In my Advanced Greek Grammar course at DTS—a long time ago—I wrote a paper that focused on the study of amanuenses (secretaries or scribes) whom authors would use to pen their letters, either because they couldn’t write or for various other reasons. I completed this study with two goals in mind:
- To gauge how often and what kind of writers would use an amanuensis.
- To study the use of the Greek word hyper (“on behalf of”) in relation to its usage in the New Testament, especially in connection with the doctrine of substitutionary atonement—how Christ died on behalf of sinners.
In order to do this, I had to read through a massive number of documents—specifically, the roughly 5,000 texts of the Oxyrhynchus Papyri. This was a literal trash heap turned treasure trove of ancient documents, uncovered in the early twentieth century by papyrologists (scholars who study papyri) Bernard Pyne Grenfell and Arthur Surridge Hunt in Oxyrhynchus, Egypt.
I was excited about this for two reasons. First, it offered potentially fresh insights into the doctrine of penal substitutionary atonement—a cornerstone of Christian theology. Second, it opened up a fascinating window into how the New Testament authors may have composed their letters.
Now, it was refreshing—but not surprising—to find the Greek word hyper (“on behalf of”) used so often by amanuenses. “I write this letter on behalf of Cornelius…” or “on behalf of Julius…” or whomever. This was expected, but still important. However, there were two things I discovered that I didn’t expect—one of them quite surprising and with far-reaching implications.
The Frequency of Amanuenses
As I scrolled through microfiche after microfiche, day after day, night after night, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Among these personal letters—some from soldiers to their parents, others about legal disputes, bills of sale for a family cow—I assumed I’d need to read through dozens, maybe hundreds, of documents before I’d find a single example relevant to my study.
But what I found was the opposite.
I quickly got to the point where I was actually surprised when someone didn’t use an amanuensis. It seemed like nearly everyone used one! I had no lack of data for my paper—in fact, I had an overwhelming amount.
But here’s where it gets crazy: at least a quarter to half of those who used amanuenses were perfectly capable of writing themselves—and writing well.
Here’s the situation: You hire someone to write your document, and at the end, you provide your signature or personal note. Often, the person who commissioned the letter would add a final line or two, perhaps because they remembered something after the scribe had finished. “This is the hand of Decimus. See my seal.” And then: “Don’t forget to plant the field after the first spring rain. Also, tell Gaius he must compete in the games next year.”
Sometimes there were multiple additions. In one instance, the author wrote a note in his own hand, and then the amanuensis returned later to add even more dictated content, apparently called back after having already left. It was a mess—in the best kind of way.
And it was absolutely fascinating.
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The Unexpected Implications
As I kept scrolling the dials of the microfiche machine, one thing became increasingly obvious—and deeply relevant to New Testament studies. It came out of left field.
Yes, the secretaries could write competent Greek. But often, due to the personal additions at the end of these letters, I was able to compare the handwriting and style of the author himself. And get this: in many cases, the author’s own Greek was better than the scribe’s. More refined. More fluid. More legible.
This shattered my assumptions. It meant that we can’t assume that people used secretaries only because they were illiterate, uneducated, or of low status. On the contrary, people who were clearly capable writers—sometimes better writers—still made use of amanuenses.
But the implications didn’t stop there.
Style Is Not Signature
Here’s the twist that has major ramifications: when the author added a paragraph in his own handwriting, the difference was often immediately obvious—not just in the handwriting, but in the writing style itself. Word choice. Sentence rhythm. Structure. All the little fingerprints of someone’s personal way of writing.
And what did this show? That the scribe wasn’t always just a passive copyist.
Instead, the amanuensis often had significant freedom in how they composed the letter. They may have been given a basic outline or dictation, but the final product reflected the scribe’s own style as much as the author’s.
So what does this mean?
It means that you can’t always tell who wrote a letter based on style alone. If someone used an amanuensis for one letter and wrote another personally, and you put those two letters side by side, their styles might be completely different.
That’s the shocking part. We often assume that if two letters have different styles, they must have different authors. But based on this study, I now seriously question that assumption.
What This Means for the New Testament
Let’s take the example of Peter.
Many scholars question the authenticity of 2 Peter, saying it doesn’t “sound” like 1 Peter. The Greek is different. The tone is different. The style is more elevated, more philosophical.
But based on what I found in the Oxyrhynchus Papyri, stylistic variation is not sufficient evidence to dismiss authorship. Not even close. If Peter used an amanuensis for one letter and not the other—or used two different ones—it would completely account for the difference in style.
We don’t know:
- Whether Peter dictated both letters.
- Whether he used the same secretary for each.
- Whether he reviewed, corrected, or signed off on the final version.
So unless we can definitively answer all of that (and we can’t), style alone is a shaky foundation to build a case against authorship.
