Eisegesis vs. Exegesis

The distinction

These two Greek-derived terms name opposite directions of interpretation. Exegesis (from exēgeomai, "to lead out") means drawing the meaning out of the text — letting the author's words, grammar, and context determine what is being said. Eisegesis (from eisēgeomai, "to lead in") means importing meaning into the text — arriving with a conclusion and finding it in the words, whether or not the author intended it.

Every reader does both, at least some of the time. The goal is not to achieve perfect objectivity — that is impossible for any human being — but to become aware of when you are doing which. Self-awareness is the first step toward honest reading.

Why it matters for Christology

The question of who Jesus is — and what the New Testament authors believed about him — is one where pre-existing convictions run deep. Most readers approach the texts already holding a position, often one received in childhood, reinforced in worship, and defended by the community they belong to. This is not a criticism; it is simply the human condition.

But it means that the risk of eisegesis is especially high in this area. When a text can plausibly be read in more than one way, it is natural to default to the reading that confirms what you already think. The discipline of exegesis asks you to resist that impulse — at least long enough to seriously consider whether the text might be saying something different from what you expect.

How to spot eisegesis

There are several warning signs that a reading may be importing more than the text supplies. None of these is proof of eisegesis on its own, but when several appear together, it is worth pausing.

Worked example: Isaiah 9:6 — "Mighty God, Everlasting Father"

Isaiah 9:6 reads: "For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace."

The Trinitarian reading, common in much of Christian tradition, takes "Mighty God" (El Gibbor) and "Everlasting Father" (Avi Ad) as evidence that the child born will himself be divine — indeed, the second person of the Trinity. The names, on this reading, are straightforward descriptions of who the child is.

But exegesis presses harder. A few things to examine:

1. The ancient Near Eastern throne-name convention. In the ancient Near East, royal throne names were commonly hyperbolic and symbolic — a new king might receive an elaborate set of titles at coronation expressing the hopes and expectations invested in his reign. Egyptian pharaohs routinely received five-part throne names. The context of Isaiah 9 is the birth (or enthronement) of a Davidic king, and the five titles here may function as a single throne-name expressing the character of his reign, not a literal ontological description. "Everlasting Father" would be an odd title for the eternal second person of the Trinity (who is the Son, not the Father) unless the phrase means something else — perhaps "father of eternity" in the sense of "guarantor of an enduring age."

2. The Hebrew El Gibbor elsewhere in Isaiah. The same phrase (El Gibbor) appears in Isaiah 10:21, applied to YHWH himself: "a remnant will return to the Mighty God." This is clearly the God of Israel. Does its use for the Davidic king in Isaiah 9:6 therefore mean the king is YHWH — or is the title used to describe the king as one through whom divine power and protection will come to the people? How the author uses a phrase elsewhere is always relevant to what he means by it.

3. The LXX (Greek Septuagint) translation. The LXX renders the verse differently — "Great Counsel's Angel" rather than "Mighty God" — suggesting that early Jewish translators did not read the verse as identifying the child with God himself. This is not decisive (the LXX may reflect a different Hebrew tradition or interpretive choice), but it is evidence that the Trinitarian reading was not the only or obvious one in antiquity.

What eisegesis looks like here: The eisegetical move is arriving at the text already knowing that it refers to Jesus and that Jesus is God, and reading "Mighty God" as confirmation of a pre-existing conclusion. The exegetical move is asking what these titles would have meant to an 8th-century BCE Judean writer and his original audience — before the New Testament, before the Trinitarian debates, before Christian interpretation shaped how we hear the words.

The Trinitarian response: Trinitarian scholars do not simply ignore the original context. Many argue that Isaiah regularly employs language that — in hindsight, through the lens of the NT — points beyond what any Davidic king could fulfil. The child described in Isaiah 9 is to bring in everlasting peace (v. 7), bear the government of God's kingdom forever. No historical king of Judah did that. This suggests Isaiah may be reaching for something beyond a merely human king — and that the "later" reading (Jesus as divine) may be the fulfilment the prophet, perhaps unknowingly, was describing. This is a coherent position; whether it is exegesis or something else (typological reading? progressive revelation?) is a legitimate methodological question.

Notice: this analysis doesn't settle the question. It shows what the question actually is — and how differently it looks when you start from the text rather than from a conclusion.

Worked example: John 10:30

"I and the Father are one." This verse is frequently cited as proof that Jesus claimed to be God. But exegesis requires us to read what follows. In John 17:21–22, Jesus prays that his disciples may be one "just as" he and the Father are one — using the same Greek word (hen). If "one" means ontological identity in 10:30, it must mean the same in 17:21–22. But no one argues that the disciples become ontologically identical to God.

Exegesis notices this parallel and asks what kind of "oneness" fits both uses. Eisegesis cites 10:30 and stops.

Worked example: John 20:28 — BU eisegesis

Eisegesis is not limited to Trinitarian readings. A Biblical Unitarian reader who encounters Thomas's declaration — "My Lord and my God!" (ho kyrios mou kai ho theos mou, John 20:28) — and dismisses it as "merely an exclamation of surprise," akin to someone saying "Oh my God!" in shock, is committing eisegesis just as surely as any Trinitarian who overreads a proof-text.

The eisegetical move is importing the modern idiom of a shocked exclamation and projecting it onto a 1st-century Jewish writer's carefully constructed narrative climax. What the text actually says is grammatically precise: ho theos mou is articular — "the God of me" — and the phrase is introduced with eipen autō ("he said to him"), making it a direct address to Jesus, not an exclamation directed at the ceiling.

A careful exegete — of any persuasion — would need to engage with the literary function of the declaration within John's Gospel. It is the final and climactic confession of the narrative, answering the purpose statement two verses later (20:31) and fulfilling the Prologue's opening claim that the Logos was theos (1:1c). A BU reader may ultimately interpret Thomas's words within an agency or representative framework — but dismissing the grammar and the narrative structure without engaging them is eisegesis, not exegesis.

A discipline, not a side

Eisegesis is not a problem unique to any one theological position. Trinitarians can eisegete. Unitarians can eisegete. Anyone with convictions can — and regularly does — read those convictions into the text. The point is not to identify eisegesis only in people you disagree with. The point is to catch yourself doing it.

Exegesis is a discipline, not a destination. You do not arrive at exegesis and stay there. You practise it — one passage, one question, one honest reading at a time.