Today, critical scholars concur the verse is not original scripture, yet some traditionalists still defend it. The episode shows that even core theological ideas (like the Trinity) at one time rested on a fragile textual foundation: one made-to-order manuscript and an editor’s reluctant concession.
“The Woman Taken in Adultery” (John 7:53–8:11) – Another well-loved biblical story that appears to be a later insertion is the account of Jesus forgiving an adulterous woman (“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone”). This touching narrative is absent in the earliest and most reliable Greek manuscripts of the Gospel of John[9]. Manuscripts like Codex Sinaiticus and Codex Vaticanus (4th century) do not contain it, and its writing style differs from John’s usual style, suggesting it was added by a later hand. The story only shows up in manuscripts from the 5th century onward, and some early manuscripts even insert it in different places (or in Luke’s Gospel), indicating scribes were not sure where it belonged. Most modern Bibles include this passage only with an explanatory footnote (or relegate it to a bracketed section), acknowledging that John probably never wrote it. The omission of John 7:53–8:11 in the oldest copies implies that early copyists “caught” this story and inserted it into John’s Gospel at a later date[10]. Its enduring popularity in sermons notwithstanding, textual evidence strongly suggests this episode was not part of the original Gospel of John[10]. In other words, an editor or scribe in the early centuries manipulated the Gospel tradition by adding a beautiful anecdote—perhaps true to Jesus’ character, but not initially present in scripture.
The “Long Ending” of Mark (Mark 16:9–20) – The Gospel of Mark originally ended abruptly at 16:8, with the women discovering the empty tomb and fleeing “in fear and silence.” The verses that follow (Mark 16:9–20), which describe Jesus’ resurrection appearances and miraculous signs (like disciples picking up serpents and drinking poison unharmed), are absent from our oldest manuscripts of Mark[10]. Both Codex Sinaiticus and Codex Vaticanus end Mark at 16:8, and early church fathers like Origen and Clement of Alexandria show no knowledge of any verses beyond that. Most scholars agree Mark’s “long ending” was composed later (possibly in the 2nd century) by someone who wished to provide a more satisfying conclusion in line with the other Gospels’ resurrection accounts. The longer ending was gradually copied into many medieval manuscripts and became part of the Textus Receptus that the King James translators used[10]. Thus, for hundreds of years Christians reading Mark in most Bibles encountered a Resurrection narrative that Mark himself likely never wrote. Modern translations note its doubtful origin; for example, the NIV and ESV mark off Mark 16:9–20 with a note that “Some of the earliest manuscripts do not include 16:9–20”[11]. This is a classic case where scribes manipulated the ending of a Gospel, either to “fix” what they thought was an accidental omission or to harmonize it with other accounts. If one reads Mark’s Gospel in the oldest form, it ends on a cliffhanger—a stark and perhaps intentional literary device. Later editors, uncomfortable with an open-ended Gospel, appended a more triumphal, tidy ending. Once again, human intervention altered the biblical text and thereby the way its message was perceived for generations.
Other Theologically Motivated Variants – Beyond these larger passages, many subtler textual changes in the New Testament seem driven by doctrinal or liturgical concerns. For instance, 1 Timothy 3:16 in the King James reads, “God was manifest in the flesh,” a key proof of Jesus’ divinity. However, the earliest manuscripts do not say “God” (θεός) here, but rather “who was manifest in flesh,” referring to Christ without explicitly calling him God. It appears that some scribe in the 3rd or 4th century modified the Greek word for “who” (ος) to the abbreviation for “God” (ΘΣ) – a tiny change of two letters, likely added as a “theological clarification” to emphasize Christ’s deity[12]. This altered reading made it into later Greek copies and into the Textus Receptus used by the KJV[12]. Modern critical editions have reverted to “He who was manifest in the flesh,” since the “God” insertion is absent in the oldest witnesses and seems to be a doctrinally motivated addition by later Christians[12]. Another example: in Luke 24:51, some manuscripts add that Jesus was “carried up into heaven” (an explicit Ascension reference) while others lack this phrase; similarly, Mark 1:1 in certain early copies calls Jesus “the Son of God” while the very oldest copy (Sinaiticus) originally did not include “Son of God” in that verse[10][13]. In each case, it is plausible that scribes inserted familiar phrases or titles to make the text conform to what was taught, thus strengthening orthodox views. Christians who are unaware of these textual issues may assume every verse in their Bible was always there. But as these cases show, some cherished verses and phrases were not originally present; they were added by human hands long after the apostolic age, often to bolster a doctrine (the Trinity, Christ’s divinity, the Resurrection appearances, etc.) that earlier manuscripts taught in less direct ways.

It must be emphasized that the vast majority of the New Testament text is secure; most scribal changes are minor and inconsequential. But the examples above are significant manipulations that have had outsized influence on Christian theology and popular belief. The record of these alterations is preserved in our thousands of manuscripts, allowing scholars to reconstruct the likely original readings. The science of textual criticism has, in a sense, uncovered the truth behind these later insertions, helping modern believers base their doctrines on the earliest attainable text rather than the “received text” (Textus Receptus) that accumulated additions over time[14][15]. The fact that for centuries Bibles contained passages known now to be spurious is a humbling reminder that tradition can sometimes propagate a historical mistake, elevating it to the status of Holy Writ. It challenges us to approach scripture with both reverence and discernment, aware of the very human process through which it was handed down.

