The story of the Bible.How it came about. And how harmful it is.

Imagine, if you will, a ragtag group of ancient scribes, mystics, and a few bored poets, all gathered around an open fire, trying to outdo each other with tales of floods, talking snakes, and apocalyptic visions. Toss in centuries of war, exile, and political upheaval, mix thoroughly with a generous helping of borrowed myths from the neighbors, and what do you get? The Bible: a wildly chaotic, often brutal, and thoroughly confused collection of stories that somehow became the sacred foundation for billions of people.

In this chapter, we’ll strip away the divine glow and show you the raw, stitched-together reality of these “holy” texts. From creation myths ripped off from earlier civilizations to apocalyptic fever dreams penned during times of crisis, it’s a rollercoaster of storytelling gone awry.

Prepare to be shocked, amused, and thoroughly exasperated as we reveal how these random, often contradictory scribblings somehow coalesced into a doctrine that’s been followed, twisted, and fought over for millennia. Spoiler alert: it’s not the divine revelation you’ve been led to believe.

Fasten your seatbelts — this is going to be a bumpy (and hilarious) ride through the greatest mishmash of religious lore ever assembled. And by the end, if you’re not questioning everything, well, you might just be the next scribe for the sequel.

1. Creation

The biblical creation story is arguably one of the most well-known narratives in the world. Genesis opens with the iconic phrase “In the beginning,” but what follows is far from unique to the Hebrew Bible. The concept of a world being formed from chaos, through the will or command of a god, mirrors many ancient mythologies from Mesopotamia, Egypt, and beyond. While Christians view Genesis as the singular origin story, it is, in fact, part of a long tradition of creation myths that ancient peoples used to explain the world around them.

The Genesis story is actually a composite of two distinct creation accounts, something many readers might miss at first. In the first account (Genesis 1:1–2:3), the world is created in six days, with God speaking the universe into existence, culminating in the creation of humanity in his image on the sixth day. In the second account (Genesis 2:4–25), we see a more hands-on approach, with God fashioning Adam from the dust and Eve from Adam’s rib. These two stories reflect different traditions — likely the Yahwist and Priestly sources — that were woven together over centuries.

Both accounts, however, lack originality in the broader ancient Near Eastern context. Take, for example, the Enuma Elish, the Babylonian creation myth, which predates Genesis by centuries. In this tale, the god Marduk slays the primordial sea goddess Tiamat and uses her body to form the heavens and the earth. Similarly, in Egyptian mythology, the god Atum creates the world from the watery chaos, Nu, by sheer force of will, much like God “speaking” creation into existence.

The biblical creation story reflects these older myths, reshaping them for a monotheistic audience. But the real kicker is that Christians and Jews hold this particular story as unique and divinely revealed, despite its clear mythological roots. So, as we dig deeper into the creation account, the Bible’s origins as a text shaped by multiple cultural influences become glaringly obvious.

The Genesis creation story may have resonated deeply with the early Hebrews, but its true power comes not from originality, but from its ability to assimilate and adapt pre-existing mythological elements to fit a monotheistic worldview. It’s also worth noting that the timeline of creation in Genesis doesn’t align with scientific understanding of the formation of the universe, the Earth, or life itself, further distancing it from modern interpretations of how everything came to be.

2. Paradise

The story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden is another foundational narrative in the Bible, explaining how sin entered the world. However, like the creation story, the idea of a paradise lost is far from unique. The Genesis account borrows heavily from older traditions, especially from Mesopotamian mythology, where the image of a lush, divine garden was a common motif.

The Garden of Eden narrative, found in Genesis chapters 2 and 3, tells the story of Adam, Eve, and their eventual expulsion from paradise due to disobedience. The crux of the story hinges on the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, which, once eaten, grants awareness of sin and mortality. But even a cursory glance at the mythologies of the ancient world reveals striking similarities to this tale.

In Mesopotamian lore, there’s the story of Dilmun, a paradise free of sickness, death, and suffering. It is the realm of the gods, where humans live in peace and abundance. Similarly, the Sumerians had tales of sacred gardens, places where the gods dwelled and where humans could gain divine wisdom. Like Eden, these paradises were also places of purity and perfection, representing an ideal state before the world became corrupted.

