Tag: christianity

  • Smoke, Sheets, and the Spectacle of Faith

    Smoke, Sheets, and the Spectacle of Faith

    This morning, I was deep in the ritual of pre-cleaning for the cleaning ladies. Yes, the Marías—both of them named Maria, as if summoned from a 1960s sitcom or a Vatican registry. I was stripping beds, scrubbing dishes, and hoisting laundry baskets like I was auditioning for a domestic CrossFit competition. Because as every self-deluded homeowner knows: your house must be cleaned before the cleaners arrive, lest they judge you and your sloth.

    In the background, Larry Mantle’s AirTalk droned dutifully on LAist 89.3. Then, mid-sentence, the broadcast was interrupted—an old-school news bulletin, the kind that makes you expect a war or a celebrity scandal. But no. Something rarer: a new pope had been chosen. The signal? White smoke rising from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel.

    I had never heard of this protocol before. My first thought? Not theology. Not history. But the shared aesthetic DNA between this and the Golden Globes. The Oscars. The artificial wonder of Peter Pan’s Flight at Disneyland. If you want transcendence, baby, you’d better stage it.

    The Catholic Church, whatever its flaws, understands showmanship. They know airtight theological arguments are no match for spectacle. You don’t capture the masses with hermeneutics—you hook them with enchantment. Thus: white smoke. Bells. Angels singing in Dolby surround. The Vatican doesn’t inform you a pope’s been picked. They stage it like a cosmic halftime show.

    Religion, in its enduring wisdom, knows austerity is a losing brand. Dry dogma doesn’t sell. You need magic. Mystery. A sense that the universe has backstage lighting and a fog machine.

    Because man does not live on bread alone.

    No, man also lives on bells, incense, pageantry, and the theatrical flourish of divine appointment announced via rooftop smoke signals. What’s the metaphysical takeaway? That God, like Hollywood, knows how to build suspense.

  • Satan Wears Patek: The Couture Demons of Network TV

    Satan Wears Patek: The Couture Demons of Network TV

    After dinner, my wife and I collapsed onto the couch like two satiated lions, still riding the sugar high from a slice of chocolate cake so transcendent it could’ve been smuggled out of a Vatican vault. This wasn’t just dessert—it was a spiritual experience. Fudgy, rich, and topped with a ganache that whispered blasphemies in French, it left us in a state of chocolaty euphoria. And what better way to follow up divine confectionery than with a show called Evil—which, in tone and content, felt like dessert’s opposite number.

    Evil, for the uninitiated, is what happens when The X-Files and The Exorcist have a baby and then dress it in Prada. Our hero is David Acosta, a priest so genetically gifted he looks like he was sculpted during an abs day in Michelangelo’s studio. He partners with Kristen Bouchard, a forensic psychologist with both supermodel cheekbones and a Rolodex of PhDs, and Ben Shakir, a tech bro turned ghostbuster, who handles the EMF detectors and keeps the Wi-Fi strong enough to livestream from hell. Together, they investigate cases of alleged possession, miracles, and demonic mischief—all lurking, naturally, in two-story suburban homes with open-concept kitchens.

    What really juices the narrative is the will-they-won’t-they tension between Kristen and Father Abs. Their chemistry crackles with forbidden longing, as if every exorcism could end in a kiss—had David not taken a vow of celibacy (and the producers not wanted to nuke the Catholic viewership). It’s less faith versus science and more eye contact versus self-control.

    And then there’s Leland Townsend, the show’s resident demon in Dockers. He’s less Prince of Darkness and more Assistant Manager of Darkness—slick, smug, and oily enough to deep-fry a turkey. He slinks into scenes oozing unearned confidence and pathological glee, like Satan’s regional sales director. You can practically smell the Axe body spray of evil.

    Let’s pause here for fashion. The wardrobe department on Evil deserves an Emmy, a Pulitzer, and possibly a fragrance line. Everyone’s rocking cinematic outerwear that belongs in the Louvre. Kristen’s coats are so tailored they could cut glass. Acosta’s wrist is adorned with a Patek Philippe that suggests his vows may include poverty of the soul, but not of the Swiss variety. Honestly, the outfits are so distracting you half expect Satan to comment on the stitching.

    In one late-night scene, Kristen’s daughters are using ghost-detecting iPad apps at 3 a.m., their faces bathed in eerie blue light. It’s a chilling tableau of children, tech, and probable demonic activity—basically a 2024 parenting blog. Just as the show was about to unravel the mystery, my wife hit pause and delivered a horror story of her own: teachers using AI to grade papers with personalized comments. Comments so perfectly tailored they could bring a tear to a parent’s eye—and yet, no human had written them.

    “What’s the point of teachers anymore?” she asked, already knowing the answer. I nodded solemnly, watching the paused image of Father David, his coat pristine, his watch immaculate. I had neither. And I live in Los Angeles, where “winter” is defined as turning off the ceiling fan.