The Textus Receptus and the King James Legacy

It is worth briefly noting how the Textus Receptus (TR) – the Greek text line descending from Erasmus – dominated the Bible for 300+ years, further entrenching these manipulated verses. After Erasmus’s several editions, other printers issued Greek New Testaments that closely mirrored his work. By 1633, the Elzevir publishers of Leiden could advertise their edition with the proud claim, “Textum ergo habes, nunc ab omnibus receptum...” – “What you have here is the text now received by all”[14]. This boast gave rise to the term “Textus Receptus,” or “Received Text,” implying an almost official sanction. In reality, the TR was not based on the oldest or best sources, but on a handful of late Medieval manuscripts Erasmus had on hand[16][17]. It contained known interpolations (like the Comma Johanneum, the longer ending of Mark, etc.) because those happened to be in Erasmus’s source copies – or were added under pressure, as we saw. Yet, because the TR became the standard, virtually all Protestant Bibles from the 16th through 19th centuries were translated from it[18][19]. The King James Version (1611) thus enshrined these additions in English scripture. Generations of English-speaking Christians learned verses and stories that, strictly speaking, were later accretions to the Bible’s original text[20][21]. Only in the late 1800s did scholars like Westcott and Hort produce a new critical Greek New Testament based on older manuscripts like Codex Sinaiticus (discovered in 1850s) and Codex Vaticanus. This marked a turning point: modern translations (Revised Version, RSV, NIV, etc.) began to omit or footnote the TR’s added verses in favor of the older evidence[22][23]. For example, most today either omit 1 John 5:7’s Trinitarian line or confine it to a footnote, acknowledging it is not original. Of course, this correction met resistance. Even now, there are King James Only groups who insist the Textus Receptus (and by extension the KJV) is the only pure, uncorrupted Word of God[24][14]. From a scholarly perspective, this is a reversal of reality, since the TR is the product of centuries of accumulated copying errors and intentional insertions, whereas the “critical text” seeks to undo those human alterations. The irony is profound: what was “received by all” for so long was not the most authentic form of the New Testament, but rather a textual tradition shaped by historical chance and controversy[25][26]. This underscores why continuous research and critical examination of biblical texts are essential in our quest for truth. It also highlights how religious communities can become attached to a familiar textual form, even when it’s shown to be faulty – a caution that reverence for scripture should always be accompanied by willingness to refine our understanding as new information comes to light.

Editing and Evolution of the Old Testament Text

Textual manipulation is not confined to the New Testament. The Old Testament (Hebrew Bible) also bears marks of editing and development over many centuries. However, the nature of “manipulation” in the Old Testament is somewhat different. Rather than discrete later insertions of verses (as with NT scribes), the OT texts were shaped by collective composition and redaction processes in antiquity. We are dealing with ancient works that likely went through multiple editions long before they were fixed in the form we now have. Understanding this process reveals that the Old Testament as we know it is the product of theological agendas and historical circumstances that influenced its compilers.

Scholars have long noted that the first five books (the Torah or Pentateuch) show evidence of being woven together from earlier source documents – a theory known as the Documentary Hypothesis. For example, Genesis contains two creation stories back-to-back (Genesis 1:1–2:3 and Genesis 2:4–25) with different styles and names for God, suggesting two traditions were combined. Many narratives in the Pentateuch come in doublets (two versions of the same event) or have internal inconsistencies that make sense if multiple source texts were merged by an editor. According to the classic form of this hypothesis, at least four main sources (often labeled J, E, D, P) were redacted together. Each had its own perspective: J and E were early narrative strands, D (Deuteronomy) was a law code possibly compiled in the 7th century BCE, and P (Priestly) was a post-exilic source emphasizing ritual and genealogy. The very act of combining these sources into a single narrative involved a kind of manipulation – not necessarily deceitful, but certainly intentional shaping of Israel’s story. The Priestly redactors, for instance, likely inserted their own emphases (such as the detailed ritual laws in Exodus-Leviticus or the structured seven-day creation in Genesis 1) to bolster the primacy of the priesthood and liturgical worship. In doing so they may have revised or overlaid earlier traditions that had different emphases (for example, the non-Priestly creation story in Genesis 2 presents a more anthropomorphic deity and a more earthy narrative). Thus, the Torah as we have it is in part a harmonization and theological editing of older sources – in a sense, an ancient editorial project to present a unified sacred history out of divergent tribal stories and laws. While devout readers later came to view the whole Pentateuch as the work of one hand (traditionally Moses, in religious belief), the internal evidence suggests many hands and a process of composition that involved expansion, selection, and occasional suppression of contradictions to create a coherent text.

As another example of likely intentional editing, consider the theological evolution visible within the Hebrew Bible regarding the nature of God and other “gods.” Early Israelite religion (as reflected in some of the oldest biblical poems, like Exodus 15 or Numbers 23-24) appears to have been henotheistic – acknowledging the existence of other gods but affirming Yahweh as the supreme deity of Israel. Over time, especially after the Babylonian Exile (6th century BCE), Israelite theology moved decisively toward strict monotheism, insisting that Yahweh is the only God. Scholars have pointed out that some biblical texts bear the scars of this transition. For instance, Psalm 82 depicts God (Elohim) standing in the divine council among the “sons of God” or lesser deities, chastising them. The text implies a pantheon concept inherited from Canaanite tradition (where El and his council of gods were standard). Rather than remove this polytheistic imagery entirely, later editors seem to have repurposed it: the psalm ends with the affirmation that Yahweh alone will inherit all nations, implicitly demoting all other gods to non-entities. In other cases, scribes may have tweaked wording to avoid polytheistic implications.

A famous example is Deuteronomy 32:8-9, which in its original form (attested by the Dead Sea Scrolls) says the Most High (El Elyon) divided the nations and “gave them over to the sons of God,” but kept Israel for Yahweh.

The Masoretic Text (the traditional Hebrew text established later) changes “sons of God” to “sons of Israel,” likely an attempt to obscure the idea of other divine beings having authority over nations. Such subtle changes reflect a theological “cleanup” of earlier texts to fit later orthodox monotheism. Jewish scribes called Sopherim are known to have made a few intentional emendations (Tiqqunei Soferim) in the text – for example, altering phrases that seemed disrespectful to God. One oft-cited emendation is in Job 1:5, where the text was reportedly changed from “curse God” to “bless God” (euphemistically) to avoid even hypothetically cursing God. These are minor, but they exemplify how scribes were willing to adjust the wording of scripture out of reverence or doctrinal concern.