The serpent, one of the most memorable elements of the Eden story, is another borrowed motif. In many ancient cultures, serpents represented knowledge, immortality, and chaos. In Sumerian mythology, the snake played a significant role in the Epic of Gilgamesh, where it steals the plant of immortality from the hero Gilgamesh. This theft is reminiscent of how the serpent in Eden tempts Eve to eat the fruit that leads to her and Adam’s fall from grace.

It’s important to note that the Bible itself never directly associates the serpent with Satan or the devil — this connection was made much later by Christian theologians. In the original text, the serpent is simply a crafty creature, not the embodiment of evil, but one who triggers humanity’s downfall by giving them forbidden knowledge. The transformation of the snake into Satan came much later in the Judeo-Christian tradition, a prime example of how religious narratives evolve over time.

The expulsion from paradise represents more than just a fall from innocence; it’s a narrative deeply embedded in the human condition, addressing themes of temptation, knowledge, and mortality. But like the creation story, the Eden narrative is a reworking of much older mythological traditions, tailored to a new monotheistic framework.

Rather than being a unique revelation, the story of Eden is part of a larger tradition of explaining why life is hard, why humans suffer, and why we must toil for survival. The punishment for Adam and Eve’s transgression — death, pain in childbirth, and the curse of labor — are universal explanations for life’s harsh realities, with similar themes found in mythologies around the world. Yet, despite its ancient origins, Christians continue to hold this story as divine truth, ignoring its mythological DNA.

3. The Flood

The story of Noah’s Ark and the Great Flood is one of the most famous and often-debated narratives in the Bible. Found in Genesis chapters 6–9, the flood serves as a divine reset, a way for God to purge the earth of its corruption and start anew with Noah and his family. However, the story of a cataclysmic flood that wipes out humanity is far from unique to the Bible. In fact, nearly every ancient civilization in the Near East has its own version of a great flood, suggesting that this narrative was borrowed and adapted rather than divinely revealed.

The most famous parallel is found in the Epic of Gilgamesh, a Sumerian epic poem dating back to around 2100 BCE. In this tale, the gods decide to destroy humanity with a flood because they’ve become too noisy and troublesome. One man, Utnapishtim, is chosen by the god Ea to build a boat and save himself, his family, and a pair of each animal species. Sound familiar?

The similarities between the two stories are striking. Both Noah and Utnapishtim build large boats, take animals aboard, and survive the flood. Both narratives even include the detail of sending out birds to see if the waters have receded — a raven in the case of Utnapishtim, a dove in Noah’s story. The fact that these details are so closely aligned suggests that the biblical flood story is not a unique revelation from God, but rather a reworking of a much older Mesopotamian myth.

Even more striking is how flood myths appear in cultures far beyond the Near East. Ancient Greek, Hindu, and Native American traditions also include stories of great floods that wiped out most of humanity. These widespread myths likely stem from early human experiences of natural disasters, especially localized floods that were devastating enough to be passed down through oral traditions. In the ancient Near East, the flooding of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers may have been the inspiration behind these flood legends.

So why did the writers of Genesis include this story? It’s important to remember that the Bible, especially the Old Testament, was written during a time when Israel was surrounded by powerful neighboring civilizations like the Babylonians and Assyrians. Borrowing stories and symbols from these cultures would have been natural, especially when trying to explain divine justice or make sense of the world’s chaos.

What’s fascinating is how apologists have tried to twist the flood story into a historical event, suggesting that the fossil record and extinct species are evidence of Noah’s flood. This is absurd for many reasons. First, the diversity of fossils we find spans millions of years and includes species that never lived in the same eras. Second, the idea that all life forms were somehow loaded onto a boat and repopulated the earth from a single family’s livestock is laughably improbable. Where did the kangaroos, penguins, and lemurs come from after the flood? How did they get back to their natural habitats? Did Noah take a detour to Australia?

The flood story, like the creation story, is a theological narrative, not a historical one. It’s a way of explaining the perceived need for divine judgment, while also offering hope for renewal. The rainbow at the end of the flood serves as a symbol of God’s covenant, promising never to destroy the earth again in such a way. Yet, despite this promise, the world remains filled with natural disasters, suffering, and, as we know, local floods.

