Cinemorphosis

Tag: jesus

  • The Telos Test

    The Telos Test

    Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange contains a recurring refrain: “What’s it going to be then, eh?” The words linger because they refuse to let the reader remain a spectator. They demand a decision. They ask not merely what one believes, but what one intends to become.

    The question came back to me while reflecting on the Greek word telos—the ultimate purpose toward which every action aims. What, then, is the telos of my fascination with the early Christian church? Why do I keep returning to the conflict between James and Paul, to the expectation shared by Jesus and Paul that the end of history would arrive within their own generation, and to the ways later editors softened those failed expectations by rendering the prophecies more elastic? What is the purpose of exposing cracks in Christian doctrine?

    Suppose, for the sake of argument, that Emmanuel Carrère, Elaine Pagels, or Bart Ehrman successfully chip away at the church’s claim to doctrinal certainty. What then? Burgess’s refrain becomes a philosophical audit. It asks whether my scholarship has a destination beyond demolition. It is another way of asking the question posed by R.E.M.: after losing my religion, what remains?

    In truth, I doubt I could ever lose my religion entirely.

    Whatever label I eventually assign myself—Christian, agnostic, or something in between—I cannot silence the conviction that I will one day answer for the life I have lived. My conscience refuses to dismiss the possibility of judgment. I imagine my thoughts and deeds passing before me in merciless clarity. I see myself shrinking beneath their weight, my knees buckling, my confidence evaporating, reduced to asking not for vindication but for mercy. I do not regard this as a uniquely religious neurosis. It seems to me a universal human intuition. Religion did not invent our moral sense; it gave language, symbols, and stories to an accountability that most of us already feel lurking beneath the surface of consciousness.

    That is why my ambivalence toward Paul is never merely historical. It immediately becomes personal.

    “What’s it going to be then, eh?”

    Am I dismantling Paul’s authority because I seek the truth, or because I seek permission?

    If there is no final judgment, no resurrection, and no afterlife, do I thereby acquire a license to indulge every selfish appetite? If organized religion collapses under historical scrutiny, am I morally obligated to replace it with another vision capable of disciplining my desires?

    Martin Hägglund attempts precisely this in This Life: Secular Faith and Spiritual Freedom. He argues that meaning arises from our finite existence and our obligations to one another rather than from eternity. It is an intellectually serious project. Yet I wonder whether I possess Hägglund’s confidence in human nature. Do we really possess the moral resources to repair ourselves? Or is Paul correct that something within us is too deeply fractured to heal itself?

    Steven Pressfield offers another alternative in The War of Art. For him, humanity’s fallen nature appears under a different name: Resistance. Salvation comes not through grace but through disciplined creative labor. The Muse replaces the Holy Spirit; artistic practice replaces spiritual formation. I admire Pressfield immensely. Yet I hesitate before turning art into a universal religion. Is artistic transcendence truly available to everyone? Is disciplined creativity sufficient to tame the darker regions of the human heart?

    Then there are Elaine Pagels and Bart Ehrman. Both drank deeply from the well of Christianity before becoming two of its most influential historical critics. Both retain profound respect for Jesus while rejecting much of traditional Christian doctrine. In their hands, Christianity often becomes less a supernatural drama than a humanitarian ethic. Hell recedes into metaphor. Divine wrath becomes a cautionary tale about human cruelty. The central question shifts from salvation to compassion.

    As much as I admire their scholarship, I sometimes wonder whether they perform what I have come to call Therapeutic Transfiguration: the transformation of a demanding religious tradition into the language of emotional wellness, affirmation, and psychological flourishing.

    Stephen Prothero voices a similar concern in his review of Karen King and Elaine Pagels’ Reading Judas. He writes:

    I prefer to take my religious history free from demands for contemporary relevance, so whenever someone in the historical-Jesus fraternity makes Jesus mutter moral maxims that might as easily have been uttered by President Bush or Oprah Winfrey, my anachronism antenna goes up. In this case, Pagels and King massage the multicultural sensibilities of their readers by opining that the Gospel of Judas represents a “sharp, dissenting voice” against the “single, static universal system of beliefs” of official Christianity. Preaching to the “spiritual but not religious” choir, they tell us that, like other noncanonical texts they have championed elsewhere, this gospel aims to “encourage believers to seek God within themselves, with no mention of churches, much less clergy.”

    What Prothero objects to might be called Oprahfication: translating historically specific and often unsettling religious claims into therapeutic affirmations about inner peace, self-discovery, and personal fulfillment. The apocalyptic prophet becomes a motivational speaker. The call to repentance becomes an invitation to embrace one’s authentic self.

    I confess that Oprahfication unsettles me as well. Whenever I hear sweeping assurances about “the divine within,” I picture an Oprah Winfrey interview with Deepak Chopra dissolving into a warm bath of inspirational platitudes. Even if there is some truth in the claim that God may be encountered within, it remains a perilous proposition. For every soul who genuinely discovers humility, I fear thousands more will disappear into the funhouse mirrors of narcissism, mistaking self-absorption for enlightenment.

    Of course, the opposite error is no better. Certain Puritans became so intoxicated by the doctrine of human depravity that they all but erased the possibility of salvation, imagining a universe in which nearly everyone was damned. Such despair borders on the demonic. Yet the opposite doctrine—that humanity is innately divine and naturally good—contains its own danger. If everyone already possesses effortless sanctity, then no one requires transformation. Without an exemplar who calls us beyond ourselves, goodness becomes whatever we happen to prefer, and heaven gradually dissolves into a congratulatory mirror.

    Which brings me back to Burgess.

    “What’s it going to be then, eh?”