In terms of textual transmission, the Hebrew Bible was remarkably well-preserved by Jewish scribes (the Masoretes) in the medieval period, but earlier on there were variant forms of many books. The discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls (1st–2nd century BCE copies of biblical books) shows that some books, like Jeremiah, existed in different versions. The version of Jeremiah in the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Septuagint (Greek Old Testament) is about one-eighth shorter and has a different chapter order than the traditional Hebrew Masoretic Text. It appears that either the Hebrew text was expanded later (adding extra phrases or repetitions), or conversely the shorter form was trimmed. Either way, someone edited Jeremiah – and one of those editions became the “standard” that survived. Likewise, the book of Psalms at Qumran had additional psalms and variant arrangements, indicating the Psalter was still somewhat fluid in the Second Temple period. Even the book of Isaiah scroll from Qumran, while largely matching the Masoretic Text, has numerous small differences (a missing or added word here and there) that show the text was not 100% fixed even as late as 100 BCE. What this tells us is that the Old Testament text was not frozen in form straight from the hand of the prophet, but rather gradually stabilized. By the time of Jesus, multiple textual traditions existed; the early Christians could quote either the Hebrew or the Greek Septuagint (which itself sometimes reflects a different Hebrew original). Only later did the Masoretic Text (around 7th–10th century CE) become the authoritative Hebrew Bible for Judaism, and from it, most modern Old Testaments are translated. The Masoretes did an extraordinary job standardizing and copying the text faithfully from then on. But before their time, a degree of flexibility and revision had already taken place.

Ancient Parallels: Sumerian Tablets and the Borrowing of Myth

Cuneiform “Flood Tablet” (Epic of Gilgamesh, Tablet XI) from ancient Mesopotamia. This clay tablet, inscribed in Akkadian cuneiform, contains a flood narrative strikingly similar to the biblical story of Noah[27]. It predates the Bible by many centuries, illustrating how the Genesis flood account drew upon earlier Mesopotamian tradition.

The content of the Old Testament was not developed in a vacuum; it often shows striking parallels with earlier Mesopotamian literature preserved on Sumerian and Babylonian tablets. This raises the question of literary borrowing or influence – a sort of cultural editing of older source material. In some cases, the biblical authors adapted pre-existing stories and ideas, effectively manipulating them to fit a new monotheistic framework. Recognizing these parallels can help uncover ancient truths that the Bible shares with other traditions, and highlight how editors of scripture modified those truths to align with their theology.

For example, the creation story and flood story in Genesis have well-known counterparts in Mesopotamian myth. The Epic of Gilgamesh (tablets dating as early as ~1700 BCE) includes a flood narrative (told by the hero Utnapishtim) that is remarkably similar to the story of Noah in Genesis 6–9. In Gilgamesh, the gods decide to send a great flood to destroy mankind; one man is warned to build a large boat, he takes aboard animals, survives the deluge, and releases birds to find land – details that closely parallel Genesis[27]. An even older Mesopotamian flood tale, the Atrahasis Epic (Old Babylonian period), follows the same basic outline. The Genesis authors took this ancient Near Eastern flood motif and reworked it:

...notably, they turned the polytheistic story (many quarrelling gods) into a monotheistic one (Yahweh alone sends the flood as judgment for sin).

The Mesopotamian flood hero is granted immortality by the gods, whereas Noah is simply blessed and told to be fruitful.

By comparing texts, it becomes evident that the biblical flood story is a modified, Israelite version of a much older Mesopotamian legend[27][28]. This is not “copy-paste” plagiarism but a cultural inheritance—one might even call it a theological editing of traditional lore.

Israelite scribes essentially manipulated the older myth to teach their own lesson about human wickedness and divine justice, framing it in the context of one righteous God rather than a pantheon.

Similarly, the creation account in Genesis 1 echoes themes from the Babylonian creation epic Enūma Elish. In Enūma Elish (likely composed around 18th–16th century BCE), the god Marduk defeats the chaos-dragon Tiamat and splits her body to form heaven and earth, then creates humanity. Genesis 1, written perhaps around the 6th century BCE (during or after the Babylonian exile), shows intriguing parallels: it begins with primordial chaos waters (Hebrew tehom, a linguistic cousin of the name Tiamat[29][30]), which God subdues by simply speaking.

In both, creation involves separating waters above and below, and in both, light and luminaries are appointed their place[29].

The Enūma Elish spans seven tablets, and Genesis creation is structured in seven days – a possible deliberate mirroring[31].

On the sixth tablet/day, respectively, humans are created (though by different means: Marduk uses the blood of a slain god, whereas Yahweh speaks and then forms man from dust in Genesis)[32].

Even the concept of the deity resting at the end is found: in Enūma Elish the gods rest and celebrate after creation, in Genesis God rests on the seventh day. Scholars debate whether the Israelites directly knew the text of Enūma Elish or were simply drawing on common Near Eastern cosmological ideas[33]. In either case, it appears the biblical author responded to the pagan myth by redefining it:

...there is no cosmic battle in Genesis – God’s power is absolute and effortless; the sun and moon are not gods but mere “lights” in the sky, demoted from divinity.

Genesis 1 reads almost as a polemic against the Mesopotamian worldview[34][35], editing the story of creation to assert the supremacy of Israel’s one God over the chaos and over any other would-be deities.

This, too, is a form of textual manipulation—on a grand scale. The raw material of myth was refashioned to convey a new theology. In doing so, the biblical scribes preserved fragments of ancient truth (e.g. the concept of creation bringing order from chaos, the idea of a primordial flood) but placed them in a radically different interpretive context. By comparing Genesis with those cuneiform tablets, we illuminate hidden layers of the text: the “DNA” of older stories embedded within scripture.

Other portions of the Old Testament also show possible influence or parallels from Mesopotamia: the law code of Hammurabi (18th century BCE Babylonian king) has similarities with the laws of Moses (for example, the principle of “an eye for an eye” appears in both).

The tale of baby Moses’s origins – set adrift in a basket on a river, only to be rescued and adopted – is strikingly similar to a legend about King Sargon of Akkad centuries earlier, suggesting a shared motif of the divinely protected foundling leader.

My mother was a high priestess, my father I knew not. The brothers of my father loved the hills. My city is Azupiranu, which is situated on the banks of the Euphrates. My high priestess mother conceived me, in secret she bore me. She set me in a basket of rushes, with bitumen she sealed my lid. She cast me into the river which rose over me. The river bore me up and carried me to Akki, the drawer of water. Akki, the drawer of water, took me as his son and reared me. Akki, the drawer of water, appointed me as his gardener. While I was a gardener, Ishtar granted me her love, and for four and ... years I exercised kingship.

