What indeed has Athens to do with Jerusalem? What concord is there between the Academy and the Church?

—Tertullian, On the Prescription of Heretics, ch. 7 I wonder who will visit a museum potentially full of smuggled antiquities, especially considering that the public will have to pay for tickets, the proceeds of which run the risk of funding this illicit circle.

— Roberta Mazza, “Biblical History at What Cost?”

On the screen in front of me, a man with the frenetic cheerfulness and strategically scruffy facial hair of a church youth-group leader tears around Israel and the West Bank in a giant Jeep, seemingly unaware that there are paved roads leading to all the sites he visits. At Jericho he jumps from the Jeep, intrepid in his khakis, and excitedly tells us about the enormous walls, which show the overall importance of biblical Jericho. I frown. Jericho does figure in the Bible, and it does have Bronze Age walls. But he fails to mention that the most dramatic walls in his video are Neolithic, and that Jericho shows no destruction during the possible timeframes a biblical Joshua would have been there. Leaving the impression that Jericho “proves” the Bible, the video rushes on. I am disoriented.

The feeling will persist.

I am watching this video in the brand-new Museum of the Bible, which opened a few months ago in Washington, DC. Spread out over six floors in a building just off the Washington Mall, it is shiny, inviting, overwhelming, and very, very friendly. I was enthusiastically greeted — and anxiously asked if I was enjoying myself — by every employee I encountered. A few times, I was told to have a “blessed day.”

I was drawn to the Museum of the Bible as both a classical archaeologist and someone who has spent a great deal of time in evangelical churches, although I no longer call myself evangelical. The family who founded the museum and amassed its collection — the Greens — are perhaps America’s most famous conservative Christians: they own the Hobby Lobby chain of craft stores and sued the US government over the mandate for employers to provide birth control under the Affordable Care Act. The Greens have represented the museum as neutral (“It’s a non-sectarian institution. It is not political, and it will not proselytize”), but what I knew of their particular faith made me doubt. It is not a faith that makes it easy to be open to the disruptive possibilities of textual history and archaeology, and nothing I had read suggested the Greens were open. As Candida Moss and Joel Biden detail in their book Bible Nation: The United States of Hobby Lobby, the vast majority of scholars contacted to work on the collection have been evangelical and/or conservative Christians. And other critics have already shown that the museum does not live up to its claim of being nonsectarian: its focus remains Christian, mostly Protestant, and supersessionist.

As an academic and a classicist, I also knew that the museum collection was full of Greco-Roman antiquities, in particular papyri, and that the process of their collection had ranged from careless to criminal. Much of the collection was amassed in a dizzying buying spree concentrated in 2009–2011. Questions — often raised by scholars of the Greco-Roman world (one of the most tireless has been Roberta Mazza) — about the provenance of these artifacts quickly proliferated. Some artifacts had appeared previously online at sites such as eBay. In one egregious case, dealers connected to the Greens labeled cuneiform tablets looted from Iraq as “tiles,” and smuggled them into the United States. The Greens were prosecuted by the US government for the smuggling and, after paying a fine of $3 million, returned thousands of artifacts, which yesterday were handed to Iraq’s ambassador in a ceremony in Washington DC.

Although the Greens pleaded innocence (despite having been warned by a cultural property expert about their collecting), they have grown cautious about what they display, and only some artifacts have made it into the museum. The rest of the collection, by one testimony including whole crates of unprovenanced papyri, still lies in the Greens’ warehouse in Oklahoma. The Greens will likely avoid further prosecution and will keep the rest of their objects, while the museum itself now performs a legitimizing function for them. I wondered: would this disregard for archaeological ethics and information carry over into the displays?

The short answer is that it does. The building showcases a context-less approach to the ancient world that is common among people like the Greens, who have increasing impact on educational and political policy in this country. Variation in textual histories, and the complexity of history and archaeology, blur into a unified and literal Bible. This is of course damaging for the objects themselves and the knowledge gained from them, but it also deliberately misleads visitors. Since the Museum of the Bible will reach a wider audience than most classicists can even dream, this approach to artifacts is worrying, and it is worth thinking about what we can do as public intellectuals to counteract it — for example, by refusing to work on unprovenanced material (not only from the Greens, but from anywhere).