Rather than viewing the flood as historical fact, it’s much more logical to see it as a borrowed myth, adapted to fit the monotheistic worldview of ancient Israel. The story serves its purpose within the theological framework of the Bible but fails spectacularly when held up to historical or scientific scrutiny.

4. The patriarchs

The patriarchs of the Old Testament — Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob — are often seen as the founding fathers of the Israelite nation. Their stories, found primarily in the book of Genesis, are the cornerstone of the Jewish, Christian, and Islamic faiths. Abraham, revered as the first man to make a covenant with God, stands at the center of these narratives. Yet, like many stories in the Bible, the accounts of these patriarchs are a complex mix of myth, tradition, and historical reality.

Let’s start with Abraham. The story goes that God called him to leave his home in Ur of the Chaldees (modern-day Iraq) and journey to Canaan, promising him land and descendants as numerous as the stars. Abraham is depicted as a man of great faith, willing to sacrifice his son Isaac in obedience to God (though, conveniently, God steps in at the last minute to stop him). However, the historical Abraham is a figure shrouded in mystery. There’s no archaeological evidence to suggest that a man named Abraham actually existed, nor is there any proof that the Israelites can trace their lineage back to him. In fact, the name “Abraham” itself may have been symbolic, derived from a combination of terms that signify “father of many” or “exalted father,” a title that fit neatly into the larger narrative of God’s chosen people.

Isaac, Abraham’s son, is even more elusive. His story is often overshadowed by the more dramatic accounts of his father and his son, Jacob. Isaac’s near-sacrifice is the most notable moment in his life, but beyond that, he is more of a passive character in the biblical drama. What’s fascinating is how this story mirrors other ancient Near Eastern traditions of child sacrifice, such as the story of the Moabite king Mesha, who sacrificed his son to ensure victory in battle. The biblical authors may have borrowed this motif but tweaked it to emphasize Yahweh’s mercy — allowing Abraham to demonstrate his faith without actually committing the act.

Then we have Jacob, whose story is filled with deceit, trickery, and family drama. Jacob famously cheats his brother Esau out of his birthright and blessing and later wrestles with an angel (or God himself, depending on the interpretation), earning the name “Israel,” which means “he who struggles with God.” Jacob’s twelve sons would go on to become the ancestors of the twelve tribes of Israel, making him a pivotal figure in the development of Israelite identity.

However, when we look at the stories of the patriarchs through a historical lens, we start to see that these figures may not have been individual people at all, but rather legendary archetypes used to explain the origins of the Israelite tribes. Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob were likely created to serve as the symbolic ancestors of a group of tribes that formed the early Israelite confederation. This would explain why the biblical accounts are filled with fantastical elements — angels appearing, miraculous births, and divine interventions. These are not the hallmarks of history, but rather of mythmaking.

It’s also worth noting that the patriarchal stories share striking similarities with earlier Near Eastern traditions. For example, Abraham’s journey from Mesopotamia to Canaan mirrors the migrations of other Semitic peoples in the region, and his encounters with foreign kings resemble diplomatic episodes from the ancient world. Similarly, Jacob’s ladder — where he sees angels ascending and descending from heaven — may have been inspired by Mesopotamian ziggurats, tall temple structures that were believed to be the link between heaven and earth.

In essence, the stories of the patriarchs serve a theological purpose, explaining how the Israelites came to be God’s chosen people and why they inhabited the land of Canaan. But when we strip away the layers of religious significance, what we’re left with are tales that were likely borrowed from surrounding cultures and molded into a narrative that fit the Israelite worldview.

5. The Exodus

One of the most iconic and defining moments in the Old Testament is the story of the Exodus — the grand, dramatic escape of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt under the leadership of Moses. This event is the backbone of Jewish identity, commemorated every year during Passover, and it is central to Christian and Islamic traditions as well. However, like many stories in the Bible, the Exodus narrative is a curious mix of myth, tradition, and questionable historical accuracy.

The biblical account describes how the Israelites were enslaved by the Egyptian pharaoh, suffering under harsh conditions, until God heard their cries for help. Enter Moses, a Hebrew child saved from infanticide by being placed in a basket on the Nile, who is raised in Pharaoh’s court. After encountering God in the form of a burning bush, Moses is sent to deliver the Israelites. Ten devastating plagues later, Pharaoh finally agrees to let the people go. The Israelites flee, only to be pursued by Pharaoh’s army, but Moses miraculously parts the Red Sea, allowing them to escape while the Egyptian army is swallowed by the returning waters.