    But something in that moment shifted. The show wasn’t just mocking the digital devil—it was embodying him. That wristwatch mocked me. The coat judged me. I wasn’t watching Evil; I was being possessed by it. By envy, by consumer lust, by the creeping suspicion that maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t living my best, most stylized demon-fighting life.

    It’s not the show’s demons that haunt me. It’s their wardrobe.

  • If Paul Feuded with His Rival Apostles on Watch What Happens Live with Andy Cohen

    If Paul Feuded with His Rival Apostles on Watch What Happens Live with Andy Cohen

    Title: The Real Apostles of Jerusalem: Pentecost and Pettiness on Bravo

    [INT. Watch What Happens Live with Andy Cohen – The studio is lit like a Roman bathhouse crossed with a New York tiki bar. Andy Cohen sits gleaming between a grimacing Paul the Apostle, in an impeccably tailored robe with Roman stitching, and Peter, who looks like he’d rather be crucified upside-down again than share a couch with Paul. To the left, Bartholomew checks his cuticles while James the Lesser sips merlot like it’s judgment day.]

    ANDY COHEN
    Welcome back to Watch What Happens Live! We are blessed tonight—literally. It’s an apostolic showdown, honey. On my left, we have Peter, James, John, and the boys from Galilee. And to my right, the man who insists he’s also a real apostle—Paul of Tarsus!

    PAUL (tight smile)
    I’m not just a real apostle, Andy. I’m the apostle to the Gentiles. I practically invented the church. And yet I’m never invited to the literary salons in Antioch, never quoted at theology brunches. I wrote thirteen letters—some of which people still read. Unlike certain fishermen whose only contribution was foot-in-mouth disease.

    PETER (fuming)
    Oh give me a break, Saul—I mean Paul. You show up years after the resurrection, claim you saw a “light,” and suddenly you’re the CEO of Jesus, Inc.? The rest of us actually knew the man. We walked with Him. We ate with Him. We heard Him snore. You had a seizure on a donkey and decided you’re the oracle of salvation.

    JAMES THE LESSER (leaning in)
    Let’s be real. If Paul had a PR team any better, he’d be trending on Messianic TikTok. The man has a scroll drop every month. “To the Galatians,” “To the Ephesians,” “To My Haters.” Please.

    ANDY COHEN
    Wow, okay! So Peter, what’s your biggest gripe with Paul?

    PETER
    He’s always subtweeting us in his epistles! “Even if an angel preaches a different gospel, let him be accursed.” Oh gee, I wonder who he meant. Then he throws in a “those who seemed to be something meant nothing to me.” That’s me, Andy! He means me! I was the rock! Now I’m a footnote?

    JOHN (muttering)
    I wrote a whole gospel and he still called me “pillar adjacent.”

    PAUL (exploding)
    You accuse me of ambition, but I suffered for this calling. I was shipwrecked! Imprisoned! Bitten by snakes! You lot had fish and loaves—I had near-death experiences and unpaid missionary tours! If I boast, I boast in the Lord. And maybe also a little in my rhetorical genius.

    BARTHOLOMEW (finally speaking)
    He called himself the least of the apostles and then made himself the brand.

    PAUL
    The Spirit speaks through me!

    PETER
    The Spirit told you to call me a hypocrite in front of the Galatians?

    PAUL
    If the sandal fits.

    ANDY COHEN (grinning like a man feeding Christians to lions)
    Oof! Okay, we are flaming tonight—like the bush, not the brunch. Final thoughts? Can we bury the hatchet like it’s buried at Golgotha?

    PETER (snatching his wine glass)
    Sure. I’ll bury it right here.

    Peter hurls the wine in Paul’s face. The studio erupts. Paul stands, soaked and fuming, quoting 2 Corinthians about his sufferings while John rolls his eyes and checks his scroll for quotes about loving one another.

    ANDY COHEN (gleeful)
    Okay, that’s the gospel according to Bravo! Next week: Mary Magdalene claps back at Judas in The Real Disciples: Women Tell All! Goodnight, everybody!

    [Cue the theme song: “Turn the Other Cheek (Remix)” by DJ Pontius Pilate.]

  • If Blaise Pascal Listened to 10cc’s “I’m Not in Love”

    If Blaise Pascal Listened to 10cc’s “I’m Not in Love”

    If Blaise Pascal listened to 10cc’s “I’m Not in Love”—that haunting anthem of denial, repression, and the unbearable weight of vulnerability—he would recognize a soul attempting to cloak longing in irony, and failing beautifully. Pascal might scribble in his notebook, pen dipped in both skepticism and sorrow:


    1.
    Man denies love not because he is free from it, but because he is enslaved by it. The louder he insists he feels nothing, the more we hear the tremor of devotion in his voice. “I’m not in love” is merely a liturgy of protest against the heart’s verdict.