But the focus of this article will be on how misrepresentation happens in the museum itself. The process is subtler than one might have expected. In certain galleries, the museum does seem to strive for what it evidently thinks is neutrality. Other exhibits, however, are blatantly proselytizing. And on the whole, objects are used in a talismanic fashion, to provide tangibility and a frisson of authenticity, while all the ways in which they bring into question the literal truth of the Bible are obscured or ignored.

The museum is laid out on six floors. At the top is a restaurant called Manna (my favorite moment of my visit was when a savvy child demanded to know why the food wasn’t free). On the floor below are a theater and some exhibit spaces, including a collection of artifacts from the Israel Antiquities Authority. The next floor is framed around the Green collection of objects and is devoted to the history of the Bible. The third floor has the Nazareth Village, which is meant to be a recreation of Nazareth at the time of Jesus’ life. In addition, there are two shows that dramatize stories from the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament. The bottom two floors are taken up with the impact of the Bible (largely in the New World) and, on the first floor, ticketing and the museum shop. I concentrate only on the parts of museum that most directly concern the ancient world: those that contain ancient artifacts, and the recreations/dramatizations of ancient stories.

The main thing one notices about all these displays is that dramatizations, videos, and insistent framing (through lighting, architecture, arrangement, and the museum’s quotes and texts on walls) overwhelm the objects. Objects are there to punctuate a story; the story is not determined by the objects. This plays out in two ways. First, the most academically rigorous exhibit (the Israeli one) is sidelined, located on the top floor and (on the day I was there at least) little-visited, while the most egregiously proselytizing exhibits (the Nazareth Village and the dramatizations) are at the center of the museum. Second, within exhibits — even more traditionally museum-like ones — any information that complicates or contradicts literal interpretations of the Bible is obscured or distorted, so that visitors likely come away with the impression that archaeology confirms literal interpretations of the Bible.

For example: the exhibit provided by the Israel Antiquities Authority on long-term loan (the objects themselves will rotate, but the exhibit will remain) spreads through a number of rooms and traces life in ancient Israel from the Bronze Age through the Roman period (with a couple of early Islamic artifacts). The decision of the Israel Antiquities Authority to associate itself so strongly with the Museum of the Bible may have dubious consequences, since the museum as a whole uses Judaism in the same way it uses antiquities: as a symbolic legitimizing device for its own view of the Bible. Nevertheless, scholars from the Israel Antiquities Authority have been insistent about their academic perspective, distancing themselves from other parts of the museum. And for the most part, I noticed no particular religious slant. Canaanite and Israelite objects are usually provenanced from specific sites and their use in context is explained; the focus is on the everyday, from lamps to coins to figurines, pottery, and house structure.

Religious artifacts grouped together in the Israel exhibit. Photo by the author.

But even in this careful exhibit, places where text and archaeology contradict one another are not framed prominently. Bible verses that overlap well with the archaeological story are quoted in large letters on the walls. But only a small, out-of-the-way sign explains that archaeological evidence suggests the Israelites, rather than arriving in an exodus from elsewhere, were indigenous to the area. (And the lack of destruction at contemporary Canaanite sites — contra the book of Joshua — is not mentioned). I lingered in this room for a while, curious to see if anyone noticed the sign, but no one did. In fact, very few people came through at all. These galleries seemed unlikely to challenge the story told in the rest of the museum.

The erasure of conflict between archaeology and texts intensifies to a much greater degree in the exhibits controlled by the museum itself. The museum’s ancient artifacts are gathered in a large, multi-room display that purports to tell the history of the Bible. This display is livelier than the Israeli one, with less text on the labels and many videos, as well as replicas of objects that you can touch (papyrus, parchment, printer’s keys) and a station where children can try copying out bits of medieval manuscripts. It was much more crowded on the day I was there, and visitors seemed eager and engaged.

History of the Bible galleries, interactive station on the right. Photo by the author.

The story told is more or less chronological — beginning not with the earliest direct textual evidence of the Bible itself, but with cuneiform tablets from Mesopotamia (as a general invocation of the beginning of writing) — and ending with modern translations of the Bible. The focus on text is extreme. The vast majority of artifacts are tablets, papyri, and manuscripts. Little information about the ancient world in which these texts took shape is given, and non-textual objects are flung about the rooms almost at random.