It’s a grand tale of liberation, divine intervention, and the triumph of good over evil. But when we dig deeper into the historical and archaeological record, things get murky. For one, there is no solid evidence that the Israelites were ever enslaved in Egypt. Despite extensive archaeological studies in Egypt, there is no trace of a large population of Hebrew slaves, nor is there any record of a mass exodus of people from Egypt. Pharaohs were known to document even the smallest victories, so it’s surprising that an event of such magnitude — the escape of an entire people — would go unrecorded in Egyptian history.

Some scholars suggest that the Exodus story may have been inspired by smaller, less dramatic events. Perhaps a group of Semitic people did flee Egypt at some point in history, and their story was passed down and embellished over time, eventually becoming the grand epic we read today. There are also theories that the story of the Exodus might have been influenced by other ancient Near Eastern myths and traditions, including the Mesopotamian legend of Sargon of Akkad, who, like Moses, was placed in a basket and set afloat on a river as a baby.

n Sargon’s tale, his mother, unable to keep her child, sealed him in a basket coated with tar and set him adrift on the Euphrates River. The waters carried him safely until he was found by Akki, a gardener serving Ur-Zababa, king of Kish. Remarkably, such a story would have been well-known in the bustling cultural crossroads of Babel, precisely around the time that Jewish scribes were compiling the ‘revised history’ of Israel’s origins. One can only wonder at the convenience of these well-placed myths, ripe for reinterpretation.”

The plagues of Egypt, while dramatic and terrifying, also have no historical basis outside of the biblical text. Some have tried to explain the plagues as natural phenomena — perhaps a series of environmental disasters or diseases — but there’s no consensus on whether they even happened at all. And let’s not forget the parting of the Red Sea. While some have speculated that a natural event, such as a strong wind or a tsunami, could have caused the sea to temporarily recede, there’s little evidence to support the idea that this miraculous event took place.

But even if we set aside the lack of historical evidence, the Exodus narrative itself is filled with contradictions and implausibilities. For example, the Bible tells us that 600,000 men (plus women and children) left Egypt, which would mean around two million people in total. This is an extraordinarily large number, especially considering that the entire population of Egypt at the time was likely only a few million. How could such a massive group of people leave Egypt and wander through the desert for 40 years without leaving any trace in the archaeological record?

The 40-year journey itself is also suspicious. The distance between Egypt and the promised land of Canaan is not that far, and even with a large group, it wouldn’t take four decades to make the trip. This is likely a symbolic number rather than a literal one, with “40 years” representing a generation — long enough for the generation of disobedient Israelites who doubted God to die off, making way for a new, more faithful generation.

What’s more, the ethical implications of the Exodus story are troubling. After their escape, the Israelites are commanded by God to conquer Canaan, a land already inhabited by other peoples. This conquest, often portrayed as a divinely ordained mission, leads to the slaughter of the Canaanites — a theme we’ll explore in greater detail in the next section.

Ultimately, the Exodus story, while central to the identity of the Israelites and later Jewish and Christian traditions, is more likely a mythological tale meant to explain the origins of the Israelite people and their special relationship with God. It’s a powerful narrative of liberation and divine favor, but one that has little basis in historical fact. The story serves a theological purpose, reinforcing the idea of a chosen people guided and protected by God, but as a historical event, it falls apart under scrutiny.

6. Moses and the law: Animal sacrifice and divine decrees

After the dramatic escape from Egypt, the Israelites find themselves wandering the wilderness, and it’s here that Moses climbs Mount Sinai to receive the law — the famous Ten Commandments, carved into stone by the finger of God himself. But the law doesn’t stop there. What starts with ten commandments soon turns into a veritable legal code that would make any modern legislature look like amateurs in comparison. From dietary restrictions to ritual purity to how to treat your slaves (yes, slaves), the laws Moses brings down from the mountain cover every aspect of life. And at the center of it all is the deeply troubling practice of animal sacrifice.