Similarities between the Sargon Birth Legend and other infant birth exposures in ancient literature, including Moses, Karna, and Oedipus, were noted by psychoanalyst Otto Rank in his 1909 book The Myth of the Birth of the Hero.^[69] The legend was also studied in detail by Brian Lewis, and compared with many different examples of the infant birth exposure motif found in Eurasian folktales. He discusses a possible archetype form, giving particular attention to the Sargon legend and the account of the birth of Moses.^[7] Joseph Campbell has also made such comparisons.^[70]

Even the genealogies and long lifespans of Genesis 5 seem to have echoes in the Sumerian King List (which lists antediluvian kings with fantastically long reigns). All these commonalities indicate that the Hebrew authors were drawing from an older cultural pool of stories and concepts. They inherited and reinterpreted them for their own purposes. In a way, this can be seen as an honest attempt to connect Israel’s understanding of God with the broader human story – to say,

... “Yes, there was a flood; yes, creation unfolded in stages”, but casting Yahweh as the true author of those events, displacing the older pantheon.

From a truth-seeking perspective, recognizing these parallels encourages us not to read the Bible in isolation as a completely novel revelation, but as part of a continuum of ancient thought.

It also shows that truths can be shared across cultures – for example, the flood story may reflect an ancient memory of catastrophic floods at the dawn of civilization, preserved in different ways by different peoples.

However, we also see how each culture’s storytellers manipulated the tale to express their worldview. The biblical manipulation of older texts was arguably done in service of what its authors saw as a higher truth (ethical monotheism). But it remains a manipulation: a conscious reshaping of pre-existing narratives. This invites us to ask: What is the eternal truth behind these stories, if we strip away each culture’s particular spin? Perhaps it is something about humanity’s relationship with the divine, the moral responsibility of humans (as highlighted in Genesis, where the flood comes as judgment for violence), or the idea of cosmic order emerging from chaos. These core ideas may be the “significant and meaningful truths” that endure, even as the scriptural texts conveying them were edited and redacted.

Suppression of Alternative Texts and the Formation of the Biblical Canon

In addition to changes within the texts, another form of manipulation occurred in the selection of which texts became “Biblical” in the first place. The Bible is a curated library; many religious writings were produced in ancient Israel and early Christianity, but only some entered the canon (the officially recognized list of sacred books). Decisions by ancient authorities – sometimes contentious, sometimes politically driven – determined which books we read today as scripture and which were labeled heresy or apocrypha. Thus, to fully grasp how biblical truth might have been manipulated, we must consider the texts that were excluded or suppressed.

In the context of the Hebrew Bible (Old Testament), the canon was largely settled by the early centuries CE under Jewish consensus. Certain books (like Ben Sira/Ecclesiasticus, 1 Maccabees, etc.) were included in the Greek Septuagint used by early Christians but later excluded from the Jewish Masoretic canon – these became the “Apocrypha” in Protestant terminology. While that exclusion may have been based on date (those books were later compositions) or not fitting the Hebrew theological outlook, it shows a process of winnowing the literature. However, a more dramatic case of suppression comes from early Christianity, with the treatment of so-called Gnostic or heterodox writings.

Early in the Christian era (1st–3rd centuries), there was a rich diversity of Christian writings and teachings. Alongside the letters of Paul and the four Gospels that we know, other texts circulated – various “Gospels” attributed to apostles (Thomas, Mary, Judas, Peter, and others), mystical teachings, apocalypses, and treatises. Some of these works contained theological ideas that greatly differed from what became mainstream orthodoxy. In particular, the movement known as Gnosticism offered a radically different understanding of Christian truth. Gnostic Christians emphasized gnosis (Greek for “knowledge”) – an inward, mystical knowledge of God and self – often teaching that the material world is an illusion or a prison created by lower powers, and that the true God is reached through awakening the divine spark within. They frequently presented Jesus not as a sacrificial redeemer of sin, but as an illuminator, a teacher of hidden wisdom who reveals that the kingdom of God is within you. For instance, in the Gospel of Thomas (a collection of Jesus’s sayings discovered at Nag Hammadi in Egypt), Jesus says, “the Father’s kingdom is inside of you... When you come to know yourselves... you will realize that it is you who are the sons of the living Father”. This resonates with a concept of discovering one’s unity with the divine. Such ideas have uncanny parallels with Vedantic teachings from the East – the notion that Atman (the Self) is Brahman (the Ultimate Reality), that by knowing one’s true self one knows God. Indeed, orthodox Christians of the time staunchly rejected this equivalence of self and God[36], insisting on a clear creator/creature distinction. But the Gnostics boldly proclaimed “Self-knowledge is knowledge of God… the self and the divine are identical.”[36] They viewed the Genesis story itself in a subversive light: some Gnostic texts reinterpret the Garden of Eden with the serpent as a liberator bringing knowledge, and the Creator as a lesser, jealous deity who tried to keep Adam and Eve ignorant[37][38]. Such interpretations radically flip the script on the Old Testament understanding.

As the early Church Fathers consolidated what they saw as apostolic teaching (the forerunner of “orthodoxy”), they grew alarmed at these alternative writings and the sects promoting them. By the mid-2nd century, bishops like Irenaeus were writing polemics against “heretics,” vehemently denouncing Gnostic gospels and doctrines. A power struggle ensued for the control of Christian truth. The eventual victors were the proto-orthodox (Catholic) leaders, who defined the canon of acceptable scriptures. Books that aligned with their theology – the four Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke, John), Acts, Paul’s letters, etc. – were preserved and copied. Those that did not were banned and destroyed whenever possible. The culmination of this process can be seen after Constantine embraced Christianity in the 4th century. Once the faith had imperial backing, the Church hierarchy had the means to enforce orthodoxy on a wide scale. Owning or circulating unapproved gospels became dangerous. Indeed, in AD 367 Athanasius of Alexandria wrote a famous Easter Letter listing the exact 27 books of the New Testament we know today, and commanding believers to reject all others. This reflects the emerging consensus of the canon, which Church councils later affirmed. Possession of “heretical” books was made a criminal offense in the Christian Roman Empire[39]. Heretical texts were burned or buried. This is precisely why, in one instance, some monk or believer at Nag Hammadi in Egypt around fourth-century hid a jar containing a collection of Gnostic writings in a cave – to save them from destruction[39][40]. Those books, which included the Gospel of Thomas, Gospel of Philip, and dozens of others, remained buried for 1600 years until their accidental discovery in 1945. Their survival is a remarkable window into what was lost from the Christian tradition due to canonical suppression.