All of the artifacts are subordinated to a story of the Bible’s development that largely stresses seamless transition and consistency. There is little attention to archaeological context. Archaeological sites are only invoked haphazardly, and often with deliberate misdirection, especially in a number of prominent videos like the one described at the beginning of this article. The presentation of actual objects is no better. Non-textual objects are scattered here and there, but sometimes with very little relation to texts or to the story being told. For example, above a large label describing 6th-century silver Hebrew amulets appears a miscellaneous collection of much later coins, along with pottery and bowls that have the kind of vague geographical description and dating characteristic of unprovenanced objects.

Artifacts above a label describing a silver amulet. Photo by the author.

It is unclear what meaning these objects are meant to convey; their function seems to be: Behold! A piece of the past! They invoke a connection to the past without actually proving any particular argument. Facsimiles are used similarly: a copy of the painting from the Tomb of Knumhotep III at Beni Hasan is used to suggest the presence of Canaanites in Egypt, but the lack of evidence for Israelites specifically is passed over in silence. And so on. Artifacts and archaeological sites are used to invoke tangibility, but with little context, or are mischaracterized in the service of a larger agenda.

Copy of painting from the Tomb of Knumhotep III. Photo by the author.

Overall, however, it is clear that non-textual objects are not considered very important. Words are what matter to the museum, but the museum has an awkward problem in telling its continuous story since textual evidence of the Bible comes so late. A few signs early in the exhibit refer vaguely to oral tradition. The assumption seems to be that oral transmission was an unvarying process, passing words along until they were written down, and that earliest written versions were also quite similar to later versions (the museum does acknowledge different “versions” of the Bible, such as the Jewish Tanakh vs. the Christian Old Testament, but then, in a contradictory way, insists that specific books were translated and transmitted with exact accuracy and that the “Bible” thus remains consistent at heart). The archaeological realities of textual transmission clash awkwardly with the story the museum wants to tell.

The earliest substantial biblical documents in the museum come from the Hellenistic and Roman periods, especially the Dead Sea Scrolls and papyrus or parchment fragments of the New Testament. Several of these fragments are unprovenanced or likely forgeries, but although the labels occasionally hint at this, they frame the question entirely as, “Is this object genuine?” and ignore the broader consequences of looting (such as destruction of sites and fueling of warfare).

Label for a questionable fragment. Photo by the author.

All of the documents are framed lovingly and as the “earliest” examples of this or that text, sometimes with an exclamation point (“Early biblical texts found in ancient caves!”). Early-ness is fetishized, even as the texts themselves date hundreds of years later than the events they describe. On a tour I overheard, the museum guide discussed a parchment fragment of the Book of Romans, laying much stress on the fact that the fragment shows an omicron rather than an omega in a particular word. This “early” example proved people had been reading it “wrong.” His listeners were fascinated, but no one brought up the possibility of other, earlier, lost texts (this fragment dated to the 2nd, or 3rd, OR 4th century, according to its label). As for context, again there is little or none: the Essenes, who produced the Dead Sea Scrolls, get barely a mention, nor are the Egyptian communities from which New Testament papyri came described.

Similarly, the museum struggles with canonization — acknowledging (sort of) that canonization is a process while still insisting on continuity. Conflict is always ignored or minimized. For example, as we move through time, we eventually reach Rome and the emperor Constantine. Here we are presented with another video, where our khaki-clad narrator (now driving a “fly yellow Alfa Romeo”) lingers in front of the Colosseum (presumably to invoke Christian martyrs, although he never actually identifies the Colosseum itself) and asserts that under Constantine “the Roman Empire finally embraced the cultural influence of Christianity.” That’s one way of putting it. The hundreds of years of blood, struggles, heresies, riots, and councils that followed go unmentioned.

The tension between object and narrative — this evident desire to convey something of history while insisting that the Bible is unitary, flawless, and literally true — vanishes in the parts of the museum that re-create and dramatize stories. The dramatizations have no tension: their purpose is clearly to sweep you away. There is nothing wrong with that, per se, except that they are given the same framing as the rest of the museum (voiceovers and labels claim that teams of scholars worked on the shows). They are also positioned prominently on the middle floor, making it likely that they will drive interpretations of objects, rather than the reverse.

There are three dramatizations: a recreation of the village of Nazareth, a show dramatizing the Hebrew Bible, and a show on the New Testament. All three have a heavy proselytizing slant; all three are immersive in ways that, again, reinforce a unitary and literal view of the Bible. The Nazareth Village creates immersive effects through replicas and live actors; the shows do it through animation, loud noises, flashing lights, bursts of smoke, and the like. All three actively seek reaction or participation from the audience. All three overwhelm rather than educate.