Let’s face it: the law that Moses gives the Israelites is downright brutal. A system that revolves around sacrifice seems more like something you’d find in a blood cult than in the divine plan of an all-loving God. The Israelites are instructed to slaughter animals — sheep, goats, bulls, birds — on a regular basis as offerings to atone for their sins. The sheer volume of blood spilled in the name of holiness is staggering. The temple in Jerusalem, when it was functioning, must have looked more like a butcher shop than a place of worship, with priests covered in blood and animal carcasses stacked high.

But here’s the kicker: God doesn’t need sacrifices. At least, not according to other parts of the Bible. In Psalms, we’re told that God doesn’t delight in burnt offerings, and the prophet Micah famously asks, “Shall I come before him with burnt offerings, with calves a year old? Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, with ten thousand rivers of oil?” Micah concludes that what God really wants is justice, mercy, and humility — not blood. So why the obsession with sacrifice in the Mosaic law? Why the rivers of blood?

In reality, animal sacrifice was a common practice in ancient Near Eastern religions. The Israelites didn’t come up with it — it was already widespread, from the Canaanites to the Egyptians. What Moses is doing here is essentially codifying the religious practices of the time, dressing them up with divine authority. And in a world where people believed that gods needed food and drink (or in this case, the smell of burning flesh), sacrifice made sense. It was a transaction: You give the god something, and in return, the god does something for you.

The idea that an all-powerful, all-loving God would demand the slaughter of innocent animals to atone for human misdeeds is deeply unsettling. It raises questions about God’s character: Why does He need blood to forgive sins? Why does He demand the death of something else to wipe away human guilt? It sounds more like a primitive, superstitious practice than the will of a moral deity. The whole system seems designed to keep people in a cycle of guilt and atonement, always needing to sacrifice more to stay in God’s good graces. It’s not exactly the picture of divine love and mercy that Christians like to paint.

But let’s not forget that the law of Moses isn’t just about animal sacrifice. It’s filled with other bizarre and brutal commands. If a man lies with another man, he should be stoned to death. If a woman is caught in adultery, she should be executed. Slaves can be beaten as long as they don’t die within a couple of days. The list goes on. In short, the Mosaic law is a harsh, primitive system that reflects the values and practices of a tribal, patriarchal society — not the eternal, loving will of an all-powerful god.

And yet, despite all this, Moses is revered as the greatest prophet in Judaism, and his law is held up as a model of justice and morality. Christians, too, often cite the Ten Commandments as the foundation of Western morality, conveniently ignoring the rest of the laws that call for the stoning of rebellious children and the prohibition of wearing mixed fabrics. It’s a selective reading of the Bible that glosses over the more disturbing aspects of the Mosaic law.

“If we take a step back, we can see that the so-called law of Moses is less about divine morality and more about social control within a tightly organized tribal society. These laws functioned as a strict code to maintain order, set the people apart from surrounding nations, and reinforce a collective identity as God’s chosen people. But can we truly call these laws divine? Or were they, instead, the product of a society attempting to impose structure, cohesion, and survival strategies in a volatile and competitive ancient world?

7. Conquest and settlers, prophets, rights, and kings: A bloody divine mandate?

After the Israelites finally escaped Egypt, wandered the wilderness, and received the law from Moses, it was time for them to claim their “promised land.” And what better way to do that than through conquest and war? The book of Joshua presents us with a disturbing picture: a people supposedly chosen by God to wipe out entire cities, massacre their inhabitants, and settle the land for themselves. It’s the story of the conquest of Canaan — a tale that makes modern wars of aggression look like petty squabbles in comparison.

The conquest of Canaan is portrayed as a divine mandate. God commands the Israelites to invade, conquer, and kill without mercy. “Show them no pity,” says God. Entire cities are destroyed, women and children slaughtered, and everything that breathes is put to the sword. The logic behind this genocide? The Canaanites were wicked and worshipped other gods, so they had to go. Simple as that. In the eyes of the Israelites, God’s chosen people, this was a justified, holy war.

But when you look at it from a modern perspective, the whole thing seems grotesque. Imagine if any group today claimed that God had given them the right to invade another country, kill all its people, and take their land. They’d be condemned as war criminals, not celebrated as heroes. And yet, that’s exactly how the Bible frames Joshua and the Israelites. The conquest of Canaan is seen as a glorious, divinely ordained victory, not the ruthless genocide that it actually was.

