• First, that in the late first century BC comets were universally interpreted as negative omens.
• Second, that such a reading is inconsistent with the way the star functions in Matthew’s birth narrative.

In that earlier discussion I challenged the first claim. I argued that ancient interpretations of comets were more nuanced than is often assumed. Comets were widely understood as portents of social and political upheaval, particularly the replacement of kings or dynasties. While this was indeed a negative omen for the ruler or dynasty about to be displaced, it could simultaneously be—and often was—understood as an endorsement of the incoming ruler.

In what follows, I turn to the second claim: is this pattern of interpretation inconsistent with Matthew’s birth narrative? I suggest that it is not.

1. The Star is a sign of Dynastic Change in Matthew

In Matthew’s Gospel, the star is explicitly associated with a change of kings and dynasties. The second chapter opens as follows:

Now after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, magi from the east arrived in Jerusalem, saying, “Where is he who has been born King of the Jews? For we saw his star in the east and have come to pay him homage.”

At the time of the star’s appearance, the Hasmonaean dynasty—ruling since the Maccabean period—had already been displaced by Herod the Great. Herod’s designated heir in early 5 BC was Herod Antipater, then about forty years old, though this was changed later that year to Herod Antipas, who was only fourteen. Against this backdrop, the Magi’s claim that a star signified the birth of a new “King of the Jews” clearly implies dynastic upheaval: not merely the replacement of Herod himself, but the displacement of his entire line of succession.

This is entirely consistent with the comet of 5 BC functioning as the star in Matthew’s narrative. A generation earlier, during the reign of Mithradates VI (120–63 BC), a comet was interpreted as heralding the birth of a king who would overturn Roman domination. Roughly sixty five years later, during Nero’s reign, Tacitus reports that a comet was widely taken as “an apparition boding change to monarchies,” prompting speculation about Nero’s successor and leading him to eliminate suspected rivals violently. Earlier still, Julius Caesar’s sidus—whatever its precise astronomical nature—was read both as marking the end of one regime and as legitimating Augustus as its heir. There is nothing unusual, then, about astrologers interpreting a comet as signalling the end of one dynasty and the rise of another.

Why Judea?

It might be objected that the Magi infer not merely the birth of a king, but the birth of a king connected specifically with Israel. Yet this inference is compatible with ancient astrological practice. The comet recorded by Chinese astronomers in 5 BC was said to appear in Qiān Niú, corresponding broadly to the Capricorn–Aquila region of the sky. Ancient astrology included a doctrine of astrological geography, according to which zodiacal regions were associated with particular lands, so that celestial phenomena occurring in a given constellation were taken to signify events affecting the corresponding territory.

The most familiar version of this doctrine appears in Claudius Ptolemy’s Tetrabiblos (second century CE), which associates Judea with Aries. However, this reflects a later, highly systematised phase of Hellenistic astrology. As Stephan Heilen[i] and others have shown, earlier traditions—preserved in authors such as Teukros of Babylon (first century CE), Vettius Valens (second century CE, drawing on earlier sources), and Paul of Alexandria (fourth century CE, preserving older material)—tend to associate Capricorn not with Judea narrowly, but with Syria more broadly.

This is historically significant because, in the late first century BC, Judea was commonly understood as part of the wider Syrian region, a usage reflected in contemporary geographical writers and later Roman provincial administration. Moreover, Syria proper no longer possessed a native royal dynasty in 5 BC. Other regions within the Syrian sphere were ruled by tetrarchs; however, none was experiencing dynastic instability of comparable scale or symbolic importance to that of Judea. On this basis, there is nothing surprising about astrologers interpreting a comet appearing in the Capricorn–Aquila region as signifying royal or dynastic upheaval in Syrian lands, with Judea as the most plausible concrete referent. [ii]

Messiah, Divinity, and the Role of Jewish Interpretation

Another objection is that the Magi interpret the star as signifying the birth of the Messiah or a divine figure. Yet Matthew’s text does not support this claim. The Magi announce only that a king has been born and that they know the general region from which he comes. They do not identify the child as the Messiah, nor do they know where in Judea he is to be found. This is why they ask, “Where is he who has been born King of the Jews?”

It is Herod, together with the chief priests and scribes, who introduces the explicitly messianic interpretation. Upon hearing the Magi’s report, Herod gathers the religious authorities and inquires “where the Messiah was to be born.” The identification of the child as the Messiah thus emerges when the Magi’s message is mediated through Jewish expectations and scriptural interpretation.

This pattern accords well with what we know of comet interpretation in the ancient world. When Halley’s comet appeared over Jerusalem approximately seventy- years later, both Josephus and the Zealots interpreted it as signalling the fulfilment of messianic prophecy—though they sharply disagreed about who the Messiah was. As I will argue in a later post, the period around 5 BC also coincides with heightened messianic expectation and intense paranoia on Herod’s part concerning prophetic threats to his rule.

“Worship” and Royal Homage

It is might be claimed that the Magi’s desire to “worship” the child implies divinity. However, the Greek verb προσκυνέω (proskyneō) denotes bodily homage and is commonly used of honour shown to human kings and superiors. In the Septuagint, David proskyneō Saul (1 Sam 24:8), Nathan proskyneō King David (1 Kgs 1:23), and the woman of Tekoa proskyneō David (2 Sam 14:4). In none of these cases is divinity implied. Matthew himself uses the term for a slave paying homage to a king in a parable (Matt 18:26), and Revelation 3:9 explicitly uses it in a non-divine sense.

The Magi, then, say only that a new king has been born in Judea and that they wish to render him royal homage.

2. The Star as a Threat to the Status Quo

In Matthew’s narrative, the star is unmistakably perceived as a threat by the reigning king. Matthew writes: “When King Herod heard this, he was disturbed, and all Jerusalem with him.” The verb ταράσσω denotes agitation, alarm, or terror. Herod responds by ordering the killing of all male children in Bethlehem aged two years and under, based on the timeframe he had learned from the Magi.

It is therefore puzzling to object that comets were interpreted negatively, since in Matthew’s narrative the star is explicitly treated as a negative omen. Herod’s reaction mirrors that of Nero, who, according to Tacitus, was “perturbed” (terreo) by a comet interpreted as signalling dynastic change and responded by eliminating the suspected rival Rubellius Plautus.

In both cases, a tyrant hears of a “star” appearing in the sky, interprets it as a sign that a new king will replace him, and responds with violence. It seems ad hoc to regard such a scenario as implausible in the case of Herod while readily accepting it in the case of Nero.

A Dual Meaning: Threat and Endorsement

Finally,  comets could simultaneously be understood as condemning the existing ruler and endorsing the incoming one. While Herod interprets the star as a threat, the Magi take it as a sign that they should render homage to the new king. Matthew, writing for a Christian audience, invokes the star to support the claim that Jesus is the Messiah.

As I explained in my last post, this dual interpretation is well attested. The comet of 60 CE was taken to signify both Nero’s impending downfall and Plautus’s divine selection as his successor, prompting public support for Plautus. Mithradates VI interpreted comets at his birth and coronation as evidence that he was destined to overthrow Roman power. Augustus appealed to Caesar’s sidus to legitimise his own rule as the divinely favoured outcome of dynastic upheaval. Chaeremon of Alexandria similarly understood comets as signifying both the “removal of dynasties” and the “commencement of new ones.”

As for comets and messianic expectation, both Josephus and the Zealots interpreted Halley’s comet in 66 CE as signalling the arrival of the Messiah, even while disagreeing about who fulfilled that role. Moreover, the oracle of Balaam—“a star shall come out of Jacob, and a sceptre shall rise out of Israel” (Num 24:17)—was widely employed in Second Temple literature to predict the coming of a ruler.

Taken together, these considerations suggest that interpreting Matthew’s star as a comet of 5 BC is not only plausible but fits comfortably within well-attested ancient patterns of astronomical interpretation.

[i] Heilen S., Barthel P. and van Kooten G. (eds.), ‘The Star of Bethlehem and Greco-Roman Astrology, Especially Astrological Geography’, The Star of  Bethlehem and the Magi, Brill, Leiden, The Netherlands, 2015, pp. 345–346 https://doi.org/10.1163/9789004308473_015

[ii] See Mark Matney, ‘The star that stopped: The Star of Bethlehem & the comet of 5 BCE’ Journal of the British Astronomical Association, Volume 135, Issue 6, 401 (2025); DOI: https://doi.org/10.64150/193njt

In a previous post, I addressed the claim that no star could exist that moves or behaves in the way described in Matthew’s Gospel. I argued that Matthew’s Gospel uses language found in Greco-Roman writings to describe comets, and that a comet could act in the way Matthew described. I also argued that we have good evidence for the existence of a comet in 5 BC, the time Jesus was born.