    2.
    He removes her picture—not to forget her, but to stop trembling at the sight of it. In doing so, he seeks mastery over his affections by performing indifference. But emotion, like God, does not vanish because man has ceased to name it.


    3.
    He insists: “It’s just a silly phase.” But only those who are drowning need to rename the water. The one who plays casual most often suffers the deepest cut, for pride clutches at dignity even as the soul dissolves in yearning.


    4.
    We would rather say, “I don’t care,” than risk the shame of caring too much. Man arms himself with detachment the way cowards wear armor—not to protect the heart, but to avoid ever using it.


    5.
    Every word he utters is a mask stitched by fear. He cannot love openly, for he believes vulnerability is weakness. And yet, in avoiding weakness, he becomes truly pathetic—a captive of what he dares not name.


    6.
    To say “don’t think you’ve won” is to reveal that one has already lost. The war is over. The heart surrendered in the second verse. Only the mind marches on, planting flags on a battlefield already buried in flowers.


    7.
    There is no cruelty greater than pretending not to feel. It is a lie told to oneself in the presence of truth. Love, when denied, becomes not less real—but more dangerous, like a flame hidden under dry cloth. It will burn eventually.

  • If Blaise Pascal Had Listened to “Deacon Blues”

    If Blaise Pascal Had Listened to “Deacon Blues”

    If Blaise Pascal had listened to Deacon Blues by Steely Dan—a song about the seductive dignity of failure, self-invention, and the strange glory of obscurity—he might have jotted down a set of Pensées to dissect the Deacon Blues persona.


    1.
    Man prefers to be a broken genius than an obedient saint. The dream of ruin, if it is romantic enough, intoxicates him more than the dull clarity of success. He calls this rebellion, but it is merely another form of vanity—failure dressed in excessive self-regard.


    2.
    He who calls himself “Deacon Blues” chooses a name of ironic grandeur. He does not wish to be great, but to appear profound in his brokenness. This too is a form of ambition—narcissism inverted and dipped in bourbon.


    3.
    The world offers two false promises: the applause of others and the nobility of being misunderstood. Deacon Blues seeks the latter, not because it is better, but because it hurts less to fail on one’s own terms than to succeed on another’s.


    4.
    To live in the margins and call it freedom—this is man’s trick. He flees from the burden of excellence and cloaks his retreat in poetry. But exile, chosen for aesthetic reasons, is still a form of cowardice.


    5.
    He dreams of learning to work the saxophone, not to make music, but to be seen as one who has suffered for his art. In this, he is like those who wish to be martyrs, not for truth, but for drama.


    6.
    “Drink Scotch whisky all night long and die behind the wheel.” Thus he crowns his life not with virtue, but with stylized destruction. He does not want to be saved—only to be mourned beautifully.


    7.
    Deacon Blues wants a name, not a self. He believes identity is a lyric he can write into being. But names do not change the soul, only the soundtrack to its delusions.

  • Will the Real Jesus Please Stand Up? Elaine Pagels and the Search for a Transformative Truth

    Will the Real Jesus Please Stand Up? Elaine Pagels and the Search for a Transformative Truth

    In Miracles and Wonder: The Historical Mystery of Jesus, Elaine Pagels—now in her eighties—recounts her lifelong obsession with the figure of Jesus, not as a doctrine, but as a presence: a message of love and transformation in a world saturated with darkness. From a young age, she noticed a glaring contradiction. The Jesus of her local Methodist church was soft-edged and suburban, tailored to soothe middle-class anxieties. Meanwhile, the Catholic church she visited with a friend introduced her to a far more shadowy vision—one where sin reigned, and a priest, cloaked in mystery, handed out judgment like grades on a cosmic report card.

    Hungry for something real, she threw herself into faith. She attended a Billy Graham “Crusade for Christ” at Candlestick Park and, in a moment of tearful surrender, accepted Jesus as her savior and joined an evangelical church. But the honeymoon didn’t last. When her Jewish friend died in a car accident, she turned to her church community in anguish—only to be met with a chilling theological shrug. Was he saved? they asked. When she answered no, they calmly consigned him to hell. That moment of smug certainty shattered something in her. She walked away from the church—and never looked back.

    But the ache didn’t go away. Instead, it deepened into a lifelong question: Why did the story of Jesus strike me so deeply? Was it about Jesus himself? Or was it something broader—something in the architecture of religious experience that opened people up to realities they couldn’t explain?

    That question led her to Harvard’s Study of Religion, where she discovered a Christianity far more fractured, contested, and diverse than the one she’d been taught. The four canonical gospels were only a sliver of the story. Written decades after Jesus’ death, by authors who retrofitted their names to evoke apostolic authority, these texts were shaped by literary tropes and cultural myths of the Greco-Roman world. Beyond them were the apocryphal books and the Gnostic gospels, each offering competing visions of who Jesus was. Even after Constantine made Christianity the state religion and tried to enforce orthodoxy, believers couldn’t agree on what “true” Christianity actually meant.