    That question is no longer about Paul. It is about me.

    Am I searching for historical truth, or am I constructing an elegant rationale for living exactly as I please? Is my criticism an act of intellectual honesty, or an application for moral exemption?

    I hope it is neither cynicism nor rebellion that drives this inquiry. I hope my quest is animated by the desire to see reality more clearly while remaining accountable to whatever goodness ultimately governs it. If I dismantle inherited beliefs, I pray it is not to clear space for selfishness but to discover a foundation sturdy enough to support a life worthy of judgment.

  • The Startup That Defeated Headquarters

    The Startup That Defeated Headquarters

    Religion has never existed without branding. Every enduring faith possesses a recognizable identity, a coherent vision, and, above all, a commanding personality capable of persuading others that his interpretation is the authentic one. 

    Early Christianity was no exception.

    James, the brother of Jesus, envisioned a movement rooted firmly in the Law of Moses. The Messiah had indeed come, but the covenant remained intact. Followers of Jesus still belonged within Judaism and still observed its commandments. It was a closed ecosystem. Think of James as Mac OS: elegant, coherent, tightly controlled, and suspicious of unauthorized modifications.

    Paul had a radically different vision. Christ’s death and resurrection had liberated believers from the Mosaic Law. Circumcision, dietary regulations, and ritual obligations no longer defined God’s people. The system was now open. Paul was Windows. He discarded the old operating restrictions and invited the entire Gentile world to install the software. Even more audaciously, he translated Jewish ideas into categories that Greeks could understand, blending Hebrew theology with Hellenistic thought. What struck James as scandalous improvisation appeared to Paul as inspired innovation.

    The dispute was not merely theological. It was a fight over ownership of the brand.

    James, Peter, and John operated from corporate headquarters in Jerusalem. Paul functioned like an ambitious regional manager who suddenly decided headquarters had become obsolete. In The Kingdom, Emmanuel Carrère imagines the conflict unfolding as a modern corporate dispute. Jerusalem’s leadership views Paul as a rogue executive who is “fraudulently usurping” the Christian name, misrepresenting the company’s message, and franchising unauthorized branches across the Mediterranean. Paul had never accompanied the historical Jesus. He knew only the Christ revealed through visions. To Jerusalem, this was not merely eccentric; it was grounds for termination.

    Carrère summarizes the problem with delicious corporate sarcasm:

    Paul has always presented himself as an independent master, preaching what he calls ‘my Gospel,’ and only evoking in a very vague way the existence of a parent enterprise whose representative he is.

    There lies the heart of the conflict. Paul repeatedly refers to “my gospel.” Imagine a vice president introducing himself by saying, “Welcome to my Apple” or “Let me tell you about my Coca-Cola.” Such language would send corporate attorneys into cardiac arrest. Yet Paul speaks with precisely that confidence. His authority does not derive from Jerusalem. It derives from God.

    Carrère pushes the metaphor further:

    And now there are these people from Jerusalem, who first of all introduce themselves as Paul’s superiors, and secondly say that he’s no longer part of the business. They had to let him go, they say, because this isn’t his first transgression. He’s already opened up shop here and there under their prestigious logo, even though they’ve forbidden him from using it. He’s been uncovered several times, but he always goes farther and finds new dupes.

    One can almost picture the cease-and-desist letters arriving by camel.

    The conflict became a theological arm wrestle. Paul would establish a congregation, depart for another city, and soon afterward representatives from Jerusalem would arrive to inform the new converts that Paul was a fraud. His gospel lacked authorization. The authentic Christianity remained the Jerusalem version.

    Paul answered with astonishing audacity, nowhere more vividly than in Galatians. He insists that his gospel was not taught to him by any human being but revealed directly by Jesus Christ. His opponents are not simply mistaken; they are preaching a counterfeit gospel. Even if an angel from heaven proclaims another message, Paul declares, let him be accursed. To establish his credentials, Paul presents his autobiography as evidence: his education in Jerusalem, his fierce persecution of the church, his dramatic encounter on the road to Damascus, and his continuing revelations from Christ. Possessing a direct line to heaven, he has little patience for organizational charts drafted in Jerusalem.

    History suggests that Paul won.

    Despite the Jerusalem apostles’ determination to preserve their prestigious logo, Paul effectively appropriated it, redesigned it, and launched it globally. The movement that conquered the Roman Empire bore Paul’s theological fingerprints far more than James’s. The Christianity that eventually reached Europe, Africa, Asia, and the Americas was not simply the faith of Jerusalem. It was Jerusalem translated, expanded, and fundamentally reimagined by Paul.

    Perhaps there is a broader lesson here. Closed systems often preserve purity, but open systems spread. James built a fortress. Paul built a network. One protected the brand. The other made it impossible to contain.

  • The Messiah Test

    The Messiah Test

    In The Kingdom, Emmanuel Carrère argues that Paul built Christianity upon a single indispensable claim: the Resurrection. Remove it, Paul tells the Corinthians, and the entire edifice collapses. If Christ did not rise from the dead, then Christian hope is an illusion, preaching is empty, faith is futile, and there is nothing left but to eat, drink, and await extinction.

    Carrère is unconvinced that unwavering belief in the Resurrection can be explained solely by historical evidence. He is more interested in the psychology of conviction. Again and again, he observes, reality does not always weaken faith. Sometimes it hardens it.

    His favorite illustration is a familiar one. A charismatic guru predicts that the world will end on a particular day. The day arrives. The sun rises. Children go to school. Banks open for business. Reality appears to have delivered a humiliating verdict.

    Yet the faithful do not disperse in embarrassment.