However, the idea that the star in Matthew’s Gospel was a comet faces an important challenge:

At this time in history (and all the way into the Middle Ages), comets were regarded as omens of doom and destruction—the very opposite of good tidings. This was in part because of comet behavior. They were perceived in ancient times as breaking into the sky, ignoring the highly ordered and repetitive clockwork movement of the heavens. The Almighty could have chosen to use an ominous sign for the birth of Christ. Presumably, He can do whatever He likes. But if the purpose of the Star was to communicate something joyful to humankind, a comet seems an unlikely choice.

There are two claims encapsulated in this objection:

• First, that at this time in history (the 1st century BC) comets were universally interpreted as negative omens.
• Second, that this is contrary to how the star is presented in Matthew’s Gospel.

 This post will address the first of these claims. The second will be addressed in a later post.

Were Comets Universally Interpreted as Negative Omens?

First, the claim that comets were universally interpreted as negative omens is misleading. In the first century BC, comets were almost universally seen as threats to the established political order. According to the 1st-century astrological poem Astronomica, they were harbingers of significant political upheaval affecting entire nations, and particularly kings—such things as the collapse of social order, civil wars, rebellion, death of kings, the arising of rivals to the throne, and the overthrow or replacement of kings.[1]

The fact that comets signify political upheavals that threaten the current political order means they are a bad omen for the current political order and particularly for incumbent rulers. However, it does not mean they signify something that is bad for everyone. On some occasions, the downfall of one ruler could be construed as beneficial to another. When this happened, the beneficiary could interpret comets as a positive omen.

Several examples will illustrate this:

Example 1: Mithridates VI
First, consider  these coins minted by Mithridates VI (134–63 BCE). Mithridates fought a series of wars against the Romans. In his day, Persian and Zoroastrian traditions were being interpreted to predict a king who would overthrow Rome (this is interesting because the Magi were Zoroastrian priests). Mithridates promoted himself as the fulfillment of these prophecies. You’ll notice the coins have stars on them. As part of this promotion, Mithridates minted comets on these coins.

The context is provided by the Roman historian Justin:

The future greatness of this prince even signs from heaven had foretold; for in the year in which he was born, as well as in that in which he began to reign, a comet blazed forth with such splendour, for seventy successive days on each occasion, that the whole sky seemed to be on fire. It covered a fourth part of the firmament with its train, and obscured the light of the sun with its effulgence; and in rising and setting it took up the space of four hours.[2]

Justin writes around AD 160–230. However, he is paraphrasing from Pompeius Trogus’ work The Philippic Histories, written in the first century BC. Justin refers to two comets, one at Mithridates’ birth and another at his ascension. The existence of such comets used to be dismissed as legendary. However, subsequent studies of Chinese astrological records have confirmed that two such comets did appear at the time of his birth and ascension.[3] So, Mithridates and Trogus are referencing a real celestial event.

What is important for us is how this event was interpreted. Justin cites a first-century author stating that a comet which appears for 70 days was a sign from heaven foretelling the rise of a great prince. For Rome, this was an ominous sign. Justin said Mithridates had an exceptional destiny. This destiny resulted in the attempted overthrow of Roman power in the eastern Mediterranean. Mithridates successfully overthrew and conquered several neighboring kingdoms and Roman-controlled territories, expanding his realm into a major empire around the Black Sea and Asia Minor. He also massacred tens of thousands of Roman citizens. This was bad news for the established Roman status quo. Mithridates was an obvious threat to the political order.

Mithridates obviously viewed his mission differently. He did not view the comets as a negative omen. The idea that he was a serious threat to Roman power in the eastern Mediterranean was something he embraced. In effect, he is saying: “The cosmic sign that terrified the world was about me—I am the terror to your Roman oppressors.” This was a bad omen for the Romans but a positive one for their enemies. By minting coins bearing these comets, Mithridates shows he expected his subjects to interpret them in the same way he did.

The takeaway is this: In the first century BC, a comet could be interpreted by people in the East as signifying the birth of a new ruler who would rise to overthrow and replace the existing rulers. This would be a negative omen for the existing social order and the incumbent rulers. However, it could also simultaneously be embraced as a positive sign by partisans of the new king.

Example 2: Augustus Caesar
Consider next these coins  from Augustus Caesar (63 BC–AD 14), who was the Roman Emperor at the time of Jesus’ birth. Augustus promoted himself as “son of God,” “saviour of the world,” “lord,” and described his reign as “the good news”[4] that Augustus had ushered in peace and stability. These coins are part of that promotion. Notice the coins have comets on them. Why? Pliny explains:

The deified Augustus had deemed this comet very propitious to himself; as it had appeared at the beginning of his rule, at some games which, not long after the decease of his father Caesar, as a member of the college founded by him he was celebrating in honour of Venus Genetrix. In fact he made public the joy that it gave him in these words: “On the very days of my Games a comet was visible for seven days in the northern part of the sky. It was rising about an hour before sunset, and was a bright star, visible from all lands. The common people believed that this star signified the soul of Caesar received among the spirits of the immortal gods, and on this account the emblem of a star was added to the bust of Caesar that we shortly afterwards dedicated in the forum.” This was his public utterance, but privately he rejoiced because he interpreted the comet as having been born for his own sake and as containing his own birth within it; and, to confess the truth, it did have a health-giving influence over the world.[5]

Pliny refers to a bright comet that appeared around 44 BC, commonly referred to as the Sidus Iulium (“Julian Star”) or Caesaris astrum (“Caesar’s star”) in ancient literature. The existence of this comet has been confirmed from Chinese records.[6] It appeared shortly after Julius Caesar’s assassination and was interpreted by the common people as evidence that Julius Caesar had been made a god. Augustus was Julius Caesar’s adopted son. So the inference can be made that he (Augustus) was declared the son of God. Pliny says that, in contrast to the common interpretation, Augustus himself took the comet as signifying him and as “containing his birth,” and Pliny accepts that the omen had foretold the positive influence his life and reign would have over the world.

Here Caesaris astrum is viewed as a positive omen, signifying the benefits of Augustus’ reign. However, in the previous paragraph, Pliny has described comets as “a terrifying star and not easily expiated,” because “they overturn kingdoms, stir up wars, and change the condition of peoples.” As examples, he mentions comets that appeared during the civil war of 87 BC where Octavius was overthrown and replaced by Marius; the struggle between Caesar and Pompey, where Caesar gained control of Rome making himself emperor; and the poisoning of Claudius where Nero took control of the empire. These are all cases of significant political upheaval resulting in a change in regime.

Is Pliny contradicting himself here? I don’t think so. Both these things can be true at the same time. Caesar’s death did herald political upheaval. It resulted in the War of Mutina, the Second Triumvirate, and the civil war between Antony and Octavian. These resulted in the end of the Roman Republic and the rise of the Roman Empire. Augustus rose victorious from these struggles and was the beneficiary of these upheavals.

So, in Pliny we see both that comets were terrible signs predicting political upheaval involving an overthrow of the current kingdom and, at the same time, that they could be reinterpreted or reframed as positive signs of endorsement for the ruler who benefits from the change and also as signs of whatever benefits his reign brings about.

Example 3: Tacitus and Nero — The Comet of AD 60
Tacitus records a comet during the reign of Nero Caesar around AD 60:

Meanwhile, a comet blazed into view—in the opinion of the crowd, an apparition boding change to monarchies. Hence, as though Nero were already dethroned, men began to inquire on whom the next choice should fall; and the name in all mouths was that of Rubellius Plautus, who, on the mother’s side, drew his nobility from the Julian house. … A belief spread that he was the candidate marked out by the will of deity; and he found numerous supporters in the class of men who nurse the eager and generally delusive ambition to be the earliest parasites of a new and precarious power. Nero, therefore, perturbed by the reports, drew up a letter to Plautus, advising him “to consult the peace of the capital and extricate himself from the scandal-mongers: he had family estates in Asia, where he could enjoy his youth in safety and quiet.” To Asia, accordingly, he retired with his wife Antistia and a few of his intimate friends.[7]

Nero proceeds to have Plautus murdered while in exile.

The same pattern is seen here. Tacitus tells us that a comet was widely understood as an “apparition boding change to monarchies.” This is clearly a negative omen for the current king, Nero. It signals to the people that he has been dethroned by the gods and will be replaced by a rival king. Nero is “perturbed” and attempts to eliminate rivals. However, the same omen is simultaneously interpreted by the same people as a divine endorsement of the new king and so gives their support to Plautus. The reason Nero exiles and murders Rubellius Plautus is because the people believe he is the candidate “marked out by the deity” and he wins “numerous supporters” as a result.

So, in the first century AD, comets could and were interpreted as a sign that a king would be replaced by a new rival. This could be and was interpreted as a negative sign by the current king—so much so that he might murder potential rivals. At the same time, it could also, and did, signal divine endorsement of the rival, and hence motivate people to support him.