    Still, Pagels returns to the core question: What kind of person was Jesus? Why did he endure when gods like Zeus faded into mythology? Why are there so many versions of him—prophet, rebel, savior, mystic, divine son?

    As she peels back the layers of history and doctrine, Pagels isn’t looking for the “correct” Jesus. She’s looking for the one that moved her, the one that cracked open the world with possibility. And in this, her search feels less like an academic pursuit and more like a human longing—to believe that, in spite of the noise and contradiction, there is still something true at the heart of the story.

    Like the old game show To Tell the Truth, we’re all watching the contestants declare, “I am Jesus.” And the question still echoes: Will the real Jesus please stand up?

    ***

    As usual, Pagels’ book is engaging. As I read about Matthew and Luke’s different accounts of the virgin birth and church people blithely telling Pagels that her Jewish friend is in hell, it occurs to me that I despise piety; but moral debauchery and smug nihilism are just as odious. 

  • Devotion and Deliverance: Frederick Douglass as Prophet of the Sunken Place

    Devotion and Deliverance: Frederick Douglass as Prophet of the Sunken Place

    Frederick Douglass was the first great American voice to name what Jordan Peele would later visualize as the Sunken Place—that paralyzing state of voicelessness, invisibility, and psychological captivity experienced by African Americans. Though Peele dramatizes the horror of this condition in his film Get Out, Douglass lived it. As an enslaved child denied literacy and identity, Douglass endured what he later described as a living death, a soul frozen beneath the surface of white supremacy’s illusion of order. His fight to reclaim his voice, his mind, and his humanity was nothing less than a jailbreak from the original Sunken Place—and once free, Douglass didn’t just climb out. He turned around and lit the way for others.

    Douglass’s genius wasn’t just in naming the horror but in refusing to let his people be forgotten. In his Narrative, he writes not only for white readers’ moral awakening but for Black readers’ spiritual survival. He wants them to know: I see you. I know what you’re going through. I made it out—and you can, too. His commitment was not just to truth-telling, but to emotional rescue. He becomes the voice for the voiceless, and more importantly, a memory for the disappeared. In every speech, every book, Douglass is saying to his people: You are not crazy. You are not alone. You are not invisible. I love you.

    This radical love—this refusal to forget or abandon the oppressed—is not only the essence of Douglass’s mission but the throughline of the African-American church and the great soul artists who emerged from its sanctuary. Aretha Franklin’s demand for “Respect” is not merely about gender or music—it is about soul-level recognition, the same Douglass demanded when he taught himself to read and stood before an audience to declare, I am a man. Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On?” is a lament and a prayer, echoing Douglass’s own grief at watching America devour its conscience while pretending to be virtuous.

    Earth, Wind, and Fire’s “Devotion” is a gospel-soaked anthem of uplift, a promise to stay true, stay grounded, and stay together. That’s the same spiritual contract Douglass wrote with his people: no matter how far he rose—dining with Lincoln, traveling to Europe—he never abandoned the struggle, never stopped fighting for those still trapped in the Sunken Place. The Commodores’ “Zoom” imagines flight from pain and confinement, a kind of cosmic exodus—but not a selfish escape. The dream is to rise and return with wisdom, strength, and hope. This is Douglass in every sense.

    Jordan Peele gave us the Sunken Place in high-definition horror, but Frederick Douglass mapped it out with ink and fire long before the screen could flicker. He understood that the greatest tragedy of oppression is not physical bondage but spiritual erasure. And he devoted every breath of his free life to pulling others out—through rhetoric, through writing, through relentless love.

    In the voices of Aretha, Marvin, Maurice White, and Lionel Richie, we hear Douglass’s echo: not just survival, not just resistance, but a deeply rooted refusal to abandon anyone to silence. These aren’t just songs. They are gospel calls to rise, to remember, and to remain devoted. In that sacred tradition, Douglass stands as the first great prophet of the Sunken Place—and the first to vow, with soul-deep conviction, I will not leave you there.

  • Study of Elizabeth Anderson’s Essay “If God Is Dead, Is Everything Permitted?”

    Study of Elizabeth Anderson’s Essay “If God Is Dead, Is Everything Permitted?”

     

    The Death of God and the Birth of Morality: Elizabeth Anderson’s Scorching Rebuttal

    Elizabeth Anderson’s essay “If God Is Dead, Is Everything Permitted?” dismantles the common theological lament that without divine oversight, humanity will descend into a chaotic orgy of depravity. Many theists clutch their pearls at the thought, insisting that without a celestial referee to mete out cosmic penalties, civilization will spiral into anarchy. Thomas Hobbes famously argued that without the fear of God (or at least a brutal state to keep us in check), the world would devolve into barbaric lawlessness. Many religious folks echo the same sentiment: God is the architect of morality, and without Him, we’d be adrift in a sea of moral relativism where anything goes.