    Instead, they reinterpret the outcome. The prophecy did not fail, they insist. A profound spiritual transformation occurred, invisible to ordinary eyes but unmistakable to those with genuine faith. The skeptics see only another Tuesday. The elect perceive eternity breaking into history.

    Failure itself becomes evidence of success.

    Those who abandon the movement demonstrate that their faith was shallow all along. Those who continue believing prove they are the wheat separated from the chaff. As Carrère writes, they learn to distrust their senses. If reason and observation contradict revelation, then reason and observation must yield. The very willingness to appear foolish becomes proof of election. They have passed the test.

    Social psychologists describe this phenomenon as the paradox of commitment under disconfirmation. When identity fuses with belief, contrary evidence no longer serves as an external check. Instead, the evidence itself is absorbed into the belief system and assigned a new meaning. Disconfirmation becomes confirmation by another name.

    Carrère sees Paul confronting precisely this dynamic.

    The Thessalonians have accepted the scandalous claim of the Resurrection, much to Paul’s relief. But another crisis erupts in Galatia. Missionaries have persuaded the Galatians that fidelity to the Jewish law remains essential. Paul responds with extraordinary vehemence. Even if he himself—or an angel from heaven—should later preach a different gospel, he writes, that messenger must be rejected.

    The true gospel has already been delivered.

    Paul’s confidence is striking because his authority rests on a different kind of encounter than that of the original disciples. Peter, James, and John knew Jesus during his earthly ministry. Paul did not. His authority derives from visions and revelation rather than firsthand companionship.

    One might suppose that the disciples who ate with Jesus, traveled beside him, and listened to his teaching would possess the stronger claim to authority. Paul turns that expectation upside down. His mystical encounter with the risen Christ, he argues, is not inferior to theirs but divinely authoritative. The churches must trust the revelation given to him, even when it conflicts with competing interpretations.

    Carrère detects the same psychological pattern operating here as in the failed apocalypse. Membership in the community depends not merely upon accepting a proposition but upon accepting a particular source of authority. To believe Paul despite the absence of ordinary historical verification becomes the very mark of authentic faith.

    Paul ultimately prevails.

    His letters come to define Christian theology far more decisively than the remembered voices of those who walked beside Jesus during his earthly life. One might describe this victory as Epistemic Promotion: the elevation of private revelation, mystical experience, or ideological certainty above ordinary evidence, historical testimony, or empirical reasoning. Whether one views that promotion as divine inspiration or as an extraordinary feat of theological persuasion depends largely upon where one stands. What cannot be denied is that Paul’s vision reshaped Christianity more profoundly than that of any other single figure after Jesus himself.

    Paul’s reshaping of Christianity raises an unavoidable question: What were his motives?

    Paul famously writes that prophecy, knowledge, eloquence, and every other spiritual gift are worthless without love. Love, he insists, is the measure by which all religious authority must be judged. But that standard inevitably turns back upon Paul himself.

    Was love the governing force behind his extraordinary confidence?

    Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that Paul was entirely sincere. Even then the question remains. Did he need to prevail over the other apostles because he loved Christ and the churches? Or because he hungered for authority, validation, and the satisfaction of being right? Was it love? Ego? Power? Some unstable mixture of all three?

    These are not merely questions about Paul. They are questions about every religious founder, prophet, guru, apostle, messiah, revolutionary, and ideological visionary who asks us to entrust them with our minds and souls.

    Do they genuinely seek our flourishing?

    Are their methods honest?

    Are they persuading us—or manipulating us?

    Does the enthusiasm of a crowd testify to truth, or merely to the contagiousness of conviction?

    Before surrendering ourselves to any movement, we would do well to apply what I call The Messiah Test: the practice of asking whether a leader’s authority exists primarily to serve those who follow—or to serve the leader himself.

    Carrère subjects Paul to precisely this test.

    He is fascinated by Paul’s insistence that he is Christ’s authentic messenger despite never having met Jesus during his earthly life. To illuminate the audacity of Paul’s claim, Carrère imagines an analogous scene in 1925. A former White Army officer arrives in the Kremlin demanding an audience with Stalin. He announces that he has received a private revelation of Marxism-Leninism more profound than anything the Party itself has ever understood. On that basis, he demands full authority over the movement while refusing to submit to Stalin or the Politburo.

    The analogy is intentionally absurd.

    Carrère’s imaginary officer is no heroic reformer. He is a spectacular crank. His confidence borders on the operatic. His self-assurance is matched only by his breathtaking inability to recognize how implausible his claims appear to everyone around him.

    He suffers from what might be called Revelation Inflation: the tendency to elevate private revelation until it outranks every competing authority. The visionary no longer argues that he possesses a valuable insight. He insists that his insight is the decisive one, superior to history, institutions, eyewitnesses, and every rival claim to truth.

    Whether one ultimately sees Paul as a divinely inspired apostle or as an astonishingly persuasive religious entrepreneur, Carrère’s thought experiment forces the same uncomfortable question: How do we distinguish authentic revelation from magnificent self-certainty?

  • Watermelon Theology

    Watermelon Theology

    In 1979, around the time of my conversion, I was a seventeen-year-old bodybuilder performing barbell curls in the family den while the television droned in the background. On the screen stood a large Southern preacher wearing a green seersucker suit and speaking in a voice that sounded uncannily like Foghorn Leghorn’s. Amid all the sermons I have forgotten, one metaphor lodged itself permanently in my mind.

    “Religion,” he said, “is like a watermelon. You enjoy the sweet fruit, but you have to accept the seeds. A lot of people can’t accept the seeds, so their faith fails.”

    I have been chewing on those watermelon seeds ever since.

