When God speaks from a cold, dark cell

 “Remember my chains!”

So the apostle Paul ends his letter to the church in Colossae: “I, Paul, write this greeting in my own hand. Remember my chains. Grace be with you.” (Colossians 4:18)

But what exactly is he saying? Is this simply a reminder of his situation—once again imprisoned for disturbing the peace with his preaching of Christ? Or perhaps an explanation for his poor handwriting?

It raises a bigger question: how were the books of the New Testament actually written—both the Gospels and especially the letters? Most of us, if we picture it at all, imagine the writer sitting comfortably in the college library, Parker pen in hand, A4 pad on the desk. The reality could not be more different.

At the close of Paul’s most influential letter, to the church in Rome, we suddenly hear another voice: “I, Tertius, who wrote down this letter, greet you in the Lord.” (Romans 16:22)

Who is Tertius? And how important was his role as Paul’s amanuensis—his secretary or scribe?

You will recall my blog of 2 November 2012 when I complained that no one, as far as I knew, had done serious work on how an amanuensis actually functioned. How much freedom did they have? Could this explain the marked differences in style between, say, Corinthians and 1 & 2 Timothy?

Now I am delighted to report that some 12 years later a college pal of my daughter has come up with the goods: God’s Ghostwriters: Enslaved Christians and the Making of the Bible, published last year by Collins. The author is Candida Moss, currently the Edward Cadbury Professor of Theology at the University of Birmingham.

Her central claim, supported by literary and archaeological evidence, is startling: “The writing, the editing, the copying, the movement of those early Christian texts—what you might call ‘missionary activity’—all of that’s being done by enslaved workers.”

So who was Tertius? Almost certainly a slave—perhaps lent to Paul by a wealthy Christian patron. His task of recording the long, complex letter to the Romans was physically demanding, requiring stamina, memory, and literacy far beyond the average free citizen.

We often forget how vast slavery was in the Roman world. In Italy, 10–30% of the population were enslaved. “Wherever you find repetitious work,” Moss writes, “you find enslaved and formerly enslaved workers.” Far from being marginal, slavery was part of everyday life—including the writing and reading of letters.

Fewer than 10% of Roman citizens could read or write. It was slaves who were trained, usually from childhood, as scribes, copyists, readers, librarians. The apostles themselves were largely illiterate. Only Paul was fully literate in Greek. Remember how the Sanhedrin dismissed Peter and John as “uneducated, common men” (Acts 4:13). When letters were written, it was usually enslaved secretaries who did the work.

Take Epaphroditus, mentioned in Philippians as Paul’s helper and letter-carrier. His very name marks him out, being derived from the goddess Aphrodite. “Epaphroditus” was a common name for slaves and freedmen.

This throws light on why Paul’s letters vary in style. Different scribes, often enslaved, brought different skills and phrasing. Beyond dictation, these ghostwriters were responsible for copying, preserving, and circulating the letters in the decades that followed.

As Moss puts it: “Low-status literary workers made an enormous but unheralded contribution to the writing and formation of the New Testament and the spread of early Christianity.” God worked through them—in hidden, collaborative, often nameless ways.

For me the most vivid image from Moss’s book is of Paul once again in prison. Archaeology shows that Roman prisons were usually small underground chambers—damp, mouldy, and bitterly cold, with only a tiny opening near the ceiling for air and light. For much of the time, the imprisoned apostle would be sitting in complete darkness.

His friends would, no doubt, supply him with food, drink and whatever else through this small opening: the only link with the outside world. Then again, passersby might shout their abuse or even use these openings as urinals.

Picture Paul, composing in his head, then half-shouting his words up through the grating. Beside the opening crouches his scribe, wax tablet on his thigh, stylus ready, straining to catch every word. This is how some of our sacred scriptures originated, in appalling conditions.

As Moss concludes: “The secretary had considerable influence over the text, and over the message that Paul transmitted to his fellow Christian followers.” Paul recognised this. Most of his letters were not the work of a solitary apostle but collaborations—partnerships between preacher and scribe, apostle and slave.

And that is perhaps the most remarkable point. These hidden, low-status workers—most of them enslaved—played a decisive role in shaping the words that still shape the lives of millions today.

God’s message did not arrive in the neat calligraphy of a solitary genius but through the sweat, skill, and resilience of the overlooked, through no-bodies. That’s how God works; it’s his modus operandi.