Example 4: Josephus and the Zealots
A fourth example is Josephus. In a previous post, I mentioned Josephus’ reference to Halley’s Comet as “a star resembling a sword, which stood over the city.” The full context is:

Thus were the miserable people persuaded by these deceivers, and such as belied God himself; while they did not attend nor give credit to the signs that were so evident, and did so plainly foretell their future desolation, but, like men infatuated, without either eyes to see or minds to consider, did not regard the denunciations that God made to them. Thus there was a star resembling a sword, which stood over the city, and a comet, that continued a whole year.[8]

He goes on to explain this:

But now, what did the most elevate them in undertaking this war, was an ambiguous oracle that was also found in their sacred writings, how “about that time, one from their country should become governor of the habitable earth.” The Jews took this prediction to belong to themselves in particular, and many of the wise men were thereby deceived in their determination. Now this oracle certainly denoted the government of Vespasian, who was appointed emperor in Judea. However, it is not possible for men to avoid fate, although they see it beforehand.[9]

Again, we see the same pattern. Both Josephus and the Zealots interpret the star (or comet) as a sign that a new king would rise up who would become governor of the earth. G. J. Goldberg explains that both Josephus and the Zealots’ interpretation is shaped by Jewish apocalyptic tradition.[10]⁸ The oracle of Balaam—“a star shall come out of Jacob, and a sceptre shall rise out of Israel” (Num. 24:17)—was widely used in Second Temple literature to predict the coming of a ruler. In this context, a star could naturally be understood as the sign preceding a messianic ruler.

The difference between them is over who the relevant king is. The Zealots take the comet as an omen from God that Roman rule in Judea will be overthrown. This would be a negative omen for Rome. Consequently, they see it as a divine endorsement of their decision to rebel, and a positive omen for them. By contrast, Josephus sees the comet as an omen that the regime in Jerusalem will be overthrown—a negative sign sent from God against the Zealots. However, Josephus simultaneously understands the comet to be a sign of endorsement for Vespasian; it predicted his ascension to the throne.

So, in first-century Judaism, a comet could be and was interpreted as a sign that a new king would arise and replace the current regime. This could be and was interpreted in light of messianic expectations. Such a comet was a negative sign for the current rulers who would be overthrown or replaced, but it would also be a sign of endorsement for the new regime.

Example 5: Chaeremon of Alexandria
My final example is Chaeremon of Alexandria, who was one of the leading Stoic philosophers of the first century AD—and significantly, a tutor to the young Nero prior to AD 47. One of Chaeremon’s works was a treatise On Comets. No surviving manuscripts of this work exist; however, fragments of it occur in the writings of Origen. Origen writes:

It has been observed that, on the occurrence of great events, and of mighty changes in terrestrial things, such stars are wont to appear, indicating either the removal of dynasties or the breaking out of wars, or the happening of such circumstances as may cause commotions upon the earth. But we have read in the Treatise on Comets by Chæremon the Stoic, that on some occasions also, when good was to happen, comets made their appearance; and he gives an account of such instances. If, then, at the commencement of new dynasties, or on the occasion of other important events, there arises a comet so called, or any similar celestial body, why should it be matter of wonder that at the birth of Him who was to introduce a new doctrine to the human race…[11]

Again, we have the same pattern: Origen tells us that, in his day, comets were understood to indicate significant upheavals in terrestrial affairs, such as “the removing of dynasties.” This causes “commotion” and hence indicates negative things are to occur. However, he tells us that Chaeremon had documented and taught that comets could also indicate that “good was about to happen,” such as at the “commencement of new dynasties.” This is the pattern we have seen above. In each case, a comet has been seen; in each case, it is taken as a negative omen for the dynasty being removed, but also as an endorsement of the replacement.

[1] Manilius, Astronomica 1.809–814; 2.150–159, trans. G. P. Goold (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1977), 67–69, 123–25.

[2] Justin, Epitome of the Philippic History of Pompeius Trogus 37.2.1–3, trans. J. C. Yardley (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994), 197.

[3] Ho Peng Yoke, “Ancient and Mediaeval Observations of Comets and Novae in Chinese Sources,” Vistas in Astronomy 5 (1962): 127–225.

[4] Here I am not putting a Christian “spin” on Augustus’s claims. It is common place in New Testament studies to observe that the Messianic language used by early Christians to describe Christ is the same language used to describe the roman emperor and the imperial cult.

[5] Pliny, Natural History 2.93–94, trans. H. Rackham (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1938), 207–09.

[6] Ho Peng Yoke, “Ancient and Mediaeval Observations,” 144–45.

[7] Tacitus, Annals 14.22, trans. J. Jackson (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1937), 283–85.

[8] Josephus, Jewish War 6.288–300, trans. H. St. J. Thackeray (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1928), 459–63.

[9] Josephus, Jewish War 6.288–300, trans. H. St. J. Thackeray (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1928), 459–63.

[10] G. J. Goldberg, “The Star of Bethlehem and Josephus,” Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha 13 (1995): 59–77

[11] Origen, Contra Celsum 1.58, trans. Henry Chadwick (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1953), 39.

First, it is claimed that no star could exist that moves or behaves in the way described in Matthew’s Gospel. According to this objection, Matthew depicts a star acting in ways that we now know real stars cannot and do not act.

Second, it is claimed that stars of the sort described by Matthew would not have been interpreted as signs of kingship. Instead, such phenomena are said to have been universally regarded as negative omens.

Finally, it is claimed that the account of the massacre of the children is incompatible with what we know of Herod’s reign.

Let us begin with the first issue. Matney observes.  

[I]t has long been recognised that Matthew 2:9 presents a particular challenge: the ‘going before’ and ‘stopping’ behaviour does not seem to conform to the motion of any known natural celestial object. Typical astronomical objects– stars, planets, comets – appear to rise in the east and set in the west, due to the diurnal rotation of the Earth. Such objects do not normally pause at a particular southerly azimuth for several hours, nor would they typically ‘stop’ overhead for any length of time.[1]

Matney cites Adair who writes ” the key problem is that the description of the movements of the star is outside what is physically possible for any observable astronomical object”

Matthew describes two features of the star’s behaviour. First, in verse 9, the star is said to have “stopped” over the place where Jesus was born. Second, the same verse says that the star “went ahead of them”.

Let us examine each of these claims in turn.

The NASB translates the relevant phrase as “until it stopped over the place where the child was”. The literal Greek, however, reads “until it stood over”.

What does this phrase mean? When reading the Bible—or any ancient text produced in a culture very different from our own—it is important to ask how such language was actually used by contemporaries. When we do so, a striking pattern emerges.

Ancient Usage of “Stood Over”
In 12 BC the Roman statesman and general Marcus Agrippa died. The Roman historian Cassius Dio wrote the following about his death:

The death of Agrippa, far from being merely a private loss to his own household, was at any rate such a public loss to all the Romans that portents occurred on this occasion in such numbers as are wont to happen to them before the greatest calamities. Owls kept flitting about the city, and lightning struck the house on the Alban Mount where the consuls lodge during the sacred rites. The star called the comet hung for several days over the city.[2]

A very similar description appears in Josephus’s Jewish War, where he describes events preceding the Jewish–Roman war of AD 66:

Thus there was a star resembling a sword, which stood over the city, and a comet.[3]

Notice how closely this language parallels Matthew’s. Both Dio and Josephus refer to a comet, though they also use the term “star”. This is not contradictory.  Greek and Roman authors frequently used the word star refer to comets. Pliny for example states “There are also stars that suddenly come to birth in the heaven itself …The Greeks call them ‘comets,”[4] Seneca called them “hairy stairs”[5].  Numerous references to ceasers comet in 44 AD, refer to it with the unmodified term ἀστήρ (astēr) or various Latin synonyms (e.g., sidus, astrum).[6]

What is important however is this: In both cases, the authors describe the star or comet as “standing” or “hanging” over a city—Rome or Jerusalem. The language Matthew uses to describe a star “standing over” a location is the same language used by contemporary and near-contemporary authors to describe comets. Moreover, this language appears to be uniquely associated with comets. As Colin Humphreys notes, “phrases such as ‘stood over’ and ‘hung over’ appear to be uniquely applied in ancient literature to describe a comet, and I can find no record of such phrases being used to describe any other astronomical object.”[7]

Further details reinforce this interpretation. Josephus explains that the star “stood” over the city “like a sword”. Similar imagery appears in Marcellinus, who describes a comet “hanging like a column”. Comets have tails that point away from the sun, and although they are always moving, from certain vantage points they can appear to hang or stand over a particular location, pointing down towards it. To an observer on the ground, such a phenomenon would naturally be described as a star standing over a city.