    The fruit has never been my problem.

    If I step back from the Bible and read it as the grand narrative of moral order and moral dissolution, of humanity’s perpetual struggle between sanctification and self-destruction, I find myself repeatedly stopping in admiration. Surely there is such a thing as spiritual health and spiritual decay. Surely the person who learns humility, self-control, forgiveness, courage, and sacrificial love becomes someone fundamentally different from the person consumed by vanity, resentment, lust, greed, and appetite. We become what we repeatedly do, and eventually our habits cease to be things we perform; they become the substance of our character.

    Christianity also explains something else with remarkable psychological precision. It understands the persistent ache that seems woven into the human condition. We are creatures forever searching for transcendence while repeatedly mistaking stimulation for transcendence itself. As the Reverend Eugene Peterson observed, many of us pursue moments of escape through recreational sex, drugs, alcohol, celebrity, politics, or the intoxicating madness of crowds. We mistake emotional intensity for spiritual fulfillment.

    The Sermon on the Mount and Paul’s Letter to the Philippians propose something radically different. Happiness is not found through self-assertion but self-emptying. Power is discovered through service. Life is found by relinquishing the desperate project of preserving it. The Gospel’s diagnosis is humiliating precisely because it leaves so little room for self-congratulation. Paul, who knew his own failures intimately, dismissed the self-help philosophies of his age with astonishing brevity. Human beings, he insisted, are not merely uninformed. They are unable. They require grace.

    Whenever I read Jesus or Paul, I cannot escape the feeling that they have perceived something enduring about human nature. This does not strike me as one religion among many, each pointing politely toward the same destination. It confronts me with a diagnosis that continues to unsettle me.

    Then come the watermelon seeds.

    There are, first, the supernatural claims.

    I would be dishonest if I claimed to believe them literally. Noah living nearly a thousand years. The ark. The parting of the Red Sea. The Virgin Birth. The dead emerging from their tombs during the Crucifixion and walking through Jerusalem. Jesus raising the dead. Paul doing the same. Above all, the Resurrection itself.

    Then there are the historical seeds.

    The expectation that the Kingdom of God would arrive within the lifetime of Jesus’ contemporaries appears to have receded as history stubbornly refused to cooperate. Scholars argue that later editors softened or reframed passages whose original urgency had become increasingly difficult to defend.

    Then come the institutional seeds.

    Paul’s breathtaking declaration that “there is neither male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” gradually yielded to later church structures that proved considerably more interested in hierarchy than equality. Letters now widely regarded by many scholars as pseudonymous instructed women to remain silent, submissive, and excluded from leadership. The liberating impulse of the earliest Christian communities became entangled with the far less inspiring politics of institutional preservation.

    And finally there is perhaps the hardest seed of all.

    Hell.

    Infinite punishment for finite creatures.

    A doctrine that has haunted Christian thought for centuries.

    The temptation, of course, is simply to spit out the seeds.

    Many people do.

    The miracles become metaphors.

    The Resurrection becomes symbolic.

    Sin becomes psychological maladjustment.

    Judgment becomes poor self-esteem.

    Christianity quietly dissolves into a soothing spirituality where every religion points toward the same divine reality, nobody is terribly mistaken, vice is largely a matter of perspective, and the highest commandment is simply to relax and enjoy yourself because life is short.

    Once I begin removing the seeds, how do I know which ones are merely unpleasant and which ones are load-bearing?

    Where does revision end and reinvention begin?

    At what point have I ceased pruning Christianity and quietly invented another religion that merely borrows its vocabulary?

    This is what I have come to call Foundational Anxiety: the fear that questioning one foundational belief will begin a cascade of doubt that ultimately leaves a person without any stable moral, philosophical, or spiritual ground.

    It is also why I think of my predicament as Watermelon Theology.

    Watermelon Theology is the attempt to preserve the nourishing moral and spiritual fruit of a religious tradition while wrestling honestly with doctrines, miracles, and historical claims that resist belief. It refuses both naïve certainty and fashionable dismissal. It insists that the fruit is too nourishing to discard lightly, even while acknowledging that the seeds remain stubbornly lodged between one’s teeth.

    Can I resolve this dilemma in a thousand-word essay?

    Hardly.

    Millions of people have spent two millennia arguing over these very questions. Many of them are smarter than I am. Augustine stood in this line. Aquinas stood in this line. Luther, Calvin, Kierkegaard, Bonhoeffer, C.S. Lewis, and countless others stood here as well.

    I do not get to complain that the line is long.

    I simply take my place in it.

  • The Book That Failed to Cure Me of Paul

    The Book That Failed to Cure Me of Paul

    For more than twenty years, I have lived under the spell of Hyam Maccoby’s portrait of the apostle Paul in The Mythmaker: Paul and the Invention of Christianity. No book has done more to persuade me that Christianity might be the brilliant invention of a single, insecure, wildly ambitious genius. In Maccoby’s telling, Paul transformed a small Jewish sect into a universal religion by fusing Judaism, paganism, and strands of Hellenistic thought into something Jesus himself would scarcely have recognized. In the process, Paul elevated his own authority, turned Christianity against Judaism through supersessionism, and helped lay the theological foundation for the antisemitism that would spread through Western history like a centuries-long contagion.

    It is an intoxicating argument.

    Maccoby writes with the confidence of a prosecutor who has already secured the conviction before the trial begins. His prose is lucid, forceful, and relentlessly persuasive. He marshals his evidence with such authority that resistance feels almost irrational. Reading The Mythmaker is less like weighing competing historical interpretations than being swept into a courtroom drama where every witness seems to strengthen the case against the defendant.