From a historical standpoint, what happened in the 2nd–4th centuries was a decisive manipulation of the Christian textual tradition: the “heresies” were condemned and their texts pushed out of circulation[41][42]. The Bible that emerged – while containing profound truth – is not a neutral or exhaustive sampling of early Christian thought; it is a curated selection representing the theology of the victorious orthodox stream. Elaine Pagels, a renowned scholar of Gnosticism, famously noted that “the suppression of these texts, and their burial on a cliff at Nag Hammadi, were part of a struggle critical for the formation of early Christianity.”[43][41] The bishops who won this struggle labeled themselves “catholic” (universal) and retrospectively cast their doctrine as the faith “handed down once for all.” But we now know there was nothing inevitable about which texts “made it” into the New Testament and which did not – it was contingent on politics, persuasion, and often brute force of imperial decree. For instance, had Gnostic-leaning groups like the Valentinians or Sethians gained the upper hand, the New Testament might have included the Gospel of Thomas or the Gospel of Truth, and excluded some letters that today we take for granted. In such a hypothetical alternate canon, the flavor of Christianity would be very different – perhaps more mystical and inward-focused, less institutional. Instead, those elements were filtered out.

This suppression also meant the loss of certain theological perspectives that might have enriched or balanced Christian understanding. The New Testament, as it stands, emphasizes the outward, historical story of Jesus (his life, death, resurrection) and the necessity of faith in him for salvation. The Gnostic texts, by contrast, emphasize personal spiritual enlightenment and awakening the divine within – themes that one also finds in Eastern philosophies such as Vedanta and Buddhism. It is intriguing to note that what the orthodox Church rejected as heresy (the idea of finding God through inner knowledge, of the soul’s oneness with the divine) is quite resonant with what ancient Indian sages taught in the Upanishads. For example, the Chandogya Upanishad proclaims: “Tat tvam asi” (Thou art That) – the self is not different from the ultimate reality. Similarly, the Gnostic Gospel of Thomas has Jesus say, “When you come to know yourselves… you will realize that you are children of the living Father” and “He who drinks from my mouth will become as I am”[44]. Such statements imply an identification between the individual and the divine, a concept foreign to normative Biblical doctrine but central to mystical traditions. The Church’s elimination of Gnostic scripture effectively removed these concepts from the Christian mainstream, creating a religion where God was wholly other and the gulf between creator and creature could only be bridged by the Church’s sacraments and doctrines – not by personal mystical insight[45]. This served to strengthen the institution’s authority (believers had to go through the authorized teachings for salvation), but arguably it impoverished the spiritual landscape by discrediting the more introspective path. It is as if one stream of truth – the inner, experiential realization – was dammed up in Christianity, only to re-emerge centuries later in various mystics and now in a modern age re-engaging with Eastern wisdom.

In summary, the formation of the biblical canon was not a neutral gathering of all inspired texts; it was a political and theological process that involved choosing some writings and manipulating the narrative by excluding others. The result is that when we hold a Bible today, we are holding what the early orthodox authorities wanted posterity to receive as the full truth. The hidden, “unknown” texts (like those found at Nag Hammadi) reveal a broader context that can help us question whether the full breadth of truth was present or if crucial elements were left out. The good news is that these lost texts have been recovered in modern times, allowing us to study them. We need not accept every Gnostic claim uncritically (not all their ideas align with either reason or the ethical core of the Gospel), but we can learn from them. They show that spiritual seekers in the early Christian era grappled with eternal questions – Who are we? Where did we come from? How do we attain salvation/enlightenment? – and sometimes arrived at answers akin to those of sages in India or philosophers in Greece. The enforced silence of their voices for nearly two millennia was a loss to the richness of the tradition. Thankfully, now we can listen to them again and integrate whatever rings true.

Ancient Vedantic Insights and the Quest for Eternal Truth

We have already touched on the similarity between Gnostic ideas and Vedanta. Let us expand that reflection, as it will help us see the wider landscape of truth-seeking beyond the Bible’s boundaries. The Vedas and Upanishads of India (dated roughly between 1500 BCE and 500 BCE for their composition, though orally transmitted and considered timeless by practitioners) represent one of the world’s oldest continuous spiritual traditions. These texts were developing in roughly the same era as much of the Old Testament (the Vedic hymns are contemporaneous with the time of the Israelite judges and monarchy; the Upanishads with the time of the later prophets and Second Temple period). They contain a very different approach to truth: rather than historical narrative or legal codes, the Vedic literature, especially the Upanishads (Vedanta), are philosophical dialogues and poetic reflections on the ultimate reality (Brahman) and the self (Atman).

One of the central insights of Vedanta is that the core of one’s being (Atman) is identical with the supreme cosmic principle (Brahman). This is a profound assertion of the unity of all existence with God. For example, the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad states, “I am Brahman”, and the Chandogya Upanishad famously declares, “Tat Tvam Asi” – Thou art That (the Absolute). Such statements encapsulate a mystical intuition that God (or the Absolute Reality) is not separate from us, but is our deepest Self. In practical terms, the Vedas teach that through disciplines like meditation, ethical living, and knowledge (Jnana), one can realize this truth—often described as attaining liberation (moksha), a state of enlightenment where one sees through the illusion of separateness (maya) and experiences oneness with all.

Now, if we compare this to the Biblical tradition, we see a marked contrast. The Bible, especially in its final edited form, emphasizes the difference between Creator and creature. “In the beginning, God created…” – God is eternal, we are created. In mainstream Judeo-Christian thought, God is holy and transcendent, and humans are to obey and worship God; there is no hint that the self is of the same essence as God. The idea of man becoming God is anathema (except in the unique case of the Incarnation of Christ, which is itself seen as a one-time divine act). However, within the Bible there are a few glimmers of a more mystical thread—for instance, Genesis says humans are made “in the image of God,” which raises questions about what this implies for our nature. Jesus himself, in the New Testament, prays for his disciples “that they may be one, as you Father are in me and I in you” (John 17:21) – a statement that could hint at unity. Yet the Church’s interpretation never went so far as to embrace anything like Tat Tvam Asi. The gap remained: God is God, man is man.