    Anderson, however, is unconvinced. And she has receipts.

    The Empirical Case Against Divine Morality

    Over the years, I’ve encountered countless students from families who don’t pray before meals, recite scripture, or fear the wrath of an omnipotent sky judge. Yet, somehow, these irreligious households manage to produce people who value love, loyalty, and self-sacrifice. It’s almost as if morality emerges from human relationships rather than from divinely dictated rulebooks.

    Moreover, if belief in God were the key to moral enlightenment, we’d expect religious people to be paragons of virtue. Instead, experience tells us otherwise—history is littered with holy men committing unholy acts. For every saint, there’s a scoundrel who weaponizes faith for personal gain. Anderson, recognizing this discrepancy, launches a blistering critique of the idea that belief in God is a prerequisite for moral decency.

    The ‘Evil Tree’ of Secularism: A Christian Argument

    Anderson begins with what she calls the “Common Christian Argument,” which holds that atheism, evolution, and secularism are the roots of an evil tree bearing the bitter fruits of abortion, homosexuality, drugs, rock music, and general debauchery. The moral panic here is clear: take God out of the equation, and civilization collapses. William Lane Craig, ever the dutiful Christian apologist, insists that without a divinely ordained moral code, we’d have no objective way of distinguishing good from evil. Anderson sees this argument for what it is—an emotional appeal rather than a reasoned position.

    Hell as a Moral Deterrent?

    Some argue that the threat of eternal damnation is the only thing keeping humanity from degenerating into lawless hedonism. Jesus himself, according to the Gospels, encouraged people to love God and fear hell in order to stay on the straight and narrow. But Anderson challenges this premise. She suggests that morality isn’t something to be coerced through fear of divine torture chambers. After all, mature adults don’t need the threat of punishment to act ethically—immorality, by its very nature, is often its own punishment, just as virtue is its own reward.

    Morality: A Human Invention, Not a Divine Mandate

    Anderson argues that morality is not a celestial decree but a social construct, evolving naturally to promote stability and cooperation. Every functioning society—religious or otherwise—has independently developed prohibitions against murder, theft, and deception. These moral codes existed long before Moses chiseled the Ten Commandments into stone. People, it turns out, don’t need divine instruction to figure out that killing each other is a bad idea.

    But Were Pagan Societies Morally Inferior?

    Of course, not everyone agrees with Anderson’s take. Elaine Pagels, for instance, points out that in the ancient world, pagans were known to abandon unwanted infants to die in the streets—an atrocity that Christians condemned. If we accept this historical tidbit, it complicates Anderson’s argument. Perhaps religious morality has provided unique moral advancements. But even so, that doesn’t mean belief in God is necessary for morality today.

    The Big Twist: Religion Isn’t Just Unnecessary for Morality—It’s Often an Obstacle

    Anderson’s essay takes a sharp turn when she argues that religion isn’t just an optional framework for morality—it’s often a hindrance. Not only does atheism not lead to moral rot, but theism, particularly in its more fundamentalist forms, frequently produces moral atrocities. The God of the Bible, she points out, is capricious, cruel, and unrestrained by human moral intuitions. If morality is whatever God decrees, then anything—genocide, slavery, child sacrifice—can be justified as divinely ordained.

    Anderson gleefully catalogs the Bible’s greatest moral abominations: wars, plagues, ethnic cleansings, infanticide, slavery, and stonings—all endorsed by the divine. The Old Testament, she argues, reads less like a guide to righteousness and more like a blood-soaked manifesto for tribal supremacy.

    The New Testament doesn’t escape her ire, either. Jesus’ “family values” leave much to be desired, and Anderson finds the idea of vicarious atonement—Jesus dying for humanity’s sins—particularly repugnant. In her view, the doctrine of substitutionary atonement contradicts the very idea of personal responsibility. If God is all-powerful, why does He need to kill His own son to offer forgiveness? Shouldn’t an omnipotent being be capable of forgiving people without engaging in cosmic blood sacrifice?

    Slavery: A Biblical Blind Spot

    Anderson also takes aim at the Bible’s endorsement of slavery. If the Bible were truly the ultimate moral guide, wouldn’t it have offered an unambiguous denunciation of human bondage? Instead, scripture treats slavery as an ordinary, even divinely sanctioned, institution. If biblical morality is timeless, why does it reflect the ethical blind spots of its era?

    The Rorschach Bible: Faith as a Projection of Our Moral Biases

    In one of her most incisive observations, Anderson compares the Bible to a Rorschach test: people emphasize the passages that align with their existing moral inclinations while ignoring the rest. Whether one fixates on “love thy neighbor” or the mass extermination of Canaanites depends more on personal character than divine revelation.