A modern illustration helps make this clear. In July 2020, a widely circulated photograph by Amr Abdulwahab showed Comet NEOWISE above the Pyramid of Khafre at Giza. The image was commonly captioned “Comet NEOWISE in the night sky above the Pyramid of Khafre”, and many reposts used language strikingly similar to that found in Marcellinus, describing the comet as “hanging” over the pyramid.

Are these references to real celestial phenonena?

Comet NEOWISE was, of course, a real astronomical object. But what about the comets described by Cassius Dio and Josephus? Are these merely legendary embellishments, or do they refer to genuine celestial events?

It is widely accepted that both authors are describing real phenomena. In fact, they provide the only surviving Greco-Roman references to appearances of Halley’s Comet. Halley’s Comet was visible in the skies over Rome in 12 BC and over Judea in AD 66. These facts raise an obvious problem for critics who argue that Matthew’s gospel cannot be referring to any real celestial phenomena because it refers to a star that “stands over” a location. Outside of Matthew’s gospel this language is used to refer to a real phenomenon.

How do we know Josephus and Cassius Dio referred to a real comet? Halley’s Comet does not follow a perfectly regular orbit. Gravitational and non-gravitational forces slightly alter its path and period over time. While astronomers can model these effects accurately for recent appearances, the accumulated uncertainties make it impossible to extrapolate its orbit reliably prior to about AD 800 using modern data alone. To go further back, astronomers require fixed anchor points—historical observations of known dates.

These anchor points come from ancient records. Several ancient cultures recorded astronomical phenomena, but the most important records come from China, particularly during the Han Dynasty (206 BC–AD 220). The Han maintained state-sponsored observatories staffed by trained officials whose role was to monitor the heavens for omens and portents. As a result, they kept systematic records of celestial events, including comets. These records typically note the date of first appearance, position in the sky, direction of motion, tail shape, duration of visibility, and associated interpretations.

These records have proven to be remarkably reliable. Earlier scholarship in the mid-twentieth century suggested that such records might have been politically manipulated, but modern reassessments have largely rejected this view. David Pankenier, for example, compared 127 solar eclipse records from Han sources with NASA’s Five Millennium Catalogue of Solar Eclipses and found them to be highly accurate, with only rare errors attributable to copying mistakes rather than fabrication[8]. When cross-checked against Babylonian and Greco-Roman sources, the Chinese records consistently prove to be the most reliable ancient astronomical data we possess. [9]Using these records, astronomers have been able to reconstruct the path of Halley’s Comet prior to the eighth century and identify its appearances in 12 BC and AD 66.

At a common-sense level, this methodology is straightforward. Suppose I claim that it rained last Saturday. How would you check this? You would consult reliable meteorological records for that time and place. If those records confirm rainfall, you would reasonably conclude that my statement was true. The same logic applies here. If an ancient author reports a comet at a particular time, we consult reliable ancient records. In this case, the Chinese records confirm the appearance of such comets.

Application: The 5 BC Comet

What is less widely known is that these same Chinese records also report a significant comet around the time traditionally associated with the birth of Jesus. The Han Shu records the following:

In the second year of Jianping of Emperor Ai, during the second lunar month, a broom-star appeared in Qiān Niú and remained visible for more than seventy days. It is said: “The broom star serves to eliminate the old and establish the new. Qiān Niú is the place whence the sun, moon, and five planets arise, the origin of calendrical reckoning, and the starting point of the three standards. The long duration of the comet’s appearance indicates the greatness of the event to come.[10]

A “broom star” is the Chinese term for a comet—a star with a tail like a broom. The second lunar month of the second year of Jianping corresponds to approximately 4 March–6 April 5 BC in the Gregorian calendar. During this period, a comet was visible for over seventy days, even though the monsoon season.

The Chinese astrologers interpreted this event as signalling the replacement of the old with the new—the beginning of a new epoch—and regarded the comet’s long duration as indicating an event of great significance.

The date is noteworthy. Historians generally place Jesus’ birth within the final years of Herod the Great’s reign. Matthew and Luke both situate Jesus’ birth during Herod’s rule[11], and Luke states that Jesus was about thirty years old when he was baptised by John the Baptist in the fifteenth year of Tiberius Caesar.[12] This date corresponds to around AD 27–28[13]. Since Herod died in 4 BC, Jesus’ birth is usually dated to around 6–4 BC. The comet recorded in the Han Shu falls squarely within this period.

How could the star “lead” the Magi to Bethlehem?

What, then, of the claim that the star “led” the Magi to Bethlehem? This is often misunderstood. Many assume the text implies that the Magi followed the star like a kind of celestial GPS. That is not what Matthew says. In Matthew 2, the Magi arrive in Jerusalem after their journey and say that they had seen the star earlier—either “in the east” or “at its rising”. This implies a past observation, prior to their travel. They do not know where to go and must ask Herod where the king is to be born. The star does not guide them directly to Bethlehem.

After they leave Jerusalem, Matthew writes: “And the star they had seen when it rose went ahead of them until it stood over the place where the child was.” This must be read carefully. The Greek tense indicates that, when they set off south towards Bethlehem, they noticed that the star—already in motion—was now ahead of them and standing over Bethlehem.

The same verb translated “went ahead” appears elsewhere in Matthew with a similar sense. For example:

• Matthew 14:22: “He compelled the disciples to get into the boat and to go ahead of him to the other side…”
• Matthew 21:31: “The tax collectors and the prostitutes go ahead of you into the kingdom of God.”
• Matthew 28:7: “He is going ahead of you into Galilee; there you will see him.”

In each case, the phrase does not mean “guiding” in the sense of leading someone step by step to a destination. Rather, it means going ahead in the sense of getting to the destination first. In Matthew 2, the verb’s direct object is “them”; Matthew is describing the star’s position relative to the Magi, not some extraordinary behaviour against the fixed background of stars.

This is entirely consistent with a comet. As Humphreys notes, visible comets typically move through the stellar background at about one to two degrees per day. If the Magi first saw a comet in the east and then undertook a journey of one to two months to Jerusalem, it would not be surprising for the comet to appear in the southern sky from their new location. Humphreys explains:

It is suggested that the Magi originally saw the comet in the east in the morning sky. They travelled to Jerusalem, a journey of one to two months, during which time the comet moved through about 90 degrees from east to south, consistent with typical cometary motion. From Jerusalem, Herod’s advisers directed them to Bethlehem, six miles to the south. Setting off the next morning, they saw the comet ahead of them in the southern sky. Hence it appeared that the comet “went ahead of” them on the final stage of their journey.[14]

In conclusion, I have defended three claims.

First, the language Matthew uses to describe the star closely matches the language used by contemporaries and near-contemporaries to describe comets.

Second, the same ancient records that allow us to confirm that writers such as Josephus and Cassius Dio were describing real comets also indicate that a prominent comet was visible around the time of Jesus’ birth.

Third, if the star was a comet, its reported movements are entirely consistent with Matthew’s description.

[1] Matney, Mark. “The Star That Stopped: The Star of Bethlehem & the Comet of 5 BCE.” Journal of the British Astronomical Association 135, no. 6 (December 3, 2025):390. https://doi.org/10.64150/193njt

[2] Cassius Dio, Roman History 45.17.

[3] Josephus, Jewish War 6.289.

[4] Pliny the Elder, Natural History II.22.

[5] Seneca, Natural Questions VII.17.

[6] Ramsey J. T. & Licht A. L., The Comet of 44 B.C. and Caesar’s Funeral Games, Scholars Press, Atlanta, GA, 1997, pp. 155–177

[7] Humphreys, Colin J. 1992. “The Star of Bethlehem, A Comet in 5 BC and the Date of Christ’s Birth.” Tyndale Bulletin 43, no. 1 (May): 36. https://doi.org/10.53751/001c.30475 [tyndalebulletin.org]

[8] Pankenier, David W. “On the Reliability of Han Dynasty Solar Eclipse Records.” Journal of Astronomical History and Heritage 15, no. 3 (2012): 200–212.– Available as a PDF from Lehigh University: “On the Reliability of Han Dynasty Solar Eclipse Records”.

[9] Xu, Z., Pankenier, D. W. & Jiang, Y. (2000): East-Asian Archaeoastronomy.

[10] Ban Gu 班固. Han shu 漢書 (Book of Han), vol. 26, Tianwen zhi 天文志. In Hanshu zhudi, edited by Kang Xiangcheng 康祥成 and Xu Ke 徐克, 917–23. Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju, 1962.

[11] Matt 2:1, Luke 1:5, 26

[12] Luke 3:1,23

[13] Luke uses inclusive counting, whereby part of a year counts as a whole year. The exact date depends on whether he counts from Augustus and Tiberius’s co regency in 11/12 AD or his ascension in 14 AD. The phrase “about 30 years old” means Luke is saying Jesus was approximately this age, it means he was in his early thirties or late twenties.