Replica of an olive press in the Nazareth Village. Photo by the author.

The Nazareth Village has some fairly convincing imitation stone houses and olive trees, as well as animal noises blasted over speakers. The glacial temperature and the lack of smells associated with the animals detract from the overall effect, but it’s a detailed enough approximation. The live actors — a man discussing and demonstrating carpentry, a woman talking about housework, and another man in a synagogue — were friendly, and museum visitors were eager to talk. But conversations followed a definite pattern. Each actor shaped his or her discussion around stories of Jesus, with a heavy component of wink-wink (“so this guy Jesus was here…”), and ended with a statement such as, “And if you ever meet Jesus, you should listen to him, because he’s got some good stuff to say.”

Actor in the synagogue of the Nazareth Village. Photo by the author.

As advice, the statement was unnecessary: my fellow museum-goers seemed primarily religious and Christian, and when prompted to answer Bible questions, they all did so accurately. In keeping with this overall atmosphere of proselytization, the Nazareth Village ignores Judaism as a living tradition. It also perhaps goes without saying that no mention of the modern city of Nazareth or its primarily Arab population is made.

The shows about the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament are similar to one another, though the former is longer and includes more extravagant effects (smoke, multiple rooms with differing sets along with animated film). A voiceover before the Hebrew Bible show insists that it was made with the input of international scholars and rabbis, but the presentation resonates strongly with typical evangelical perspectives rather than Jewish ones. An introduction claims Adam and Eve as the defining origin of sin, and many of the ensuing stories as failed attempts to again become close to God. The emphasis is on spectacle and emotion rather than analysis. You wander through a rather claustrophobic Noah’s ark. Like Moses, you contemplate a burning bush, which has impressive fake smoke, flashing red light, and a booming voice, but then incongruously directs you to “proceed to the red door.” After being shown a sexily bathing Bathsheba you are informed that King David “wasn’t perfect” (an interpretation that overlaps rather neatly with recent evangelical comparisons between David and Donald Trump); and you end with a (very) brief return to a ruined Jerusalem after the Babylonian Exile.

The New Testament show relies on some of the same techniques and seemed to be the emotional culmination for most viewers. Here you sit in a theater and watch a loud animated film that lasts about 12 minutes. The film begins with Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, followed by the crucifixion. It avoids overt anti-Semitism at least at first (no crowds screaming) and, interestingly, Roman culpability (no Pontius Pilate); instead, we are shown individuals (like a Roman centurion at the foot of the cross) who are overcome and convert. The emphasis on conversion continues with Saul-then-Paul, who is depicted with exceptional grimness — stoning Christians, dragging them around in chains, and so forth — before he converts. Unlike the Roman soldier (whose identity you have to infer from his clothing), Saul/Paul is named as a Pharisee, and thus as a Jew; this when combined with the violent images invokes a familiar and worrying set of tropes. But the purpose remains consistent throughout the film. The clear desire is to show the drama of conversion. It worked: when the film ended, the audience I was with clapped and cheered.

These shows seem to lie at the building’s emotional heart, and they flagrantly contradict the ostensible desire of the Greens to present their museum as scholarly and neutral. Artifacts are swept away in all the dramatization. The effect of the museum as a whole is sharply disorienting for a scholar: texts and artifacts marshaled explicitly to drain their meaning and to make them, effectively, voiceless (in the sense that they are robbed of most of their significance in support of a monotonously evangelical story). This does a certain violence to any viewer — religious viewers are misled about what artifacts actually show or prove and are robbed of the possibility of a faith that actually wrestles with contradiction. For a classical archaeologist, the violence is more particular: you have a keen sense of knowledge both lost and abused.

In the end, my experience of lunch in the restaurant “Manna” was an apt metaphor for the museum as a whole. After buying my expensive meal (mystifyingly named “The Scholar’s Initiative”), I attempted to obtain a glass of water, and was told that I could have a cup but had to exit the restaurant and go to the water fountain for water. I awkwardly made my way back down the narrow entrance, full of people, with my tray of food. The water fountains were by the bathrooms, with nowhere to set the tray nearby. Unwilling to set it on the floor, I contorted myself to both balance the tray and extract water and ended up getting my food soggy, before shuffling back to the restaurant. The entire museum seemed like this: tedious and manipulative, with expensive shows posing as miracles, and nourishment spoiled.

Melissa Bailey Kutner is an Assistant Professor of Ancient Studies at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County.