So where do we find in the West anything similar to the Upanishadic vision? The answer is: in the mystical undercurrents, often outside the official canon. We have already identified Gnosticism as one such current in early Christianity. Later on, some Christian mystics (Meister Eckhart, for example, in the 14th century) said things like “The eye with which I see God is the same eye with which God sees me”, implying a oneness at the deepest level. Not surprisingly, Eckhart was suspected of heresy for such statements. In the East, however, such notions were mainstream for millennia.

What this suggests is that there are eternal truths that reappear across cultures – one being the insight of the divine unity and the inner path to it – but the biblical canon, as fixed by its editors, did not highlight this truth, even if it might be read between the lines or found in non-canonical texts. Is this a form of “manipulation”? It might be more fair to say it was a limitation or bias of the biblical tradition. The Bible’s strength was its ethical monotheism and personal God, but its compilers either did not perceive or chose not to include teachings that explicitly stressed immanent divinity in each person. They focused on the transcendent aspect. The consequences are significant: Western civilization grew up with an emphasis on obeying an external God, sometimes lacking the balance of introspective spirituality that sees God within. Meanwhile, Eastern traditions maintained that inner search as paramount.

Yet, truth has a way of resurfacing. Today, many people from Judeo-Christian backgrounds are turning to meditation, yoga, and Eastern philosophies to complement their faith, seeking that experiential knowledge of God that perhaps was missing in their inherited tradition. In some cases, they discover that Christian history did have parallels (like the contemplative practices of the Desert Fathers, or the concept of the divine Logos linking humanity and God, or the “kingdom of God within” mentioned by Jesus) – but these elements had been downplayed over the centuries. It is almost as if one must dig beneath the layers of dogma to find that pearl of great price, the mystical heart of religion, which in Vedanta was on open display but in Christianity was esoteric.

By bringing Vedantic and other ancient texts into the conversation, we widen our frame of reference for truth. We start to see that no one book has a monopoly on wisdom. The Bible, as precious as it is to billions, is still a collection of texts that passed through the filter of human history. We have seen how that filter added some things, left out others, and massaged the message at times. Therefore, in seeking “eternal, significant, and meaningful truths,” it is wise to consider the Bible alongside other venerable sources of insight. The Sumerian tablets remind us that storytelling about the divine and human condition has been with us since the dawn of civilization; the Vedas remind us that deep philosophical inquiry and spiritual experience are equally ancient. The Bible partakes in this greater human quest.

Conclusion: Pursuing Truth Beyond Dogma

What, then, can we conclude about how the Biblical texts were manipulated? We have observed multiple layers of intervention: textual alterations by scribes, editorial shaping of sources, thematic refocusing of older myths, and institutional selection (or suppression) of books. Each of these was a product of its time – a scholar adjusting a phrase to clarify doctrine, a priestly scribe compiling national traditions into a sacred history, an evangelist tailoring inherited stories for a new audience, a council of bishops drawing lines around orthodoxy. In all these actions, the human fingerprints on the Bible are evident. A devout believer might see divine providence behind the preservation of core truths despite these changes; a critic might see human power dynamics distorting what should be a purely divine message. From a truth-seeking perspective, we acknowledge both: yes, the Bible contains timeless wisdom, but it has come to us through timely, temporal processes that we must critically examine.

The important realization is that Truth itself is bigger than any one text or institution. If something is true – eternally and universally – it will find ways to manifest in various forms. If the Johannine Comma was not originally in Scripture, the truth of the divine unity of Father, Word, and Spirit (if one believes in the Trinity) had to be inferred elsewhere in scripture or realized in spiritual experience. If the story of the adulterous woman was a later addition, the truth of God’s mercy and forgiveness can still stand, supported by other passages or simply by the spirit of Jesus’s teachings. If the longer ending of Mark was not authentic, the truth of the Resurrection doesn’t vanish, because it’s attested in other Gospels – or ultimately, in the faith of the community. And beyond those specific doctrines, if an entire dimension of inner mystical knowledge was sidelined by the canonical process, it still emerged through other channels – through the voice of a stigmatized “heretic” like a Gnostic teacher, or a sage in India, or a poet like Rumi in the Sufi Islamic tradition (who, notably, spoke of finding the Divine within the heart as well). Truth will out. It cannot be fully silenced, only obscured for a time.

As “truth seekers,” our task is to peel back layers of dogma and manipulation and seek the pure light that shines underneath. For those of us examining the Bible, this means using tools of scholarship to identify where changes occurred and why – not to attack the Bible, but to understand it more deeply. Each variant or editorial decision tells a story about the evolving understanding of God and faith. Knowing that 1 John 5:7’s Trinitarian formula was a later insertion, for instance, challenges us to ground the Trinity (if we hold that doctrine) on more solid scriptural and philosophical footing, rather than on a proof-text of dubious origin. Knowing that Genesis adapted older creation myths helps us appreciate the theological genius of its authors in transforming those myths, and cautions us not to read Genesis as a literal scientific account but as a symbolic narrative with moral and spiritual aims. Knowing that other gospels existed gives us a broader lens to interpret Jesus – perhaps we approach the canonical Gospels with new questions or insights, having seen alternative portrayals.

Crucially, this exploration should not lead to cynicism or a loss of faith, but rather to a mature and robust faith (or philosophy of life) founded on truth rather than unquestioned tradition. As the user’s prompt beautifully put it: “Truth is the only path for Love and Consciousness to prevail.” If love and higher consciousness are our goals, then we must be fearless in pursuing truth, even if it means questioning long-held assumptions. The history of biblical manipulation is a reminder that even well-meaning religious authorities can err, that sometimes power and dogma override openness and honesty. But we are fortunate to live in a time when knowledge is widely accessible. We can read Bart Ehrman’s scholarship on textual changes[6], examine the Dead Sea Scrolls online, compare Genesis with the Epic of Gilgamesh, or read the Gospel of Thomas alongside the Gospel of John. By doing so, we become like miners sifting for gold – separating the precious from the dross.