In truth, the story of the conquest probably didn’t happen the way the Bible tells it. Archaeological evidence suggests that the Israelites didn’t invade Canaan from the outside — they were more likely an offshoot of the Canaanite population itself. The so-called conquest might have been a series of small skirmishes and local uprisings rather than a sweeping military campaign. But the biblical writers needed a grand narrative to justify Israel’s claim to the land, so they concocted this story of divine conquest. And like all great myths, it served its purpose: It gave the Israelites a sense of identity and destiny, even if it was built on bloodshed and lies.

But the conquest didn’t stop with Joshua. The period of the judges, as described in the book of Judges, is a chaotic time of continual warfare, as the Israelites struggle to establish themselves in the land. It’s a brutal, violent period, filled with stories of betrayal, murder, and vengeance. The judges themselves — Gideon, Samson, Jephthah — are hardly paragons of virtue. Samson, for example, is a womanizing brute who kills hundreds of people with the jawbone of a donkey. Jephthah makes a rash vow to sacrifice the first thing that comes out of his house if God gives him victory in battle — unfortunately, that turns out to be his daughter.

And then there’s the story of King Saul, Israel’s first monarch. The Israelites demand a king to rule over them, even though God warns them that a king will tax them, enslave their sons, and take their daughters as concubines. Nevertheless, they insist, and God reluctantly agrees to give them Saul. But Saul’s reign is a disaster. He disobeys God, loses his mind, and spends the latter part of his rule hunting down David, the shepherd boy who will eventually take his place as king.

Enter King David: the golden boy of Israel, the man after God’s own heart. But even David, the great hero of the Bible, is a deeply flawed character. He’s a warrior king who sheds plenty of blood, including that of Uriah the Hittite, whose wife Bathsheba David lusts after. David has Uriah killed to cover up his affair with Bathsheba, and yet, despite this egregious sin, David remains God’s favorite. It’s a classic case of biblical double standards: When someone else breaks the law, they’re punished severely. But when David does it, God forgives him and lets him off with a slap on the wrist.

When David seduced Bathsheba and orchestrated Uriah’s death, the punishment fell not directly on David but on his innocent child. According to the Bible, after the prophet Nathan confronted David about his sins, God decided that the child born to David and Bathsheba would die as a consequence (2 Samuel 12:14). Despite David’s intense grief and prayers for the child, the baby eventually succumbed, suffering for actions he could not have even understood, let alone been responsible for.

The ripple effects of David’s actions continued to bring tragedy upon his family. His household fell into chaos: his son Amnon assaulted his half-sister Tamar, Absalom rebelled against David, and there was ongoing strife among his children. Each of these events can be seen as part of the “punishment” David faced, though, again, it was the innocent who bore the brunt of the suffering.

It’s a powerful example of how, in these stories, biblical justice often fell not on the guilty but on those around them, especially the vulnerable and blameless — highlighting a recurring and troubling pattern of collective punishment.

Then there’s Solomon, David’s son, who is known for his wisdom. But Solomon’s wisdom doesn’t stop him from enslaving his own people to build the temple and his lavish palace, nor does it prevent him from marrying hundreds of foreign women and turning a blind eye to their idol worship. Solomon’s reign marks the height of Israel’s power, but it also sows the seeds of division and decay. After his death, the kingdom splits in two: Israel in the north and Judah in the south. And it’s all downhill from there.

The divided kingdoms of Israel and Judah are a mess of political intrigue, idolatry, and constant warfare. Prophets like Elijah, Elisha, Amos, and Hosea try to call the people back to faithfulness, but their words often fall on deaf ears. The kings of Israel and Judah engage in power struggles, assassinations, and alliances with foreign nations, while the prophets warn of impending doom. And doom does come, in the form of the Assyrians and Babylonians, who conquer the two kingdoms and carry the people into exile.

But throughout all this, the biblical narrative insists that Israel is still God’s chosen people, even though they’ve been slaughtering, betraying, and corrupting themselves for centuries. It’s a story of violence and hypocrisy, dressed up as divine destiny. And what’s worse, these stories are still held up as examples of moral virtue, as if the bloody conquests, the betrayals, and the royal corruptions are somehow part of God’s grand plan for humanity.