[14]Humphreys, Colin J. 1992. “The Star of Bethlehem, A Comet in 5 BC and the Date of Christ’s Birth.” Tyndale Bulletin 43, no. 1 (May): 36. https://doi.org/10.53751/001c.30475 [tyndalebulletin.org]

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Is this a Noahide Command?

One response points out that the passage I cited is in the Torah. But the Torah is a covenant between God and ancient Israel; there are lots of commands in the Torah — the command to circumcise male children, to refrain from eating pork, not to wear mixed cloth — which contemporary Gentile Christians are not required to follow.

In reply: while not all commandments in the Torah apply to Gentiles, some do. As early as the Book of Jubilees, Jewish commentators argued that interpreters had come to recognise that, while the Torah as a whole was given only to Israel, certain commands in the Torah applied to both Jews and Gentiles alike. These were commandments that express moral requirements binding on all people — Jew and Gentile — antecedent to the Sinai covenant. Historically these were called the Noahide commandments[1]. Is the command in Exodus 23 (or Deuteronomy 23:15–16) a Noahide command?

It is plausible to say it is. The reason is that on at least one occasion God is described as expecting Gentile nations, who were not parties to the Sinai covenant, to follow this law and to be held accountable for not doing so. When Jerusalem fell to Babylon in 587 BCE, refugees fled toward the border of Edom. The Edomites slaughtered some, rounded up others, and handed the fugitives over to the Babylonians. The prophet Obadiah condemns Edom for this action:

Do not stand at the crossroads
To eliminate their survivors;
And do not hand over their refugees
On the day of their distress. (Obadiah 14)

Obadiah’s message is that God will hold Edom accountable for this action. Consequently, Deuteronomy 23:15–16 can be read as expressing a Noahide command — a moral requirement binding on Jew and Gentile alike.

A second reply turns the reader back to case 1: do you believe the abolitionists did the right thing in breaking the Fugitive Slave Act? Would it have been right to hand runaway slaves over to the authorities? If you answer yes to the first question and no to the second, then you are implicitly endorsing the abolitionists’ interpretation of Deuteronomy 23:15–16 as a command applicable to Gentile Christians living in later ages.

Limited Application
A further response is that my argument has limited application: it applies only to asylum seekers and not to other forms of immigrants. In reply, Deuteronomy 23:15–16 applies to a person fleeing slavery; by analogy it applies to a person who has fled their country to escape any condition analogous to slavery. This is significant. The 1951 Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees defines a refugee as a person who, “owing to a well-founded fear of being persecuted for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group, or political opinion, is outside the country of his nationality and is unable to or, owing to such fear, is unwilling to avail himself of the protection of that country.”

 That definition is narrower than what Deuteronomy 23:15–16 seems to command. A person can be in severe bondage or servitude to another without fitting that 1951 Convention definition — for example in forms of debt bondage or extreme economic servitude, or cases where the person is persecuted or mistreated for reasons other than the ones specified.

What about illegal or undocumented aliens?

A third response distinguishes between legal and illegal aliens. The claim is that we should not aid and abet the deportation of someone who has gone through the correct channels and applied for refugee status, but someone who has illegally entered the country is in a different situation: they have “jumped the queue” and failed to respect the law.

In reply, I deny their situation is different in any morally relevant way. The slave in 1850 the would have clearly crossed a border into a free state illegally, and the Jewish overstayer in the 1930s example may well have been an overstayer despite attempts to apply for asylum. These are people who are illegally in the country, and yet deporting them can still be wrong. Let us reflect on why.

Imagine I am being pursued by someone who wishes to do me harm — to enslave or kill me. I manage to escape to somewhere my pursuer cannot reach. You yell to my pursuer, “He is over there,” grab me, pull me out, and hand me over. Why would this be wrong? It is wrong because, in doing this, you are actively assisting my pursuers in enslaving or killing me. This is not merely a failure to help; it is active complicity in the attacker’s wrong.

Notice that this is true whether or not I am a documented or undocumented alien. Suppose I have entered the country illegally — I “jumped the queue.” Suppose there was a legal path I could have followed and I did not. That fact does not change that I am being pursued; it does not change that exposing my whereabouts and handing me over will result in my death or enslavement; and it does not change that, by doing so, you are complicit in that killing or enslavement. The features of the action that make turning me over wrong hold regardless of whether I followed legal channels to enter.

One way to see this is to ask the following question: was there a realistic possibility that, had the person followed the correct legal procedure, they would have been denied asylum? If the answer is yes, then this case doesn’t differ in any relevant respect from cases 1 and 2 above. The fugitive slave fleeing to a free state fled there illegally. He could have attempted to follow whatever legal procedures were available to leave his master and emigrate to a free state, but we know that under federal law in the US in 1850 this was prohibited. Making his existence known to the authorities would have resulted in his being returned to slavery.

In the 1930s, thousands of Jewish asylum seekers who legally applied to emigrate to the US were turned down. In 1939, the St. Louis, a ship carrying 900 Jews fleeing Nazi Germany, sailed to the US. The US, along with various other nations, refused the Jews entry, and the ship was forced to return to Germany. In light of these facts, it is very plausible that a Jewish overstayer who revealed themselves to the authorities would have been deported.

Suppose, then, that the person seeking asylum would have had it granted if they had followed the correct procedure. In this case, critics point out, the overstayer has “jumped the queue”; they have unfairly entered the US without following the procedures others have duly followed. Would we be justified in turning the undocumented alien in to the authorities, knowing they would be deported back to a country where they would likely be enslaved, killed, or persecuted?

I think the answer is no. Let us grant that “jumping the queue” is wrong, that laws prohibiting it are in principle justified, and that some legal penalty is warranted. Even so, it seems implausible that you would be obliged to hand me over if the penalty inflicted by the authorities is disproportionate. Suppose I knew that stealing a loaf of bread carried a sentence of death. Or that using a false passport meant being handed over to a mafia gang to be tortured and killed. In such cases, I think it would be wrong to turn in someone I knew had stolen a loaf of bread or faked a passport. The fact that it is wrong to commit fraud and theft, and that laws against them are justified, does not mean I would be justified in handing you over under such circumstances.

The case where the penalty for “jumping the queue” is deportation back to the country the asylum seeker fled from is also a case of disproportionate punishment. Remember, as we have stipulated, this is a case where asylum would have been granted had he not jumped the queue. The benefit he unfairly received, therefore, was not asylum itself—he would have gained that regardless—but merely one of convenience: less hassle, a shorter waiting period, and avoidance of some stressful processes. Do we really think that gaining this kind of advantage unfairly over another justifies execution, permanent enslavement, or permanent exile into destitution? Obviously not. Yet handing people over to authorities who will impose such disproportionate consequences makes you complicit in those outcomes.

To make this vivid: suppose someone, fearing for their life, illegally fakes identification to stow away on a boat. The captain of the boat has the following policy: if someone tells him they are fleeing for safety, he will allow them on board. However, the captain has no tolerance for stowaways. Anyone discovered stowing away will—as punishment—be thrown into the Atlantic to drown. Or suppose a pilot discovers a passenger with a fake passport and, deciding the passenger is an illegal entrant, opens the plane door mid-flight and throws them out. Both acts would be monstrous. Arresting the person and issuing a proportionate punishment at their destination might be defensible; expelling them when such expulsion will result in death is not.

Now suppose I know about the stowaway and also know that disclosure will lead to a disproportionate death sentence (being thrown from a plane or cast into the sea). Do I have a duty to disclose? I do not think so. I would be morally justified in concealing the person. I would not be obligated to hand them over.

[1] Noahide command is the term used by Rabbi’s in the Talmudic literature, Christians have expressed a similar idea using the terms “moral law” or “natural law”. Consider for example Aquinas “The Old Law showed forth the precepts of the natural law, and added certain precepts of its own. Accordingly, as to those precepts of the natural law contained in the Old Law, all were bound to observe the Old Law; not because they belonged to the Old Law, but because they belonged to the natural law. But as to those precepts which were added by the Old Law, they were not binding on save the Jewish people alone” https://www.newadvent.org/summa/2098.htm#article5

Here’s a thought that came to me. As I understand it, the right of a refugee to seek asylum in international law has Christian roots, which in turn draw on certain passages in the Torah, such as this one:

You shall not hand over to his master a slave who has escaped from his master to you. He shall live with you in your midst, in the place that he chooses in one of your towns where it pleases him; you shall not mistreat him.(Deut 23:15-16)

This law contrasts with common legal practice in the ancient Near East, where people were legally required to return any runaway slaves. Consider, for example, the Laws of Hammurabi (c. 1750 BCE):

LH §16: If a man should harbor a fugitive slave or slave woman of either the palace or of a commoner in his house and not bring him out at the herald’s public proclamation, that householder shall be killed.