What we ultimately find may be a more universal truth that transcends any one religion: perhaps the Golden Rule of compassion (found in the Bible, yes, but also in many cultures), or the insight of the divine’s simultaneous transcendence and immanence, or the call to justice and mercy. We might find that the Bible’s core message, once purified of later accretions, is not in conflict with the core messages of other great traditions but in harmonious complement. For example, the Bible emphasizes love of God and neighbor; the Buddha taught compassion for all sentient beings; the Upanishads teach seeing the self in all beings and all beings in the self – different words, similar heart. Eternal truth has many voices.

In closing, the story of biblical text manipulation is not a pessimistic tale of “corruption” so much as it is a human tale of the search for understanding. Each scribe or editor was, in their own way, trying to clarify or protect what they thought was truth – Erasmus including the Trinity verse under duress, the priestly scribe inserting genealogies to legitimize worship practices, the orthodox bishop excluding a gospel he deemed misleading. They may not have always been right, but we can empathize with their motives. Now it falls to us, with the benefit of hindsight and global perspective, to integrate the lessons: to restore what was lost, correct what was added in error, and fill in what was left out, all in service of a fuller picture. By doing so, we honor the Bible for what it truly is – a profound but evolving record of humanity’s encounter with the Divine – and we commit ourselves to continuing that encounter personally.

The manipulation of texts in the past need not trap us in confusion; rather, it challenges us to engage with scripture (and all sacred texts) actively and thoughtfully. We are invited to be not just passive recipients of a tradition, but active participants in the ongoing revelation of truth. In the spirit of the prompt: we set ourselves free to explore in any direction, trusting that an honest quest will lead us closer to the eternal, significant, and meaningful truths that undergird reality. In that fearless exploration – integrating biblical criticism, ancient myth, and perennial philosophy – we follow the only path by which Love and Consciousness may prevail: the path of Truth.

The Coda and the Vedas

Below is a single, easy‑to‑follow story that threads together the Rigveda’s different creation hymns. I’m intentionally weaving several voices—the “not‑yet” of the Nā́sadiya (10.129), the Golden Embryo (10.121), the Cosmic Craftsman (Viśvakarman, 10.81–10.82), the Cosmic Person (Puruṣa, 10.90), the births of the gods (Aditi–Dakṣa, 10.72), the release of the waters (Indra vs. Vṛtra, 1.32), and the rise of Ṛta/Satya from Tapas (10.190)—into one narrative arc. There isn’t one official “Rigvedic cosmogony”; the hymns are complementary perspectives. What follows keeps their images intact while showing how they can fit together.

A Rigvedic Story of How Everything Began

1) The hush before beginnings—neither “is” nor “is not.”
Before anything that could be called “world,” the poets imagine a stillness where ordinary categories do not apply. No sky, no earth, no boundary; even “being” and “non‑being” are not yet separated. In that opacity there is a single breath—the One—self‑moved. Desire (kāma) first stirs, and with it the power to discern “this” from “that.” But even at the end of the hymn the poet refuses easy certainty: who truly knows whence it arose? (RV 10.129).

2) A first form: the Golden Embryo emerges from the waters.
Out of this indistinctness a figure condenses—a luminous seed, the Hiraṇyagarbha (“Golden Embryo/Egg”). Floating upon the primordial waters, he becomes the origin and lord of all that is born. The refrain asks, “To which god shall we offer?”—suggesting that even as a first principle appears, the act of naming and worshiping it is still a live question (RV 10.121).

3) Thought takes measure: the world as craftsmanship.
Once there is a first presence to anchor creation, the hymns picture a master‑maker, Viśvakarman—the “All‑Craftsman”—who measures out earth and sky, fashions joints and pillars, and sets a navel or axis in place so the world can hold. Here creation is not ex nihilo but a work of intelligent arrangement: design, measure, fastening. (RV 10.81–10.82).

4) World by sacrifice: the making of order from a living whole.
Another hymn turns the scene inside‑out. The world is not merely built; it is born from a sacrifice. The cosmic Person, Puruṣa, is offered, and from his portions the patterned world appears: metres and hymns, the quarters of space, moon and sun, and the social body as well. Creation here is the first yajña; later ritual repeats it to keep things knit together (RV 10.90).

5) Waters freed, order released: Indra and Vṛtra.
Yet the world is not only made; it must be un‑blocked. In a tale the poets tell often, Indra splits the serpent‑obstructor Vṛtra, releasing the pent‑up waters and letting rivers run. What comes with the surge is not just water but order—rain cycles, fertility, paths for living things. Creation here is victory over constriction, the shift from hoarded potential to flowing life (RV 1.32).

6) Paradoxical parentage: the births of gods, Aditi and Dakṣa.
The Rigvedic poets also probe origins by tracing genealogies: who begets whom? A striking paradox answers: Dakṣa is born from Aditi, and Aditi is born from Dakṣa. Causality loops back on itself; the mother of gods and the principle of skill/ordering co‑generate each other. Creation is thus recursive: the power that orders the world and the matrix that bears it are mutually arising (RV 10.72).

7) Law out of heat: Ṛta and Satya arise from Tapas.
Another hymn steps behind all images to the conditions for a stable cosmos. From tapas—ardor, concentrated heat—arise Ṛta (the right, rhythmic ordering) and Satya (reliability, truth). From these come night and the ocean, then the year with its measured seasons. Time, truth, and pattern co‑emerge—the scaffolding for any world in which rites and lives can be kept in tune (RV 10.190).

8) Bringing the strands together.
Put side by side, the hymns sketch complementary phases of cosmogony:

Undifferentiated potential—a silence beyond “is” and “is not,” stirred by desire. (10.129)
First principle—a golden life‑seed afloat on the primal waters. (10.121)
Intelligent shaping—a craftsman‑mind measuring and joining the world. (10.81–10.82)
Sacrificial articulation—the world patterned by an original offering. (10.90)
Dynamic release—blocked waters set free, fertility and paths established. (1.32)
Genealogical recursion—matrix (Aditi) and ordering‑skill (Dakṣa) co‑generate. (10.72)
Norms and time—Ṛta and Satya crystallize out of heat; calendars follow. (10.190)

In ritual terms, these motifs are re‑enacted whenever the fire is kindled and offerings are set to the rhythms of metre and season: the crafting, sacrificing, and releasing that first made the world are rehearsed to keep it coherent. In philosophical terms, each hymn highlights another facet of the same problem: how does form arise from formlessness, pattern from potential, reliability from flux?

