Long before I picked up my first King James Bible, translators held a similar, often clairvoyant role.
Picture a medieval town where a nervous parishioner hurries home after Mass, heart pounding with the fear of divine retribution prophesied by the local priest. These clerics, through their command of language and interpretation, held sway over public opinion and controlled vital resources, effectively ruling entire localities.
Yet, this was just the beginning: Someone had to translate the priest’s bible, another person had to acquire the primary sources for the translator to use for the bible and so on.
Somewhere in the middle of the translation process lay St. Jerome, who undertook the monumental task of unifying the fragmented Vetus Latina Gospels into a standardized Latin text. His work not only established the canonical Latin Bible but also played a crucial role in the spread and consolidation of Christianity. Prior to Jerome’s efforts, all translations of the Old Testament were derived from the Greek Septuagint.
As I trace my fingers over the King James Bible’s gilded edges, over a millennia removed from the Vulgate, I can’t help but see it as both a spiritual guide and a tool of control. Every carefully chosen word — every nuanced translation decision — reflects not just biblical scholarship but the crown’s relentless pursuit of legitimacy. We revere this translation for its poetic beauty, but we must acknowledge its provenance as a masterpiece of theological propaganda, where divine wisdom and royal ambition are inextricably intertwined.
That is not to take away from the many clergymen who dedicated their lives to inaugurating the KJV. The process of accurately translating ancient texts, particularly religious texts, is inherently challenging. Even for skilled translators, ambiguities and potential misunderstandings can arise. For example, while St. Jerome was translating Exodus 34:29, which describes Moses descending from Mount Sinai with the Ten Commandments, he faced the difficult choice of translating the Hebrew phrase “karan ‘or panav” as “his face was horned.” While the intended meaning was likely a metaphor for radiance or divine glory, Jerome’s interpretation, though unintentional, would have significant implications for centuries to come — notably the “Moses” sculpture by Michaelangelo.
Working a millennium after Jerome’s translation, Michelangelo likely never questioned the depiction of Moses with horns. Even so, his masterful sculpture, while based on misinterpretation, became a primary source in its own right.
As Michelangelo chiseled away at the marble, bringing Moses to life with each stroke, one can’t help but wonder what might have been different had he paused to question the horns he was so meticulously crafting. Perhaps if he had sought out learned Hebrew scholars or delved into the original texts himself, he might have uncovered the radiant truth hidden behind Jerome’s mistranslation.
But Michelangelo, like many of his time, accepted the religious interpretations handed down to him without question. His pious devotion to a misunderstood text speaks volumes about the nature of faith. In his mind’s eye, Moses descended from Mount Sinai not with a glowing face but with tangible symbols of divine power protruding from his brow.
This blind acceptance transformed a mistranslation into enduring stone, forever altering how generations would envision one of the most pivotal figures in religious history. Michelangelo’s Moses, horn and all, stands as a testament to the power of unexamined beliefs — a captivating masterpiece, nonetheless born from misunderstanding.
Consider how the torch of scientific inquiry is now passed through the likes of The Organic Chemistry Tutor and CrashCourse on YouTube. While accessible, this dilutes the depth and rigor that Galileo, Newton and Einstein championed; the very formal mathematical prose of “The Principia” by Newton wasn’t a stylistic choice — it was a deliberate framework. The questioning spirit that once defined science is a mere shadow of what it once was.
In the end, I’m left to ponder: What other “horns” might we be carving into our own worldviews simply because we haven’t thought to question the translations — literal or figurative — that shape our understanding? Do the professors, institutions and students that I allow to influence my thinking rigorously pursue truth? Michelangelo’s Moses serves not only as a masterpiece of Renaissance sculpture but as a poignant reminder of the importance of seeking deeper understanding.
Eddie Phillips is an engineering senior and an opinion writer for The Battalion.