Or a fifteenth-century BCE treaty between two Syrian kings:

If a fugitive slave, male or female, of my land flees to your land, you must seize and return him to me; (or), if someone else seizes him and takes him to you, [you must keep him] in your prison, and whenever his owner comes forward, you must hand him over to [him].[1]

Jefferey Tigay explains:

The only thing remotely close to this biblical law in the ancient world is the practice at certain temples of granting asylum to slaves fleeing harsh treatment by their masters. Generally, such asylum was not permanent; it protected the slave until he could come to terms with his master or, as a last resort, was sold to another master. By contrast, the biblical law is absolute and treats the whole land of Israel as a sanctuary offering permanent asylum.[2]

Notice what the Torah passage states: it forbids Israel from deporting someone who has escaped into their nation to escape slavery, and it prohibits restricting their freedom of movement within Israel or limiting their choice of where to live. (Here the “you” is a collective reference to Israel, not simply “your” towns.)

I was familiar with this passage, but I was struck by its possible application to modern immigration.

Let’s begin with some historical examples.

Example 1 (1850). The Fugitive Slave Act required citizens of states where slavery had been criminalized to assist in the capture and return of escaped slaves who had made their way into those states. Abolitionists at the time quoted Deuteronomy 23:15–16 to justify refusing to comply with this law.

So: you live in a free state in 1850. You discover the whereabouts of a runaway slave who is fleeing an abusive master. Do you (a) comply with the Fugitive Slave Act and hand him over to the authorities, or (b) conceal his whereabouts to prevent his capture? I think most of us would agree that (b) is the right thing to do.

Example 2 (1930s). The Nazis persecute Jewish people across Europe. Thousands of Jews flee and seek to emigrate, but protectionist U.S. immigration policies mean many are refused entry. You discover a German Jewish overstayer. Do you (a) inform the authorities so he is deported back to Germany, or (b) help conceal his whereabouts? Intuitively, (b) again seems the morally right course; (a) would be immoral.

Example 3 (contemporary). It is 2025. The Taliban rule Afghanistan. You discover an Afghan overstayer who fled the Taliban; if reported, he will be deported. Do you (a) report him, or (b) conceal him? Or you discover an undocumented Mexican restaurant owner in California who fled cartels, or a Nigerian Christian overstayer who fled persecution? Do you disclose their legal status or do you conceal it? From what I read, many American evangelicals appeal to Romans 13—“obey the government”—to argue that Christians must support the deportation of illegal aliens because the law has been broken in these cases.

So here is my question: how do these 2025 cases differ in principle from examples 1 and 2? In all cases, the person is illegally in the country while fleeing life-threatening danger—slavery, genocide, Taliban rule, cartels. Is there a principled difference between returning a slave to his master and sending someone back to the Taliban or cartels? If those who defied the Fugitive Slave Act were doing the right thing, why must we follow the law here?

[1] Jeffrey H. Tigay, Deuteronomy, JPS Torah Commentary (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1996), 387.

[2] Tigay, Deuteronomy, 215

When I was at teachers’ college, we were taught that New Zealand had the best curriculum in the world. Unlike other curricula, which focused on subject content, New Zealand’s curriculum focused on certain kinds of skills—analysis, critical thinking, research, etc.

A comparison between the NCEA standards for Religious Studies (my specialist subject) and Cambridge illustrates the contrast. For IGCSE World Religions, students study two major religions over the course of a year. The syllabus requires them to learn a huge amount of content—about the religion’s history, doctrines, modes of worship, and so on. The assessment is an examination in which any of these topics could be assessed.

By contrast, Level 1 NCEA has standards such as: Demonstrate understanding of the development of a community that shares religious or spiritual beliefs. This is flexible—teachers can choose any religion. One gets an Achieved if they show understanding of the development of the religious community, a Merit if they can explain it, and an Excellence if they examine it. The focus is on analytical skills. Prima facie, this is a good idea. Education should not be about regurgitating facts; it should develop skills of understanding, explaining, and examining.

This appearance, however, has not withstood my experience at the coalface, teaching Religious Studies to Year 11–13 boys.

My first practical experience with NCEA was during my practicum in 2009. I was placed at a low-decile school in South Auckland. The school was almost entirely in Pasifika in its demographic. Despite being in a poor area and having a demographic that statistically underachieves, the school was getting good results—large numbers of students were getting Achieved. Here was the method I encountered:

• Period 1: Tell the students the questions they will be assessed on. Get them to copy them down.
• Period 2: Tell them the answer to Question 1. Write it down.
• Period 3: Tell them the answer to Question 2. Write it down.
• Rinse and repeat
• Then the assessment: Take the sheet of paper you’ve copied the answers onto into an exam where you will be asked the memorised questions.

I am not joking. What was interesting was that even under these conditions, students would talk during the assessment and not finish. So extensions were given until the students all passed. Or they were held in till they finished.

Here I discovered the perverse incentive structures of NCEA. Because there were certain prescribed skills (such as “explain” and “describe”) which were internally assessed by the school, and because the school’s reputation was tied to how well it got traditionally low-achieving groups to pass, tactics like this actually made the school “successful.” Students who struggled with basic skills and academic discipline would pass at high rates.

My experience in the teaching sector has suggested to me that this sort of thing is not an aberration. I have seen many NCEA programmes where students who lack basic skills pass because they are spoon-fed the answers. I have seen, for example, courses where students copy notes into a workbook in each class, then have a week of classes to copy those notes into a resource, and are then given a structured worksheet on how to write an essay. They fill in the worksheet with the material from the resource. Despite the apparent ease of this, I have witnessed teachers offer several weeks of classes—including lunchtime and after-school sessions—to get students to complete the task. If all else fails, threaten a detention until they fill out the sheet. Instant, Achieved. In a short time, this student who can’t write an essay or hand one in on time gets University Entrance. A school has managed to get large numbers of students known for lack of academic ability to university level. It looks impressive—but of course, in the long term, it is fraudulent. These students haven’t achieved the “skills”; they’ve ticked boxes and been micromanaged on how to tick them.

My next experience was doing professional development on NCEA marking. At a best-practice workshop, I was given a model answer for the standard Describe the beliefs of a religious community. It stated: “According to Christianity, Jesus was a good moral teacher.” Achieved or Not Achieved?

I said Not Achieved. My reason: this is not an accurate description of what Christianity teaches. Muslims believe Isa (Jesus) was a prophet, so they would consent to this statement. An agnostic could—and many do—accept that Jesus was a good moral teacher. Christianity teaches Jesus is the Messiah and God incarnate.

I was told I was being too precise. To meet the standard, they only need the most generic answer. The student should get an Achieved simply for writing that down.

We went on to look at exemplars of Merit and Excellence. To get an Excellence, a student needs to “evaluate.” I pointed out that the evaluation provided was extremely poor. I was told that the standard didn’t say “evaluate well”—it simply said “evaluate.” That meant the student used words like therefore and in conclusion. If they used such words, they were using evaluative language and hence got an Excellence.

On another occasion, I was learning the ropes of moderation. The course was on the Reformation. To get an Achieved, the student had to describe the key facts. To get a Merit, they had to show the implications of the facts. I  was told that because the word “facts” is plural, NZQA required that a student get two facts correct. Facts were things like names, places, and dates. This meant that if a student, after studying the Reformation for several weeks, wrote only: “Martin Luther, Wittenberg 1517,” they got an Achieved.

Here I learned how words like “describe,” “evaluate,” “discuss,” and “analyse” did not mean what they appeared to. Due to bureaucratic requirements and moderation procedures, they had highly specific meanings which reduced them to a checklist. A student could know in advance what the checklist was and tick the boxes. They didn’t need to understand, analyse, or evaluate in the ordinary sense of those terms. Or at least not in terms of what would be expected by the canons of the discipline.  

Students were often aware of this. I’ve had several classes where I assigned an essay and got the response: “Sir, if I don’t write an intro and a conclusion, but just write X, Y, Z, will I still get an Achieved?” The honest answer, according to the requirements I had been told, was yes. What do the students do? They don’t bother learning to write an essay. They can Google the basic “facts” they need to meet the minimum standard. Do it, pass. They haven’t learned to write an essay, or research, or think critically. They’ve learned that they don’t have to. The most efficient path to success is to not do these things. They know the game.

This was exacerbated by a third feature of NCEA. When I was teaching it, a student could pass an entire course by doing two or three internal assessments early in the year. Once they had ticked the box and got an Achieved, they could tune out for the rest of the course. They could fail to show up for the exam and still get an Achieved. I had many students ask me: “Sir, if I don’t hand in X and Y or do the exam, I’ll still get an Achieved, right?” They were right. I saw large numbers of students pass subjects without ever successfully sitting an exam. They left with University Entrance.