9) Epistemic humility as the final note.
The last word, fittingly, returns to the agnostic ending of the Nā́sadiya. However persuasive a cosmogony may sound—the golden seed, the cosmic carpenter, the sacrificial body, the storm‑god’s victory, the paradox of divine births, the law from heat—the poet preserves a margin of unknowing: perhaps even the highest overseer does not know. That refusal to close the question is itself part of the Rigvedic “order,” keeping inquiry open (RV 10.129).

Quick guide to the key hymns used in this narrative

RV 10.129 (Nā́sadiya Sūkta) — the “before” of creation, desire’s first stir, and the famous “who knows?” coda.
RV 10.121 (Hiraṇyagarbha Sūkta) — the Golden Embryo and the refrain “to which god shall we offer?”
RV 10.81–10.82 (Viśvakarman) — the world as measured and jointed by an all‑craftsman.
RV 10.90 (Puruṣa Sūkta) — the cosmic person’s sacrifice yields cosmos, time, liturgy, society.
RV 1.32 (Indra–Vṛtra) — release of waters and the opening of life’s channels.
RV 10.72 (Aditi & Dakṣa) — recursive origins: the mother of the gods and the ordering power are born of one another.
RV 10.190 (Ṛta & Satya from Tapas) — heat gives rise to truth, order, night, ocean, and the year.

Why this matters

Taken together, these hymns refuse a single mechanism of creation. Emergence, formation, sacrifice, conflict and release, genealogy, and law are all true—each at a different resolution. That pluralism is the Rigveda’s distinctive contribution: a cosmos that can be told as physics (heat and measure), as liturgy (sacrifice), as myth (hero and dragon), and as metaphysics (being/non‑being), while leaving the last word to wonder.

Sources:

Ehrman, Bart D. Misquoting Jesus: The Story Behind Who Changed the Bible and Why. HarperSanFrancisco, 2005. (As referenced in [6][7] on the Johannine Comma insertion.)
Metzger, Bruce M. The Text of the New Testament: Its Transmission, Corruption, and Restoration. Oxford Univ. Press, 1992. (Noted in [46] for history of 1 John 5:7 and Erasmus’s manuscript.)
Biblical Archaeology Society – “What’s Missing from Codex Sinaiticus, the Oldest New Testament?”[10] (Details the omission of Mark 16:9–20 and John 8:1–11 in the earliest manuscripts).
Wikipedia – “Johannine Comma”[1][23] (overview of the Trinity verse’s manuscript evidence and inclusion in later Bibles); “God Manifested in the Flesh”[12] (on the 1 Timothy 3:16 textual variant).
Bible Odyssey (Society of Biblical Literature) – “The Enuma Elish and the Bible” by K. Klamm[29][31]; “Gilgamesh and the Bible” by S. Dolansky[27] (discussing Genesis parallels with Mesopotamian myths).
Pagels, Elaine. The Gnostic Gospels. Random House, 1979. (Excerpt via PBS/Frontline and Adishakti.org[43][39][45][44] describing the Nag Hammadi discoveries and the Gnostic worldview in conflict with orthodox Christianity).
Upanishads (various, via translation) – for concepts of Atman/Brahman unity (not directly cited above but alluded to for philosophical comparison).
Dead Sea Scrolls and Septuagint scholarship – e.g., Emanuel Tov’s work on DSS biblical texts (for Jeremiah’s two versions, etc.).
[Additional scholarly references and ancient texts as needed for verification of facts mentioned.]

[1] [2] [14] [15] [22] [23] [24] Johannine Comma - Wikipedia

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johannine_Comma

[3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] [25] [26] [46] Which Is The Genuine Reading In 1 John 5:7-8?

https://www.truthmagazine.com/archives/volume25/TM025093.html

[9] Does John 7:53-8:11 belong in the Bible? | GotQuestions.org

https://www.gotquestions.org/John-7-53-8-11.html

[10] [13] What’s Missing from Codex Sinaiticus, the Oldest New Testament? - Biblical Archaeology Society

https://www.biblicalarchaeology.org/daily/biblical-topics/bible-versions-and-translations/absent-from-codex-sinaiticus-oldest-new-testament/

[11] Mark 16: 9-20 : r/LCMS - Reddit

https://www.reddit.com/r/LCMS/comments/131c82c/mark_16_920/

[12] God manifested in the flesh - Wikipedia

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/God_manifested_in_the_flesh

[27] [28] Gilgamesh and the Bible - Bible Odyssey

https://www.bibleodyssey.org/articles/gilgamesh-and-the-bible/

[29] [30] [31] [32] [33] [34] [35] The Enuma Elish and the Bible - Bible Odyssey

https://www.bibleodyssey.org/articles/the-enuma-elish-and-the-bible/

[36] [37] [38] [39] [40] [41] [42] [43] [44] [45] The Gnostic Gospels: Self-knowledge is knowledge of God; the self and the divine are identical

https://www.adishakti.org/_/gnostic_gospels_self-knowledge_is_knowledge_of_god.htm

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Manipulation and Evolution of Biblical Texts Across History

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Biblical Texts - Origin and Dogmatic Manipulation

Table of Contents

New Testament Textual Changes and Additions

The Textus Receptus and the King James Legacy

Editing and Evolution of the Old Testament Text

Ancient Parallels: Sumerian Tablets and the Borrowing of Myth

Suppression of Alternative Texts and the Formation of the Biblical Canon

Ancient Vedantic Insights and the Quest for Eternal Truth

Conclusion: Pursuing Truth Beyond Dogma

The Coda and the Vedas

A Rigvedic Story of How Everything Began

Quick guide to the key hymns used in this narrative

Why this matters

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Biblical Texts - Origin and Dogmatic Manipulation

Table of Contents

New Testament Textual Changes and Additions

The Textus Receptus and the King James Legacy

Editing and Evolution of the Old Testament Text

Ancient Parallels: Sumerian Tablets and the Borrowing of Myth

Suppression of Alternative Texts and the Formation of the Biblical Canon

Ancient Vedantic Insights and the Quest for Eternal Truth

Conclusion: Pursuing Truth Beyond Dogma

The Coda and the Vedas

A Rigvedic Story of How Everything Began

Quick guide to the key hymns used in this narrative

Why this matters

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