    She also critiques the way people worship power rather than goodness. Quoting Hobbes, she suggests that religious reverence often stems from awe at raw power rather than admiration for moral virtue. This, she argues, explains why believers have historically tolerated and even celebrated the authoritarian and often tyrannical nature of their deities.

    The Fragile Authority of Religious Belief

    Anderson skewers the self-assured claims of religious certainty, mocking the way different faiths confidently declare themselves the one true religion while dismissing all others as absurd. She sees little distinction between the great world religions and the cults of L. Ron Hubbard, Joseph Smith, or Sun Myung Moon. All rely on unverifiable revelations, dubious miracles, and ancient testimonies passed down through unreliable chains of transmission.

    Her conclusion? These so-called divine truths, so often contradictory and morally suspect, deserve no privileged position in our ethical deliberations.

    So Where Does Moral Authority Come From?

    If God isn’t the source of morality, what is? Anderson argues that moral authority comes not from divine fiat but from us—from human beings negotiating ethical principles based on mutual accountability. Morality isn’t about obeying decrees from on high; it’s about navigating the complexities of human coexistence through reason, empathy, and shared experience.

    Anderson’s argument is as compelling as it is unsettling. I wish I had her unshakable confidence in atheism. While I still wrestle with the vestigial fear of eternal damnation (an unfortunate byproduct of early indoctrination), I can’t deny the force of her reasoning. If nothing else, “If God Is Dead, Is Everything Permitted?” is one of the sharpest, most relentless critiques of theism I’ve ever read.

  • The Aspiring Writer Strives to Overcome His Inferiority Complex

    The Aspiring Writer Strives to Overcome His Inferiority Complex

    The aspiring writer, Manuscriptus Rex, writes not out of pure inspiration but from the unholy fusion of a chip on his shoulder and a raging inferiority complex. His desperation for a cure has somehow led him to the worst possible conclusion: that literary dominance is the only path to salvation. Anything short of conquering the literary world? Utter failure.

    Why such extremes? Because Manuscriptus Rex is an eternal adolescent, emotionally stunted and incapable of nuance. Life is a brutal, binary equation—winners or losers, triumph or oblivion. There is no middle ground. And for those with just enough talent to know they’ll never be the best? The humiliation is unbearable. They sink into a spiral of self-loathing so profound, they start questioning why they were born in the first place.

    This despair is captured well in the 1984 movie Amadeus, in which Salieri, the patron saint of mediocrity, spends his life gnashing his teeth over the fact that, for all his ambition, he’ll always be the guy in the cheap seats while Mozart, the true genius, takes center stage. Some might be tempted to draw the same parallel between Paul and Jesus, as if Paul were some whiny Salieri, shaking his fist at the heavens over his lack of messianic charisma. Dead wrong. Paul didn’t sulk in anyone’s shadow. He sharpened his writing tools, rearranged the spotlight, and made damn sure it was aimed squarely at himself.

    How successful was Paul at making his writing stick? Let’s put it this way—his entire written output amounts to about eighty pages. Eighty pages. That’s not even the length of a middling beach read you’d abandon in an airport terminal. And yet, those pages have been scrutinized, weaponized, and dissected with more fervor than any artistic or literary masterpiece in human history.

    I sit here, surveying the wreckage of five decades of my own writing, knowing full well that it will likely fade into the void, while Paul’s scant eighty pages have dictated the course of Western thought, politics, and religion for two thousand years. The word “influence” doesn’t even begin to cover it. This is literary world domination.

    And was this tidal wave of influence accidental? Hardly. Paul wasn’t just writing to save souls—he was writing for his own immortality.

    Pauline scholars love to point out that Paul wasn’t exactly thrilled with what the original apostles were peddling. Their Jesus still had training wheels—tied to Torah, saddled with Jewish law, bogged down by the pesky weight of tradition. Paul, on the other hand, had a better idea. His Jesus was purer, punchier, and more potent—a spiritual superfood untainted by Torah preservatives. And Paul wasn’t shy about it. He called it “my gospel”—not once, but over and over again, like a divine trademark. Forget the Jewish-flavored Jesus movement—Paul’s was gluten-free, carb-free, and straight to the Gentile bloodstream.

    This wasn’t just a theological shift—it was a hostile takeover. Paul didn’t seem particularly interested in Jesus’ actual words. Sermons? Parables? “Love thy neighbor”? Small-time. Paul’s focus was on his own visions, his personal revelations, the ones that conveniently made himself the authority on Jesus. While Peter and James clung to their quaint Jewish traditions, Paul rebranded Christianity in his own image, rolling out a one-man revolution that sidelined the original apostles like outdated board members in a corporate coup.

    And rabbi scholar Hyam Maccoby—never one to understate a theological conspiracy—takes it even further. According to The Mythmaker, Paul didn’t just step out from Jesus’ shadow—he steamrolled over it and rebranded Christianity as a Paul Production, with himself as lead architect of one of history’s largest religious empires. Salieri could only dream of that level of self-promotion.