    I was hardly alone in falling under its influence. On Amazon, the featured review is by the late novelist Anne Rice. After spending what she called “twelve earnest years” trying to become a Christian, her faith collapsed beneath what she regarded as Paul’s supersessionist theology and well-worn theological clichés. Maccoby, she writes, finally explained the confusion that had haunted her. Although she did not endorse every argument, she declared that the concluding chapter alone justified the price of the book.

    In many ways, I envy Rice.

    Maccoby gave her precisely what she had been searching for: an intellectually satisfying deconversion. His argument untied the theological knot that had troubled her and allowed her to walk away with a sense of clarity and peace.

    My own journey has been perversely different.

    The deeper I investigated Maccoby’s claims—and, just as importantly, the criticisms of his excesses—the less certain I became. Instead of confirming my doubts about Paul, the evidence steadily eroded my confidence in Maccoby’s portrait. The elegant certainty I once admired began to look increasingly overstated. The villain proved more elusive than the indictment suggested.

    Today I find myself in an unexpected place. My admiration for The Mythmaker has diminished, while my fascination with Paul has grown. Not because I have ceased asking difficult questions, but because Paul has become a far more complex, intelligent, passionate, and psychologically compelling figure than Maccoby allowed him to be.

    Much of that transformation can be traced to Emmanuel Carrère’s The Kingdom, my favorite novel. Carrère approaches Paul from almost the opposite direction. He does not write as an apologist, nor does he write as a prosecutor eager to secure a conviction. An agnostic by his own description, Carrère remains captivated by Paul, Luke, and the improbable chain of events that produced Christianity. He grants them neither sainthood nor villainy. Instead, he treats them as astonishingly gifted human beings whose words continue to exercise an almost gravitational pull on the Western imagination.

    That difference has mattered enormously to me. Maccoby offered the comforting simplicity of a conviction already reached. Carrère offered something rarer and ultimately more valuable: the unsettling experience of remaining in the presence of a man who refuses to become either hero or monster.

  • The Atheist Who Loved Church

    The Atheist Who Loved Church

    In 1979, I asked Christ to save me from hell and got baptized in a church. The minister dunking me held me under the water a little too long, triggering a claustrophobic panic. For a split second, I fought the urge to wrestle him underwater and put him in a headlock.

    The truth is, I never felt comfortable in church. The music grated on me, the displays of piety felt forced, and I was already battling social anxiety that made the whole scene intolerable. My Christian friends from high school were there, but they didn’t seem to understand me. Their conversations were peppered with Christian clichés, the kind that make your skin crawl. I felt crushed by a constant thought: all my Jewish relatives, long gone, were suffering in hell. The “good news” wasn’t working with me. I was depressed, and the sheer cheerfulness of everyone around me only magnified the dissonance I felt.

    At the time, my mother was dating Bill, a man in his fifties with a grim past. Abandoned by his parents, both alcoholics and addicts, he was found half-dead and drunk in a gutter at the age of eleven. He got sober as an adult and spent his life helping others do the same. His blue eyes, sad and weathered, hinted at that broken boy inside him. I couldn’t look in his eyes without seeing that eleven-year-old boy drunk and alone in the gutter. 

    One Sunday morning, as I was begrudgingly getting ready for church, Bill surprised me. He said he loved going to church, even though he didn’t believe in God. He wasn’t moved by the theology—he was an atheist, after all—but the hymns, he said, brought him joy and a sense of community he couldn’t find anywhere else. This stunned me then, and it still does now. How could someone, an atheist no less, attend church just to soak in the music and camaraderie? But Bill embraced that contradiction without a second thought.

    A few years later, my mother, in tears, told me Bill had died of lung cancer, the kind of death you might expect from someone who had smoked like a chimney. The news hit me hard, but what lingers most is the memory of those sad blue eyes, the ones that saw through me and seemed to carry the weight of that abandoned child in the gutter. Even now, the thought of him, lost and broken at eleven, leaves me feeling a heaviness that’s hard to shake and brings tears to my eyes.

    In her book Adam, Eve, and the Serpent, religious studies author Elaine Pagels writes about the pagans during the early Christian era who threw their unwanted babies in the trash. The Christians loved those abandoned babies and did all they could to save them. Their belief in God made such abandonment repugnant. Part of me thinks, I don’t know if I’m a Christian or not, but God bless those Christians for saving those babies. 

    I want to believe there is a part of me that wishes to love God for the same reason I was heartbroken when I learned of how Bill was abandoned as a small child and treated like unwanted rubbish. I want to believe that God would embrace such a child and bring him into His fold.

  • Legacy by Accident

    Legacy by Accident

    Ambition, vanity, posterity, or some other vainglorious itch may one day persuade you to write a book. You imagine Your Book as a respectable object of a certain length and seriousness, and then you set about manufacturing one. If you possess talent and something worth saying, you may even succeed. But, truth be told, that sort of book interests me far less than another kind: the book you never intended to write, the one that emerged despite your intentions.

    Blaise Pascal never sat down to compose a grand philosophical masterpiece. He scribbled fragments, observations, prayers, and flashes of insight on loose sheets of paper. Their intellectual voltage proved so extraordinary that, after his death, others gathered them into what became the Pensées. Paul, likewise, never dreamed of writing the New Testament. As Emmanuel Carrère observes in The Kingdom, “Paul didn’t write to create a body of work, but to keep in contact with the churches he founded.” Thirty-two thousand words—less than many contemporary self-help books—were enough to redirect the course of civilization.

    It is an unsettling truth for aspiring authors: good writing almost always defeats the book.

