συγκεράννυμι
to commingle, i.e. (figuratively) to combine or assimilate
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to commingle, i.e. (figuratively) to combine or assimilate
συγκεράννυμι(synkeránnymi)
Strong’s Definition
to commingle, i.e. (figuratively) to combine or assimilate
from G4862 (σύν) and G2767 (κεράννυμι);
“For our comely parts have no need: but God hath tempered the body together, having given more abundant honour to that part which lacked:”
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The Wine That Remembers Its Grapes
Three times only does this sacred verb appear in the New Testament, yet each occurrence carries the weight of a world being remade. The Greek word synkeránnymi — to mingle, to blend, to temper together — speaks of a mixing so complete that the separate elements can no longer be distinguished, yet each contributes its essence to the whole. When the Holy One mingles, He does not destroy what He joins; He elevates it. The first appearance of this word in the apostolic writings comes from the pen of Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians, where he speaks of the body of Messiah — not as a collection of separate limbs, but as a single fabric woven by the divine Weaver. Here is no mere metaphor, but a mystery: the God who created heaven and earth is also the God who blends His children into one living offering.
The Art of Divine Mixture
In the Greek world before the apostles, keránnymi described the careful blending of wine with water — a practice so common that the one who mixed was called the krater, the cup-bearer who knew the proper proportions. But when the apostolic writers take up this word, they pour into it the weight of Hebrew covenant theology. The prefix syn — meaning "together with" — transforms a simple mixing into a union of purpose. The sages of old taught that when God created Adam, He gathered dust from the four corners of the earth, blending them together so that no land could boast, "This one is mine alone." So too does the Messiah blend His people: not erasing their distinctness, but binding them into a single vessel fit for the Spirit's indwelling. The Septuagint translators used this same Greek word to render the Hebrew masakh — the mixing of the holy anointing oil in Exodus 30, where myrrh, cinnamon, and cassia were blended with olive oil, each fragrance losing itself in the service of the one sacred scent.
The Aorist of Heaven's Action
The grammatical form of this verb in its most crucial New Testament occurrence reveals the nature of divine action. In 1 Corinthians 12:24, Paul writes in the aorist tense: "God blended together the body." The aorist in Greek does not simply point to past time — it captures a completed action, a definitive act of the Creator. This is not a process that humanity manages; it is a decree from the throne. The passive voice here is equally significant: the body does not blend itself. The members do not negotiate their unity. The Lord Himself, the Master of the wine cellar, pours one member into another, tempering the strong with the weak, the honored with the less honorable. The rabbis of old observed that in the Tabernacle, the gold and the acacia wood were joined so intimately that no eye could see where one ended and the other began. So it is with the assembly of the faithful: the Holy One has performed a work so complete that what was many has become one living sanctuary.
The Wine of Pentecost and the Cup of the New Covenant
When the Spirit fell at Pentecost, the onlookers could not understand the blending that had taken place. "They are full of sweet wine," the mockers said — and in their mockery, they spoke a truth they did not grasp. For the Spirit had taken the tongues of Parthians, Medes, and Elamites and mingled them into a single proclamation of the mighty works of God. This is synkeránnymi made visible: not the confusion of Babel, but the healing of division. The early church understood that this blending was not merely a miracle of language but a foretaste of the age to come. In the letter to the Hebrews, the writer speaks of the blood of Christ that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel — and this blood, mingled with the water that flowed from the pierced side of Yeshua, becomes the cup of the new covenant. The apostolic tradition teaches that when we drink from that cup, we are not merely remembering; we are being remixed into the body of the One who gave Himself for us.
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The Paradox of Paul's Blended Body
No apostolic writer uses this verb more powerfully than Paul, and he reserves it for the most scandalous of truths: that Jew and Gentile have been blended into one new humanity. In his letter to the Ephesians, though the verb itself does not appear there, the reality it describes pulses through every verse. The dividing wall of hostility has been dismantled, and the two have been made one. The Greek philosophical categories of physis (nature) and nomos (law) are here transformed: what nature divided and law separated, the Messiah has mingled. The fathers of the early church saw in this blending the fulfillment of the prophet Isaiah's vision — the wolf dwelling with the lamb, the leopard lying down with the kid. But Paul goes further: he insists that this blending is not a future hope but a present reality. The body already is one, because the Head has already performed the mixing. The task of the believer is not to create unity but to confess the unity that already exists in the Messiah.
The LXX Bridge: From Masakh to Synkeránnymi
The Septuagint offers a profound window into the Hebrew soul of this Greek word. When the translators rendered the Hebrew verb masakh (to mix, to pour out a libation) with synkeránnymi, they were building a bridge between the altar of Israel and the table of the Lord. In Proverbs 9:2, Wisdom has "mixed her wine" — the same Greek verb — and set her table, calling the simple to come and eat. The Hebrew masakh carries the sense of pouring out as an offering, a libation that is both sacrifice and celebration. When Paul tells the Philippians that he is being poured out as a drink offering upon the sacrifice of their faith, he uses the related noun spondé — but the blending implied is the same: the life of the apostle mingled with the faith of the congregation, both rising as a single fragrance before the throne. The rabbis of old taught that the wine offering in the Temple was not merely poured out but was blended with oil and salt, each element contributing to the whole. So too the life of the believer: your tears, your prayers, your labor — all are mingled by the High Priest into a single offering pleasing to the Father.
Yeshua, the Master Blender
The Messiah Himself performs this verb in a moment of profound significance. In the Gospel of Mark, when Yeshua takes the cup and gives thanks, He speaks of the blood of the covenant "poured out for many." But the Synoptic tradition records that He did not drink of the fruit of the vine until that day when He would drink it new in the kingdom of God. This is the ultimate synkeránnymi: the divine nature and human nature blended in a single person, the Creator and the creature united in the womb of Miriam. The early church fathers saw in this union the pattern for all blending: just as the wine and water in the cup become one drink, so the divine and human in Christ become one person. The apostolic witness insists that this is not a mixing that confuses the natures but a union that preserves each while creating something new. When Yeshua ascended to the right hand of the Father, He did not shed His humanity; He brought it into the Godhead, mingling our nature with His glory. And from that throne, He continues to blend: Jew and Greek, slave and free, male and female — all are being tempered together into a single temple for the Spirit's dwelling.
Your Place in the Blending
You have been taken up into this divine mixture. The Holy One has not left you separate, isolated, a single grape untouched by the press. You are being mingled — not by your striving, but by the gentle hand of the Master Vintner. He knows the exact proportion of your gifts and your weaknesses, your joys and your sorrows, and He blends you with others who seem nothing like you. When the cup is poured, you cannot tell where your life ends and your brother's begins. This is not the loss of your identity; it is the discovery of your true self. The wine does not mourn the grape it once was — it rejoices in the joy it now brings. So come to the table. Take the cup. Let the Spirit mingle you with the Body until you can say with Paul: "It is no longer I who live, but Messiah lives in me." The mixing is already complete. Now live as what you have become.