The prophets, of course, have their moments of clarity. Figures like Amos and Hosea speak out against injustice, calling for a society based on mercy and righteousness rather than bloodshed and greed. But their voices are often drowned out by the roar of war and the machinations of power-hungry kings. In the end, the conquest of Canaan and the rule of the kings reveal a troubling pattern: a God who commands violence and bloodshed in the name of righteousness, but who also turns a blind eye to the sins of His chosen rulers when it suits His purposes.

8. David, Solomon, and the divided kingdoms: The rise and fall of a golden age

David, the man after God’s own heart, stands as the archetype of a king in the Bible. But don’t be fooled by the glowing praise. Yes, David was brave, charismatic, and deeply devoted to God, but he was also deeply flawed — a man who committed some of the worst acts imaginable, and yet was constantly forgiven. As the stories are told, you get the distinct feeling that biblical favoritism was in full force here.

David’s rise begins with his dramatic defeat of Goliath, the Philistine giant who had paralyzed the Israelite army with fear. Armed with just a sling and a few stones, David strikes down Goliath with divine assistance, marking the beginning of his ascent to fame. But David’s life is far from the simple story of a hero. After being anointed as the future king, David spends years on the run from the current king, Saul, who becomes increasingly paranoid and unstable. Saul’s jealousy over David’s growing popularity drives him to madness, leading him to hunt David down like an animal.

Once Saul is dead, David finally claims the throne. His reign is marked by military victories, political maneuvering, and uniting the tribes of Israel into a cohesive kingdom. But it’s also marked by corruption, deceit, and murder. Take, for example, the infamous Bathsheba incident: David, already married, spies Bathsheba bathing on a rooftop and immediately decides he wants her. The problem? She’s married to one of his loyal soldiers, Uriah. David doesn’t let that stop him — he has Uriah sent to the front lines of battle where he’s sure to be killed, clearing the way for David to marry Bathsheba.

This crime is egregious by any standard, but especially in a book that supposedly teaches moral values. Yet David is forgiven after showing remorse, and while he suffers consequences (the death of his child), his status as God’s chosen king remains intact. How convenient.

But David’s reign, with all its bloodshed and intrigue, is nothing compared to the chaos that follows with his sons. David’s family life is a mess — one son, Amnon, rapes his half-sister Tamar, leading to another son, Absalom, murdering Amnon in revenge. Absalom then stages a coup against David, forcing him to flee Jerusalem. Ultimately, Absalom is killed in battle, leaving David heartbroken and lamenting the loss of his rebellious son. This soap opera of betrayal, murder, and dysfunctional family dynamics is hardly the portrait of a righteous dynasty.

When David finally dies, his son Solomon takes the throne. Solomon is renowned for his wisdom — he famously settles a dispute between two women claiming to be the mother of a baby by suggesting the child be cut in half, with each woman receiving a portion. The real mother, of course, immediately gives up her claim to save the child, revealing her true identity. But Solomon’s wisdom isn’t enough to prevent his reign from spiraling into excess and corruption.

Solomon’s greatest achievement is the construction of the Temple in Jerusalem, a lavish building meant to house the Ark of the Covenant. But the Temple, as impressive as it was, came at a high cost. Solomon forced his own people into labor, essentially enslaving them to build his grand projects. And his legendary wealth? Much of it was spent on accumulating wives — 700 wives and 300 concubines, according to the Bible. This wasn’t just a case of royal excess; Solomon’s many foreign wives introduced pagan worship into Israel, leading to idolatry and religious corruption.

By the time Solomon dies, his kingdom is ripe for collapse. His heavy taxation and forced labor have alienated the people, and his son Rehoboam proves to be an incompetent ruler. When Rehoboam refuses to lighten the burdens placed on the people, the northern tribes revolt, splitting the kingdom in two. The northern kingdom becomes Israel, with its capital in Samaria, while the southern kingdom of Judah retains Jerusalem as its capital. From here, things only go downhill.

The divided kingdoms of Israel and Judah are marked by constant warfare, political instability, and moral decay. The kings of both kingdoms are largely failures, with only a few exceptions. Most of them turn to idol worship, engage in alliances with foreign powers, and neglect the laws of God. It’s a downward spiral of corruption and chaos.