    N. T. Wright understands this instinctively. He opens his biography of Paul with the cinematic declaration, “Nothing would ever be quite the same again.” Paul strides onto the stage not as a quiet pastor dutifully composing devotional literature but as a theological wrecking ball, crashing through the ancient world and scattering centuries of inherited assumptions in every direction. He isn’t simply proclaiming a message. He is contesting the marketplace of ideas with the confidence of a man who believes history itself is about to change.

    Wright’s first exhibit is almost laughably modest: Paul’s surviving letters amount to roughly eighty printed pages.

    Eighty pages.

    That isn’t even the length of a forgettable airport thriller purchased on impulse before boarding business class. Yet those few dozen pages have been translated, debated, revered, condemned, dissected, footnoted, weaponized, and adored more than perhaps any comparable body of writing in history. They have shaped theology, politics, ethics, literature, philosophy, and the imagination of entire civilizations. 

    As I sort through the mountain of commentary I have written about Paul, the most astonishing fact isn’t any single doctrine he preached. It is the staggering disproportion between the size of his corpus and the magnitude of its consequences.

    One cannot help wondering whether this was accidental.

    Was Paul quietly constructing his own immortality, forging a legacy one epistle at a time? Was every letter another carefully placed stone in a monument he hoped would outlive him?

    The suspicion is understandable.

    Yet the stronger case points elsewhere.

    Paul writes like a man too consumed by immediate crises to worry about literary immortality. Congregations are splintering. Converts are backsliding. Rival teachers are circling. Stoics, Epicureans, mystery religions, pagan cults, and competing forms of Judaism all crowd the intellectual marketplace. Paul enters that arena not to preserve his reputation but to win an argument he believes carries eternal consequences. Wright aptly calls him a “contextual theologian.” Paul knew his gospel was not the only voice speaking in the first century. He simply believed it was the only one capable of making sense of the human condition in all its tragic grandeur—a conviction that pulses through every chapter of Romans.

    He was not composing a book.

    He was fighting a war.

    His letters are dispatches from the front lines, written with urgency, exhaustion, exasperation, tenderness, and flashes of breathtaking genius. At times he sounds like a patient mentor. At others he sounds like a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He contradicts himself, doubles back, argues, pleads, explodes, consoles, and reasons. Whatever else one says about Paul, he never sounds manufactured. He writes as though the fate of the world depends upon persuading one more wavering believer.

    That authenticity may explain his enduring influence better than any calculated literary ambition ever could.

    Most books, despite their impressive page counts and solemn intentions, vanish almost as soon as they appear. They enjoy a brief season on bookstore display tables before quietly migrating to library clearance sales, thrift stores, and eventually the recycling bin. The grand literary monument proves as consequential as a sneeze.

    But every so often another kind of writing appears.

    It is not trying to become a book. It is trying to solve an urgent problem, persuade a living audience, comfort frightened people, settle an argument, or tell the truth before time runs out. Only later does history gather those scattered pages together and recognize what their author never intended.

    That is what I call Legacy by Accident: enduring influence achieved not by chasing posterity, but as the unforeseen consequence of writing with such authenticity and urgency that posterity comes looking for you.

  • The Rich Writer Walks Away

    The Rich Writer Walks Away

    As Carrère wrestles with the Christian faith in The Kingdom, he finds himself tortured by the usual suspects: happiness, success, and self-actualization. This is a man dripping in privilege. Money? Check. Education? Check. Artistic genius? Double check. He’s a published writer, for God’s sake. And yet, all this supposed “success” builds not a kingdom but a fortress—a fortress of pride so impenetrable it doesn’t just fail to make him happy, it traps him in his own personal hell. Enter Jesus, stage left, with a nice, tidy warning from the Gospel of Luke: to find salvation, the rich man must give up all his money to the poor and follow Jesus. And, surprise surprise, Carrère immediately identifies with the rich guy. How do we let go of our wealth and worldly success when it clings to us like a designer straightjacket?

    What if, Carrère wonders, our success is creative? Surely, that’s different. Surely, success that flows from some deep, tortured well inside ourselves is something noble—something to be admired, right? As he spirals into these questions, he flips through his notebooks and stumbles upon a gem from a second-century Apocryphal Gospel: “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.” He muses that this would fit nicely in the pages of “upmarket personal-development books.”

    Carrère, now neck-deep in his existential quandary, asks himself the obvious question: shouldn’t he pat himself on the back for bringing forth the depth within him? Shouldn’t he be congratulating himself for writing novels that not only get published but are devoured by readers and spark weighty conversations about the meaning of life? Or is he just walking the well-worn path of the cocky artist who loves to sniff his own brilliance? He’s genuinely worried that he’s morphing into the literary equivalent of a boastful fool. “Nevertheless, a stubborn little voice persistently interrupts these moments of pharisaical smugness,” he writes. “It says that all the riches I enjoy—the wisdom I pride myself on, the confident hope that I have of being on the right track—are what prevent real accomplishment. I never stop winning, although to really win I’d have to lose. I’m rich, gifted, praised, deserving, and conscious that I deserve: for all of that, woe to me!”

    Carrère tries to shut this voice down, telling himself he’s sabotaging his own happiness with pathological tendencies to glorify his suffering, wallow in guilt, and indulge in self-flagellation like some kind of masochistic monk. But let’s be honest—his rebuttals are about as effective as trying to stop a flood with a roll of paper towels. “Nevertheless, I think that the little voice of the Gospel is right,” he admits. “And like the rich young man, I walk away, sad and pensive, for I have great wealth.”