The school I currently teach at has a dual pathway: NCEA and Cambridge. A few years ago, the leadership began assigning me fewer NCEA classes and more Cambridge ones. Here’s what I noticed.

First, students were much more concerned about learning the content. They knew that anything they learned might be in the examination—and they didn’t know which topics would be. Second, they were keenly aware of risk. They understood that if they failed the exam, that was it—they failed the year. They also knew I couldn’t give them a break; I wasn’t the examiner—Cambridge was. A re-sit might mean they would repeat another six months of work. It couldn’t be done for two days during my lunch hour.

Third, I discovered that appearances can be deceiving. While Cambridge had a huge amount of content, when it asked questions in the exam, it used terms like “discuss,” “describe,” and “explain.” These terms were not redefined in non-standard ways. The people marking the exams were subject specialists who knew what these terms meant, and the marking schedule reflected that. Students were assessed on things like “used relevant information,” “took into account various views,” and “some inaccurate information.” “detailed evidence” “technical precision”. They also had to write answers in essay form. Through the process of doing practice exams, students learned those skills. To prepare, they had to research a massive body of content and ask how they could put it into essay form—how to analyse and draw on relevant information. They weren’t just regurgitating facts; they were developing the requisite skills.

Fourth—and most disturbing—I noticed that every year I taught bright students with potential who told me they were going to transfer to NCEA because it was easier. They could get into university without doing an exam and could, with minimal stress, get an Excellence in every subject—often in the first half of the year. Even more pernicious, I encountered Māori and Pasifika students who told me that because of their race, they are “too dumb” for Cambridge. These students—often bright and full of potential—lack self-belief. Because of this, they doubt themselves, and they know they can get academic success without the risk, effort, or fear of failure. Every year, I try to talk students out of dropping out and switching to NCEA because “it’s easier to pass.”

Here I reflect on the irony of my first experience with NCEA. People were concerned about Māori and Pasifika fail rates. They were using NCEA to fix the problem. Large numbers were passing. The problem is—they were not being educated. We were defrauding society and the students themselves by declaring they were educated and certifying them as having skills they didn’t have. Academic skills are acquired through work, practice, and the risk of failure. Making errors is part of the process. It requires students to take ownership and responsibility for their learning. It cannot just be given for free by a teacher or from the ministry. These students were learning that they didn’t need any of that to pass. Someone else would just give them the results if they checked a box.  

So, when I heard the government was scrapping NCEA, my initial response was this: Goodbye NCEA. Farewell, get lost. Good riddance.

Cross-posted at kiwiblog

Is this limitation a problem for secular accounts of morality? I doubt that, too. If we demand this extreme kind of reason to be moral, then we are bound to be disappointed. The solution to our disappointment is to give up this demand, not to imagine a higher power that we want to fulfill an illegitimate demand. Besides, this limit on secular theories would be a problem only if the alternative religious account could provide a better reason to be moral. It can’t. That is what I will show in the next section.[1]

There are three ideas here. First is the claim that the failure to vindicate this assumption is a problem for secular theories only if religious theories can adequately vindicate it. Second is the claim that religious theories cannot vindicate this assumption. Third, he claims that the assumption itself cannot be adequately vindicated.

I want to focus on the last two of these claims.

Can religious theories adequately vindicate this assumption?

Sinnott-Armstrong argues that religious theories cannot adequately vindicate the thesis that agents always have decisive reasons to avoid wrongdoing. His argument involves two steps.

First, he argues that any adequate theory of moral requirements must not only vindicate the assumption that agents have reasons to do what is right, but that those reasons must be of the right kind—they cannot be arbitrary. He illustrates this point with two examples.

Imagine that “the King of Curls threatens to kill all of his subjects who do not shave their heads on May 21, though there is nothing special about that date.”[2] Do we have a reason to shave our heads? Yes—the threat of death gives us a reason to comply. However, this reason is arbitrary; it is based on naked force and bears no relation to the content of the command.

Similarly, a mother is trying to teach her son to stop hitting his sister. She can do this in two ways: she can convince him that harming his sister is wrong, or she can simply threaten him with punishment if he doesn’t comply. The second approach gives the son a reason not to hit his sister, but it is the wrong kind of reason—it is arbitrary, based on force, and doesn’t teach him to care about his sister.[3]

His second step is to argue that religious theories fail to provide the right kind of reasons for refraining from wrongdoing. They are arbitrary in the same way. His reasoning is as follows:

Divine threats of Hell or promises of Heaven operate in the same way. If our only reason to be moral is to avoid Hell or get to Heaven, then our motivation is far from ideal. Even a total psychopath, who cares about nobody else but believes in Hell, would have this reason to be moral. But this reason would not give the psychopath any reason for the content of the moral restrictions themselves. The psychopath would still see moral restrictions as just as arbitrary as a law requiring him to shave his head on May 21.[4]

The key premise here is that if God exists, the only reason we could have for following His commands would be to either get to Heaven or avoid Hell.

But why think this? Sinnott-Armstrong doesn’t say.

Earlier in the same chapter, he had rejected the idea that all interests are self-interested. He wrote: “Many reasons are not based on self-interest. That should be common ground between theists and [atheists].”[5] Later, he states:

The fact that an act prevents harm to another person can be a reason for me to do that act. The fact that an act causes harm to another person can be a reason for me not to do that act. These facts are reasons, even if the other people are strangers. Crucially, these reasons are not self-interesting. They are facts about the interests of other people, not me.[6]

So, Sinnott-Armstrong accepts that—even if theism is true—there can be non-selfish reasons for acting. But if that’s correct, why assume that the only reason an agent could have for obeying God is a selfish one? Why couldn’t agents also have non-selfish reasons to obey God?

Remember the theist whom Sinnott-Armstrong is criticising. This theist understands God to have certain attributes: God is all-powerful, all-knowing, essentially benevolent, and impartial. So what God commands is co-extensive with prescriptions that a benevolent, impartial person would endorse—if that person were fully informed and reasoning correctly. It is quite plausible that agents would have unselfish reasons to follow such prescriptions. In fact, it is hard to see how Armstrong can say that we have unselfish reasons to do acts that benefit others, but no unselfish reasons to obey prescriptions that are justified from a perspective that aims to benefit others.

Here we need to recall the challenge to secular ethics and how theism is purported to solve it. The challenge is this: Suppose we are not accountable to God. In that case, certain kinds of practical dilemmas will occur. Requirements that are justified from an impartial point of view—ones that promote the interests of others—will sometimes conflict with an agent’s long-term self-interest. Unselfish reasons will point one way, prudential reasons the other. If such dilemmas occur, we face a question: What reason is there to act unselfishly rather than in one’s self-interest? What reason do we have for always giving precedence to impartial demands in such cases?

It is the inability of secular ethics to address this question that is the alleged problem.

If we are accountable to God, this problem is avoided because such dilemmas never occur. Rewards and punishments change the balance of reasons for and against the act. However, they do so not by changing or negating the strength of the unselfish reasons against the act—they change the balance of prudential reasons in favour of the act. Because God is impartial and benevolent, we will still have the same kind of unselfish reasons—of the sort Sinnott-Armstrong refers to—to obey God’s commands. However, these reasons will never be matched or overridden by prudential demands to the contrary. Instead, prudential reasons will support and reinforce them.

Can the assumption be adequately vindicated?

Let’s turn to Sinnott-Armstrong’s second claim: that the thesis that agents always have decisive (all-things-considered) reasons to avoid wrongdoing cannot be adequately vindicated. He proposes the following dilemma:

Different audiences react to this point in different ways. Some people really want a reason to be moral that will motivate psychopaths, even if it is not connected to any reason why certain acts are immoral. They are rightly scared of psychopaths, so they want a reason that will convince psychopaths to be moral. Other people want a reason to be moral that does not leave morality arbitrary, because the reason to be moral shows why those moral acts are moral. They want a moral reason rather than a selfish reason. I share the latter goal, but I can appreciate the former wish. Unfortunately, I doubt that the former wish can be fulfilled. No reason will succeed in convincing everyone to be moral. This is another obvious but hard fact of life that we need to learn to live with.[7]

The proposed dilemma appears to be this: no meta-ethical theory can both vindicate the assumption that agents always have decisive reasons to refrain from wrongdoing and identify reasons of the correct type. If a meta-ethical theory entails that agents always have decisive reasons to be moral, the reasons it cites will be arbitrary or of the wrong kind. If we are to identify a fact that provides reasons for all people—including egoists and amoral individuals—it will need to appeal to something like self-interest; and self-interested reasons are the wrong kind of reason. By contrast, if a theory provides reasons of the right kind, it will fail to provide a reason strong enough or universal enough to ensure agents always have decisive reasons to be moral. The right kind of reasons are unselfish reasons, but these will not provide everyone—including egoists and psychopaths—with reasons to be moral, nor will they always be strong enough to override prudential or instrumental reasons to the contrary.