    But Paul didn’t just change the messaging—he altered the entire emotional foundation of Christianity. Maccoby doesn’t just accuse Paul of hijacking Christianity—he accuses him of rewriting the entire Old Testament like a hack screenwriter with a savior complex. The Jewish tradition of free will, strength, and human agency is replaced with Paul’s bleak vision of humanity—where people are helpless worms, groveling in the dirt, utterly incapable of doing anything good without divine intervention.

    Fast-forward two millennia, and we’re still drowning in the wreckage of Paul’s inferiority complex—scrolling ourselves into oblivion, slaves to algorithms, locked in a spiritual malaise that might as well have been engineered by Paul himself. Maccoby paints Paul not as a mystical visionary, but as a man crippled by his own self-loathing, a former Pharisee who couldn’t hack it in Jewish law, so he torched the whole thing and built his own damn religion. And it worked.

    Paul’s biggest marketing coup was turning Jesus into something unrecognizable. Gone was the Torah-loving Jewish teacher—in his place, a Hellenized God-man with cosmic grandeur. But Paul didn’t work alone. He had Luke, his personal spin doctor, crafting The Acts of the Apostles—a biblical infomercial designed to make Paul look like a tireless hero, smoothing out his awkward edges, burying any embarrassing missteps, and giving the real apostles about as much airtime as unpaid extras in Paul’s vanity project. The result? A Christianity that barely resembled anything Jesus actually taught, but one tailor-made for mass adoption.

    It’s a corporate rebrand so slick that Paul might as well be the Steve Jobs of Western religion.

    Paul didn’t just invent a religion—he invented religious dominance. His theology was designed for maximum influence, structured like a brilliantly engineered algorithm—one that self-replicates, adapts, and burrows into the psyche like a spiritual virus. You don’t just believe in Paul’s Christianity; you’re owned by it.

    And this is where the connection to my own writing demon becomes uncomfortably clear.

    Paul did what I’ve always wanted to do—he wrote something so potent, so inescapable, so monolithic, that it hijacked human consciousness for centuries. His letters didn’t just survive—they became the foundation for an entire civilization. And what is that if not the ultimate literary ambition?

    The writing demon inside me has always whispered the same temptation—that if I just write the right book, if I craft my message well enough, if I design the perfect narrative, I can transcend obscurity, reshape reality, and carve my name into history.

    Paul did it. He wrote himself into religious permanence, his eighty pages outlasting every empire, every cultural movement, every literary masterpiece.

    And maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him.

    Because deep down, I know: Paul is the ghostwriter of my own ambition.

  • Writing Is World-Building

    Writing Is World-Building

    The writer who seeks literary dominance can be called Manuscriptus Rex. He is a beast acutely aware of his own brokenness, a self-awareness that drags him into the depths of morbidity and despair. But mere recognition of his anguish isn’t enough—he must transcend it. Not through quiet introspection or self-acceptance, but through literary dominance. Writing isn’t just therapy; it’s conquest. His words are not gentle offerings but acts of aggression against the world, though he convinces himself otherwise. He’s not a tyrant—he’s a savior. He doesn’t crave attention—he has something urgent to say, something the world must hear.

    One of the most exalted members of the Manuscriptus Rex species? The Apostle Paul. His life reads like a high-stakes thriller—a battle-worn intellectual waging ideological war through the written word. If Hollywood ever needed a poster child for a writer with a messianic mission, Paul would be it. Ink-stained fingers, unshakable conviction, and a belief that his words would outlast empires—because, of course, they did.

    Thinking of Paul as a character in a movie reminds me of a similarly absurd but far less consequential scene from my own past: the time my high school bodybuilding buddy, Martino, and I were ensnared by the oldest bait-and-switch in history—free food and salvation. We had been lured to a Wednesday night church youth group by the promise of unlimited lasagna and Kool-Aid, a trap set by the twin seductions of carbs and sugar. The youth pastor, a bearded, bespectacled man with the unshakable enthusiasm of someone who truly believed he could sell eternal life like a used car, paced the room as he spun his gospel pitch. He wanted to know if we were ready to accept Jesus Christ as our Lord and Savior, as though an extra serving of garlic bread might tip us into theological certainty.

    Martino, a squat, blocky fellow with a neck so thick it could’ve moonlighted as a battering ram, sat politely through the sermon, nodding with the blank expression of a man deep in a carb coma. His eyebrows, heavy and brooding, looked as if they were preparing to stage a labor strike right there on his face. By the time we left, his stomach was full, but his soul remained stubbornly unmoved. Driving home, he grunted through a yawn, “Nice lasagna, but I don’t think I found Jesus in there.”

    Paul would’ve had a field day with Martino, hammering him with letters, debates, and fiery rebukes until he saw the light—or at least surrendered out of sheer exhaustion.