    And there it is—Carrère, the writer who has everything, still can’t shake the feeling that his wealth is not just a blessing but a curse. If he’s really honest with himself, all his accomplishments might just be getting in the way of something deeper, something real. But giving it all up? Well, that’s a whole other story.

    Carrère observes, with his usual flair for the uncomfortable truth, that no one challenges us quite like Jesus when it comes to interrogating our priorities. What do we really love? And like Carrère, I cringe at the answer. I am embarrassingly devoted to my creature comforts, pleasures, and soothing routines. I wrap myself in them like a cozy blanket of denial. While Jesus is over there asking me to sacrifice my trivial, cushy existence and actually engage with the world for his sake, I stand frozen, as if glued to my recliner, as inert and useless as a pillar of salt. 

  • What’s a Guy Like Paul to Do?

    What’s a Guy Like Paul to Do?

    Revisiting The Kingdom, I’m struck once again by how Carrère dives into Maccoby’s The Mythmaker and finds himself, as usual, both stimulated and somewhat convinced. Maccoby’s portrait of Paul is a scathing one: a man whose letters reveal a wannabe Pharisee who never quite had the intellectual chops to measure up to the great Gamaliel’s rigorous logic. Instead, Paul, the ultimate malcontent, resents his way to the top by any means necessary. He’s a Pharisee reject, a man in need of a new ladder to climb. Enter the Sadducees, Paul’s new benefactors. Maccoby gleefully paints him as a “mercenary” and a “hatchet man” for the Sadducees—a hired thug for the enemies of the Pharisees. 

    In Paul’s self-serving retelling of his story, he demonizes Judaism and aggrandizes himself, projecting all the worst qualities of the Sadducees (and himself) onto the Pharisees, making them the convenient scapegoat. Naturally, the New Testament follows suit, reworking history with reckless abandon, making the Pharisees the Big Bad while carefully crafting a narrative that the Romans—those kindly, civilized overlords—might find palatable. No one, apparently, worried about the minor detail of two millennia of anti-Semitism that would follow. The idea of Christian love and kindness? Well, that got lost somewhere between rewriting history and needing Rome’s approval.

    Paul’s stint as a Sadducee’s henchman ends at Damascus, where he’s allegedly compelled by his vision to stop tormenting the Jesus followers and instead join them. But of course, Paul being Paul, even his conversion manages to be another way to torment the original Jesus-followers by hijacking their Torah-based teachings and replacing them with his mystical mishmash of mystery cults. Suddenly, Paul’s version of Jesus requires no Torah and offers a much more user-friendly religion for the gentiles. And in this religious battle for supremacy, as Carrère grimly notes, “it’s Paul who wins out, because, as we’ll soon see, the Temple is destroyed, Israel as a nation is annihilated, and the church of Jerusalem dispersed.”

    Maccoby, never one to hold back, sees all of this as a colossal fraud—a case of the victors rewriting history to suit themselves. He argues that Christianity is “nothing more than history written by the victors, the result of a huge falsification aimed at having people believe that Paul and his new religion are the inheritors of Judaism and not its detractors.”

    Paul didn’t just invent a religion—he gave Jesus a full makeover, complete with a brand-new mission statement. Suddenly, this Jesus wasn’t keen on the Pharisees anymore, despite the fact they were practically swapping parables like trading cards. Paul’s freshly-minted Christ had no interest in leading a political uprising like the Pharisees might have hoped. Paul’s Jesus had moved on to loftier things—”a nebulous identification with God,” or, as Paul might say, a VIP pass to the divine without the hassle of earthly concerns. 

    In Paul’s revisionist masterstroke, he conveniently positions himself as the only guy who really gets Jesus, surpassing the original apostles because, let’s face it, who wouldn’t trust a man who only met Jesus in a blinding light show? Paul’s newfound authority becomes so overwhelming that he practically files the Old Testament under “Miscellaneous”—a dusty collection of angelic telegrams leading up to the Jesus Show. And for anyone who dared to question his creative liberties? Let’s just say, there was no room for constructive criticism when your Yelp review could end in a good old-fashioned burning at the stake.

    Fast-forward two thousand years, and enter Maccoby—the intrepid Talmudic scholar—swinging a wrecking ball at the Pauline edifice. In The Mythmaker, Maccoby takes it upon himself to do what no one else apparently could: drag humanity out of two millennia of theological fog and into the light. In a move that rivals Paul’s own grandiosity, Maccoby essentially declares, “Don’t worry, folks. I’ll handle this.” And with that, he positions himself as the savior of our two-thousand years of confusion.

    Carrère, ever the skeptic, makes it clear that while Maccoby’s arguments are compelling, he doesn’t buy them hook, line, and sinker. “Passing off two thousand years of Church history as complete revisionism strikes me as the height of revisionism.” He points out that Jesus may have clashed with the Pharisees not out of sheer opposition, but because they were wise—and, like all wise people, they probably questioned the company Jesus kept. Carrère also acknowledges that, while anti-Semitism runs rampant through Christian history, we don’t have to deny that the Jews clashed with Jesus in a way that resulted in his death. His personality likely clashed with both the Jews and the Romans, so there’s no need to twist the historical narrative into an anti-Jewish screed.

    Then, of course, there’s Paul. To portray him “as a goy informer to the secret police” is to reduce his complexity to a cartoonish level. Carrère insists we don’t deny the “Dostoyevskian” depth in Paul’s letters, with all their contradictions, spiritual torment, and raw humanity. Paul may have been maddening, but he wasn’t a mere caricature.