Here, I think Sinnott-Armstrong relies on a false dichotomy. He assumes a meta-ethical theory must either appeal to selfish reasons to be moral or to unselfish reasons. However, his interlocutor’s point is that this is a false choice. If a divine command theory is correct, then what is in our long-term interest and what is justified from an impartial point of view coincide. So we have both types of reason at the same time. They are never in conflict.

It is always in our interest to obey God and never in our interest to disobey—things such as eternal life are at stake. For this reason, there are strong self-interested reasons to be moral that are never overridden. These reasons provide even an egoist or a psychopath with reasons to comply.

Because God is impartial and benevolent, we also have very strong unselfish reasons to be moral. What God commands us to do is what a fully informed, rational, impartial, benevolent person would command. The commands He gives are prescriptions justified from a perspective that equally considers the interests of all. These are reasons of the right kind.

[1] Walter Sinnott Armstrong, Morality Without God 118

[2] Walter Sinnott Armstrong, Morality Without God 95 (ebook)

[3] Ibid, 96

[4] Ibid

[5] Ibid, 93

[6] Ibid, 94

[7] Ibid, 96

Walter Sinnott-Armstrong discusses the following objection:

“Harming others is sometimes in some people’s best interest, even considering probable costs. In those cases, some theists say that only a divine threat of Hell provides a reason to be moral. Since atheists and agnostics do not believe in God, they do not believe in divine retribution for sins, so they have to admit that sometimes some people could get away with immorality and then they have no self-interested reason to be moral. Does that mean that these people have no reason at all to be moral?”[1]

He responds to this argument as follows:

No. That conclusion would follow only if every reason had to be self-interested, selfish, or egoistic. There is no basis for that assumption. Many reasons are not based on self-interest. That should be common ground between theists and atheists… The fact that an act prevents harm to another person can be a reason for me to do that act. The fact that an act causes harm to another person can be a reason for me not to do that act. These facts are reasons, even if the other people are strangers. Crucially, these reasons are not self-interested. They are facts about the interests of other people, not me. These unselfish reasons can answer the question, “Why be moral?”[2]

Here, Sinnott-Armstrong makes three points. First, the argument in question assumes that “all reasons are selfish.” Second, this assumption is false—“it should be common ground between theists” that there are also “unselfish reasons,” based on the fact that certain acts harm others. Third, these “unselfish reasons” can answer the question: why be moral?

Do non-selfish reasons answer the question: “Why be moral?”

I discussed the first point in a previous post. In this post, I will discuss the third: do the non-selfish reasons he appeals to answer the question “Why be moral?”

In my previous post, I noted that the question “Why be moral?” can be understood in two ways. Armstrong’s interlocutor could be asking:

(a) whether, in the given circumstances, we have a pro tanto reason to refrain from harm; or
(b) whether, in those circumstances, we have decisive reasons not to harm.

I also pointed out that interpreting the question in terms of (a) is idiosyncratic. The way the question is commonly used—and the most plausible understanding of it—is in terms of (b).

Whether an appeal to unselfish reasons answers the question “Why be moral?” depends on how you interpret the question. If we interpret it in terms of (a), then the fact that an action harms another person would answer the question. Sinnott-Armstrong’s hypothesis is that the property of being morally wrong is constituted by the property of harming another person. Suppose the fact that an action harms another person provides a pro tanto reason not to do that action—in that case, we have a pro tanto reason not to do what is wrong.

The problem is that this is an extremely weak and idiosyncratic rendition of the skeptical challenge. As Mark Murphy points out:

It would be helpful if Sinnott-Armstrong had named an opponent here who thought that this was the real challenge for the nontheistic ethicist. The worry is not characteristically expressed by theistic ethicists in terms of whether there is any reason to do what is morally right in the absence of God; the worry is characteristically expressed in terms of whether there could be overriding, or decisive, reason to do what is all-things-considered morally required.[3]

In my last post, I pointed out that in his writings on moral skepticism, Sinnott-Armstrong himself has noted that the “Why be moral?” question is not normally understood in terms of whether there is “sometimes some kind of reason to be moral.” Instead:

“A more plausible and common version of practical moral skepticism denies, instead, that there is always an adequate (or non-overridden) reason to do what is morally required.”[4]

If we interpret the question in terms of (b), Sinnott-Armstrong’s appeal to the fact that an action “harms” another person does not answer the question “Why be moral?” His interlocutor argues that if a secular meta-ethical theory is true, then certain kinds of practical dilemmas will occur. What is prudentially required will be an act that harms others. We will therefore have self-interested or prudential reasons to do the act, and unselfish reasons not to do it. If such dilemmas occur, we face a question: What reason is there to act unselfishly rather than in one’s self-interest? What reason do we have for always giving precedence to impartial demands in such cases?

Murphy explains:

“The worry is that there are different kinds of reason that can pull in different directions, and it is not obvious that there is any practical error in choosing against a more impartial point of view by going with the more partial point of view.”[5]

If I face a dilemma between two options—doing an act that harms others or doing an act that is contrary to my own interest—pointing out that one option involves harming others doesn’t solve the dilemma. What we need is some reason for always treating the impartially based demands as having precedence. Sinnott-Armstrong provides no such reason. In fact, later in the chapter, he is candid that he cannot give any such reason. He writes:

The fact that an act causes harm to others is a reason not to do that act, and the fact that an act prevents harm to others is a reason to do that act. There is, then, always a reason to be moral on this secular account. And often these reasons are adequate, because they are strong enough to make it rational (or not irrational) to be moral….
Nonetheless, some people still wish for a reason that is strong enough to motivate everyone to be moral and also to make it always irrational to be immoral. I doubt that secular moral theories can establish that strong kind of reason to be moral. For people who really do not care about others, the solution is found in retraining or restraining rather than in theory. (emphasis mine)[6]

Note what is being said here: Armstrong is saying that if the best secular accounts of morality are true, agents do not always have all-things-considered reasons to do what is morally right. Sometimes they will, and sometimes they will not. In these latter cases, people will have adequate—and possibly even conclusive—all-things-considered reasons to violate moral norms. The solution to this is an appeal to naked force. What we need to do is force these people to act in ways that they have sufficient or decisive reasons not to act.

This seems an inadequate answer. Consider the following analogy: critics of monotheistic religions like Christianity, Judaism, or Islam often ask, “What reason do I have to adopt your religion?” This is not a question of belief but of action. Adopting a religion involves living a certain way. Skeptics ask: What reasons do I have to commit to faithfully following what you take to be God’s commands, especially when doing so often goes against my aims or interests?

Imagine a theist responded to this as follows: “You don’t have compelling reasons to do this. In fact, you have good reason not to do this. The balance of reasons does not support such a commitment and may in fact be against it. However, if you don’t convert, I will persecute you.” Would any religious skeptic think their concerns had been answered?

In the same way, I suggest that no one who was not already committed to secular morality would find Sinnott-Armstrong’s response here adequate.

Later, Armstrong offers a different answer:

Is this limitation a problem for secular accounts of morality? I doubt that, too. If we demand this extreme kind of reason to be moral, then we are bound to be disappointed. The solution to our disappointment is to give up this demand, not to imagine a higher power that we want to fulfill an illegitimate demand. Besides, this limit on secular theories would be a problem only if the alternative religious account could provide a better reason to be moral. It can’t. That is what I will show in the next section.[7]

Here, Sinnott-Armstrong’s position appears to be twofold:

First, the fact that a secular theory cannot answer the question “Why be moral?” is only a problem if religious theories can answer that question adequately. If they cannot, then this is a problem for all theories—and hence not a reason to favour one over another.

Second, he claims that a religious theory cannot answer this question either. In fact, he seems to think no theory can. The appropriate response, he suggests, is to give up the demand.

In a future post, I will examine Sinnott-Armstrong’s reasons for these two claims. I will argue that they fail.

[1] Walter Sinnott Armstrong, Morality Without God (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). 114

[2] Walter Sinnott Armstrong, Morality Without God 117

[3] Mark Murphy’s, Morality Without God, available at https://ndpr.nd.edu/reviews/morality-s-without-god-s/ accessed 28 August 2025

[4] Walter Sinnott Armstrong, Practical Moral Skepticism, available at https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/skepticism-moral/supplement.html accessed 28 August 2025

[5] Mark Murphy’s, Morality Without God, available at https://ndpr.nd.edu/reviews/morality-s-without-god-s/ accessed 28 August 2025

[6] Walter Sinnott Armstrong, Morality Without God 117-118

[7] Walter Sinnott Armstrong, Morality Without God 118