Imagine a king presiding over a nation steeped in a centuries-old religion, its traditions woven into the very fabric of society. Suddenly, a foreigner arrives, bearing sermons of a new faith—one he claims surpasses the old. In what language should this stranger speak to convince not only the people but also the king and the priests to abandon their ancient beliefs and embrace this new religion? The answer hinges on a fundamental truth: for such a delicate and profound transformation to occur in a short time, the foreigner must speak the native language of the people—talentedly and with inspiration—ensuring that every subtlety of his message resonates deeply. A foreign tongue, incomprehensible to the locals, would doom his mission to failure. Even speaking through an interpreter would dilute the power of his words, rendering his chances of success slim at best. Only by speaking the language of the land, in a manner that stirs the heart and mind, can he hope to upend centuries of tradition.
This brings us to a pivotal question in the history of early Christianity: in what languages did the apostles preach as they traveled the world to spread the teachings of Jesus Christ? Did they speak Greek in the far reaches of Britain? Latin in the eastern provinces? Aramaic in the northern lands? Such notions strain credulity. The apostles were not polyglots; they were simple men, fishermen and laborers from Galilee, a region known in ancient times as Canaan, or Ha Nana, encompassing parts of modern Lebanon (Lubnan) and the Jezreel and Jordan Valleys. Galilee was the land of the local Iberians—referred to as Hebrews in historical texts—who, as the Between Two Iberias project argues, likely spoke a language of the Kartvelian family with a high degree of probability.
For centuries, it was assumed that Jesus—more accurately Iesa, as his name would have been in his native tongue—spoke Aramaic, with recent scholarship shifting toward Hebrew. Yet, the similarities between Hebrew and Kartvelian languages are striking and demand further exploration. Consider the personifying prefix me- and the infinitive prefix li-, both of which appear in Svan, a Kartvelian language, and echo structures in Hebrew. While a large-scale study is still needed to fully substantiate these connections, the historical context of Galilee offers compelling clues. Often labeled “non-Jews” in contrast to the Jews of Judea, the Galileans were likely Hebrews in the truest sense—Iberians of the north, distinct from their southern neighbors. The name Hebrew itself contains the root iber/ibar, a clear linguistic tie to the Kartvelian Iberia, suggesting a shared cultural and linguistic heritage.
If the apostles hailed from a Kartvelian-speaking Galilee, their ability to preach successfully across the ancient world takes on a new dimension. They did not need to be polyglots, for they spoke a language—or one closely related—that was understood wherever they went. The Kartvelian family, as Ivantsov’s research has shown, was a linguistic bedrock of the ancient world, its roots stretching across continents. From the Mediterranean to the British Isles, the apostles likely found communities who shared their native tongue or a dialect near enough to comprehend their message. This linguistic unity enabled them to convey the subtleties of their new faith with clarity and passion, converting entire populations without the barriers of translation.
A profound example of this Kartvelian lens emerges in the words attributed to Jesus on the cross: “Eli, eli, lama sabachthani,” traditionally interpreted from Aramaic or Hebrew as “God, why have you forsaken me?” This translation, however, feels forced, and a Kartvelian perspective offers a fresh interpretation. In the Georgian version, as recorded in the Chanturia dictionary, the phrase appears as “elli elli elmana sabaktani” (ელლი ელლი ელმანა საბაქტანი). The word lama, often loosely interpreted, transforms into elmana, while sabachthani or savakhtani aligns with Kartvelian grammatical structures: sa + root + an, a common adjectival form. Notably, the Georgian word savakhto (“patrol”), derived from vahti (“watch”), suggests a possible root, though whether vahta is native or borrowed remains unclear. More intriguing is the word elli, traditionally translated as “God.” This root resonates across languages: it connects to the Hebrew elohim (“gods”), the Arabic allah, and even the self-designation of the Hellenes, who saw themselves as “divine” (though curiously, in Georgian, ellini means “pagan”).
Delving deeper into Kartvelian etymology, we find the root eli embedded in words like elva (ელვა), meaning “lightning,” and eloba (ელობა), meaning “bright radiance” or even “electricity.” Structurally, elva appears as a masdar (a verbal noun) derived from eli, suggesting “manifestation of a deity”—a fitting interpretation, as lightning was undoubtedly seen as a divine sign in ancient times. Similarly, eloba carries a divine connotation, its “radiance” evoking the celestial. While ancient languages like Akkadian and Urartian also claim eli as “god,” these are of less interest to us, as their reconstructions often border on conjecture. The Kartvelian languages, by contrast, are a living tradition, their roots traceable through dictionaries and oral history, offering a more reliable foundation for such etymological inquiries.
So, Jesus did not ask his father why he abandoned him. The meaning of Jesus' last words was different.
The conclusion of this exploration is both bold and illuminating: Iesa and his apostles were likely Kartvelians, speaking a language of the Kartvelian family that was understood across the ancient world because Kartvelian-speaking communities—or those with closely related dialects—were ubiquitous. From Galilee to the farthest reaches of their missionary journeys, the apostles found receptive audiences who shared their linguistic heritage, enabling the rapid and profound spread of Christianity. This Kartvelian lens not only redefines our understanding of early Christian history but also underscores the global reach of the Kartvelian family, a linguistic thread that wove together the ancient world in ways we are only beginning to comprehend.
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