    And in rereading Carrère’s analysis, I’m jolted by a moment of almost tragic comedy: Luke, the starry-eyed biographer, grappling with the same unflattering caricatures of Paul that Maccoby gleefully tears into. Luke had heard these damning whispers circulating about his golden boy—rumors painting Paul as something far less glorious than the saintly hero Luke immortalized in his breathless chronicle. It clearly rattled him to the core, probably like finding out your idolized childhood superhero moonlights as a mall Santa. 

    Maybe, just maybe, there’s more to Paul than the hatchet-wielding mercenary we love to despise. He’s a complicated man, a genius even—capable of crafting words so achingly beautiful they could make angels weep, and other times spewing rants so unhinged you’d think he was a madman scribbling manifestos in his lonely, dimly-lit cave. Paul, the poetic prophet of human frailty one minute, and the rabid, impoverished soul screaming into the void the next. 

  • The Theology of Loose Ends

    The Theology of Loose Ends

    Ironically, the book that comes closest to expressing my own questions about Christianity—Emmanuel Carrère’s autobiographical novel The Kingdom—barely touches the one theological obsession that dominated my adolescence: hell.

    As a high school senior, I wasn’t driven toward Christianity by the promise of heaven nearly as much as I was terrified by the prospect of eternal damnation. My Christian classmates casually informed me that my Jewish relatives were burning in hell. It wasn’t merely the outrageousness of the claim that unsettled me. It was the manner in which they delivered it. Their verdict came with the breezy confidence of teenagers discussing last Friday night’s football game. They spoke of infinite punishment with astonishing emotional indifference. The certainty chilled me more than the doctrine itself.

    Yet even that wasn’t the most disturbing thing I encountered.

    The church we attended used The Living Bible, a popular paraphrase whose study notes included the astonishing suggestion that the Holocaust represented God’s punishment for the Jewish rejection of Christ. I remember reading those words in disbelief. To reduce one of history’s greatest atrocities to divine retribution felt not merely offensive but morally grotesque. If this was Christian theology, I wanted to wash my hands of it altogether. I longed for a world in which hell—and every conversation orbiting around it—would simply disappear.

    But what if it did?

    Suppose I abandoned infernalism entirely. Would I become one of those Christian Universalists—the thoughtful believers who reject eternal conscious torment and insist that love, rather than fear, should be the foundation of faith? I find myself instinctively drawn to them. They argue that the threat of hell cheapens our relationship with God, reducing love to coercion. Their vision of the afterlife resembles less a cosmic torture chamber than an infinitely patient schoolroom. No one is abandoned forever. Every soul is eventually healed, even if that healing requires painful correction.

    There is something deeply attractive about that picture.

    There is also something that makes me uneasy.

    If the worst imaginable outcome is temporary purification, what becomes of moral urgency? Human nature being what it is, wouldn’t many of us quietly conclude that we can indulge our appetites now and settle our spiritual debts later? Universalism can begin to resemble the theological equivalent of Universal Basic Income: everyone eventually receives the same eternal inheritance regardless of how recklessly they spent their earthly lives. Why struggle against the gravitational pull of selfishness if, in the end, the bill is always paid?

    Then again, infernalism carries its own unbearable cost. A universe in which billions suffer endlessly is hardly a satisfying resolution either.

    Neither vision leaves me entirely at peace.

    Paul, interestingly enough, occupies both sides of this debate. Depending on the interpreter, he becomes either the great defender of eternal punishment or the great herald of universal reconciliation. What virtually everyone agrees upon, however, is that Paul’s own life embodies Christianity’s defining redemption story. The persecutor becomes the apostle. The anxious, self-divided voice of Romans discovers liberation through surrender to Christ. His life unfolds with remarkable narrative coherence: chaos gives way to grace, alienation to reconciliation, death to resurrection.

    It is a magnificent story.

    But must every true story end that way?

    Dara Horn raises a question that has lingered with me ever since I read People Love Dead Jews. She recalls a reader complaining that her novel The World to Come, centered on the survivor of a pogrom, wasn’t “uplifting” enough. The complaint revealed something curious. Even sophisticated readers seem to hunger for stories that gather their loose threads into a satisfying knot. We crave endings that reassure us the universe is fundamentally coherent.

    Horn is suspicious of that craving.

    Drawing upon Frank Kermode’s The Sense of an Ending, she argues that our expectation of tidy resolutions owes much to Christianity itself. Christian history moves toward fulfillment. Its central drama is redemption. The scattered fragments of existence are ultimately gathered into a meaningful whole. Jewish storytelling, by contrast, often refuses such closure. The Hebrew Bible concludes not with final resolution but with an unfinished journey. Questions remain unanswered. Promises remain unfulfilled. The story continues beyond the final page.

    That difference fascinates me.

    Christianity often invites us to see history as one grand redemption arc. Jewish literature is more willing to leave us standing inside the mystery. Rather than explaining suffering, it teaches us how to endure it. Rather than dissolving ambiguity, it learns to inhabit ambiguity with patience and humility. These stories do not pretend that chaos can always be conquered. They suggest that wisdom may consist in remaining faithful while chaos refuses to yield.

    Perhaps that is the more mature vision.

    Or perhaps I tell myself this because it allows me to avoid the far more demanding claims of Christianity. Perhaps my admiration for ambiguity is simply an elegant rationalization—a way of escaping the moral revolution that Carrère identifies at Christianity’s heart. If N. T. Wright and other defenders of Paul’s theology are correct, then Paul’s redemption story is not sentimental optimism but the astonishing claim that God has actually invaded history, overcome chaos, and begun dismantling what I have elsewhere called the Default Kingdom.

    I still do not know which story is true.

    I only know that I am no longer satisfied with easy answers, whether they arrive wrapped in eternal flames or universal embraces.