    “Eternal paradise? Eternal hell? If you want to win me over, show me the movie.” Without a flicker of humor, he added, “Jacques Cousteau and his film crew need to do a deep dive into heaven and hell and report back. Then maybe the pastor will have something worth talking about.”

    I couldn’t help but think of Jacques Cousteau and his team of underwater explorers filming their way through the afterlife when I was reading French novelist Emmanuel Carrère’s The Kingdom. In typical Carrère fashion, he takes the early church and flips it into a bizarre TV production, with Saint Paul as the leading man, flexing his theological muscles for the cameras, while Luke, ever the dutiful biographer and behind-the-scenes producer, works overtime to keep Paul in the best possible light. It’s like watching Keeping Up with the Apostles, with Luke spinning Paul’s antics while fending off rival apostles who think ditching the Torah is a little too avant-garde. You can almost picture Luke yelling “Cut!” every time Paul’s dramatic speeches veer a little too close to heresy, scrambling to keep the script on track as the whole Jesus movement teeters on the edge of a theological reality show gone wrong.

    Carrère kicks off his novel with a nod to a TV show he worked on about people who had the inconvenient habit of dying and then popping back into life in a small town. He muses,  “I stopped writing fiction long ago, but I can recognize a powerful fictional device when I see it. And this was by far the most powerful one I’ed been offered in my career as a screenwriter.” In a world that’s often nasty, brutish, and short (thanks, Hobbes), the idea of reuniting with our dearly departed is practically irresistible. The implication? Any religion that dangles this tantalizing offer in front of us is going to beat out the competition—especially those dull creeds that don’t have a resurrection hook.

    As Carrère (who writes as the narrator and a version of himself) dives into production for Les Revenants (The Returned), he lets slip to the show’s directors that he’s also knee-deep in another project—a book about the early days of Christianity, circa 50 A.D. in Corinth. Just like the TV show’s fascination with life after death, his book is centered on a ragtag hero, Paul, a weak and afflicted guy who has the audacity to proclaim the resurrection of a prophet. But Paul doesn’t stop there. He’s selling resurrection like it’s the next big thing, a kind of spiritual VIP access, where believers in this prophet get to share in the resurrection perks. And guess what? This faith spreads like wildfire, catching on faster than the latest TikTok trend, and brings with it a personal transformation that Carrère dubs a “mutation.”

    Soon, this belief system grows so big it becomes mainstream. While Greek mythology gets relegated to the kiddie pool of fairy tales, Paul’s gospel of resurrection, virgin birth, sacrifice, and atonement becomes the intellectual equivalent of filet mignon—served up and taken seriously by the world’s smartest, most educated minds, who swallow it whole. It’s no longer quaint mythology—it’s doctrine. And everyone’s buying in.

    But Carrère doesn’t treat this religion as some ironic punchline. Nope, he’s serious, bordering on obsessive. His novel isn’t a parody of early Christianity; it’s a deep dive into how these early religious pioneers, especially Paul, wrestled to bring their story to life. In Carrère’s view, this whole endeavor is a lot like producing a TV show—grappling with messy production details, contending with rival storylines, and trying to make the narrative stick. His novel becomes a meditation on storytelling itself, especially the stories that linger in our minds, take root, and possess us—even as our faith wobbles on shaky ground. It’s about the narratives that survive the centuries, not because they’re quaint, but because they hit us where it counts.

    By the time Carrère loses his faith and slides into agnosticism, he’s still obsessed with the steadfast faith of others. Religion, he realizes, isn’t going anywhere—it’s hardwired into our brains like some sort of default app we can’t delete. We’re suckers for stories that explain the human condition, and like William James says in The Varieties of Religious Experience, we’ve all got our internal wiring that divides the “healthy-minded soul” from the “sick-minded soul.” Shame, guilt, penance—it’s all built into our psyche. And in moments of catharsis, we somehow manage to feel connected to our Maker, like a spiritual Wi-Fi signal we can only tap into when we’re having an existential meltdown.

    I couldn’t read The Kingdom without recognizing my own affliction: the belief that writing a novel isn’t just storytelling—it’s world-building, doctrine-crafting, the construction of a system so compelling that it hijacks minds and rewires belief. Carrère brilliantly lays out the blueprint for how a book mutates into a religion, how a narrative, if potent enough, doesn’t just entertain—it converts, indoctrinates, and dominates. And that’s when it hit me: my writing demon wasn’t interested in just producing a book. It wanted a Bible, something so monumental it would command devotion, establish authority, and secure my literary immortality. It wasn’t enough to write—I had to found a faith, recruit disciples, and stake my claim in the intellectual marketplace of salvation. Whether it was Paul pitching resurrection or me hammering away at my so-called masterpiece, the impulse was the same: create something too big to ignore, too transformative to discard, and too undeniable to fade into obscurity. And just like Paul, I was willing to burn through years, health, and sanity for the cause.