The prophets — figures like Elijah, Elisha, Amos, and Isaiah — try to call the people back to righteousness, but their warnings often go unheeded. The kings and people of Israel and Judah seem more interested in power and wealth than in justice or mercy. The northern kingdom of Israel is particularly bad, with a series of corrupt kings leading the nation deeper into idolatry and moral decay. Things get so bad that the Assyrians eventually invade and destroy Israel, carrying its people off into exile. The southern kingdom of Judah fares a little better, but it too falls into sin and idolatry, leading to its conquest by the Babylonians.

The divided kingdoms, once the pride of God’s chosen people, end in ruin. Israel is scattered among the nations, and Judah is left in ashes, its people carried off to Babylon in exile. The great experiment of kingship, which began with such hope under Saul and David, ends in failure and destruction.

9. Exile and return: The fall of Judah and the long silence

“With the divided kingdoms of Israel and Judah hurtling toward disaster, the biblical narrative shifts to focus on the destruction of these once-great nations and their eventual exile. For the ancient Israelites, this period of exile was not just a political catastrophe; it was a spiritual crisis of epic proportions.

In 722 BCE, the northern kingdom of Israel fell to the Assyrian Empire, marking the end of Israel as a distinct nation. The people of Israel were scattered, becoming what’s now referred to as the “Ten Lost Tribes.” Meanwhile, Judah managed to hold on for a while longer, but its fate was sealed when the Babylonian Empire rose to power. In 586 BCE, King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon laid siege to Jerusalem, eventually destroying the city and the magnificent Temple Solomon had built. The people of Judah were taken captive and sent into exile in Babylon, leaving the land of their ancestors behind.

(It’s worth noting that the disappearance of the ten northern tribes and the survival of Judah may have roots beyond the religious narrative of loyalty or disobedience. The northern kingdom of Israel was more agriculturally oriented, with decentralized worship practices and no single religious center like Jerusalem. Politically unstable, Israel experienced frequent changes in dynasty, and the Assyrian conquest ultimately scattered the population to weaken their identity. Judah, by contrast, was smaller but more cohesive, with the Temple in Jerusalem serving as a spiritual and cultural center. Babylon may have found enough cultural and political value in the educated elite of Judah to exile them collectively rather than scattering them. This preservation of Judah’s elite allowed them to maintain their identity in Babylon, enabling their descendants to eventually return with a redefined sense of unity.)

This event was a watershed moment for the Jewish people. The Temple — God’s dwelling place on Earth — was gone. The monarchy, once the symbol of God’s covenant with David, was finished. For many, it seemed that the promises God had made to their ancestors were broken, or at the very least, put on indefinite hold.

During their time in Babylon, the Israelites faced a crisis of identity. How could they continue to worship God without a Temple? How could they remain a people without a land? These questions haunted them as they tried to navigate life in a foreign land. It was during this time that many of the biblical texts we know today were either written or compiled. The stories of the patriarchs, the laws of Moses, and the prophetic writings were brought together to preserve the heritage of the people in exile.”

The prophets, particularly figures like Jeremiah and Ezekiel, spoke words of hope and judgment during this time. Jeremiah had warned the people of Judah that the exile was coming, that they were being punished for their disobedience and idolatry. But he also offered a glimmer of hope, telling the exiles that God had not forgotten them, and that one day they would return to their land. Ezekiel, too, delivered a message of both doom and restoration, painting vivid images of the destruction of Jerusalem but also prophesying the eventual return of God’s people and the rebuilding of the Temple.

The hope of return was realized when the Babylonian Empire fell to the Persians under King Cyrus in 539 BCE. Cyrus, in a remarkably enlightened move for his time, allowed the exiles to return to Judah and rebuild their Temple. This event is recorded in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah, which describe the efforts to reconstruct Jerusalem and reestablish the Jewish community in the land of their ancestors.

But the return from exile was not the grand restoration many had hoped for. The rebuilt Temple, though significant, was a shadow of its former glory. The people of Judah were no longer an independent kingdom; they were a province of the Persian Empire. The Davidic line of kings was not restored, and the Jewish community found itself living under foreign rule, first under the Persians, then the Greeks, and later the Romans. This period of history, often called the Second Temple period, was marked by foreign domination and internal struggles over how best to remain faithful to God’s covenant in a world where they had little political power.

What’s particularly interesting is the period of “silence” that follows the return from exile. After the flurry of prophetic activity during the time of the exile, the Bible records no major prophetic voices during the centuries that follow. This gap, often referred to as the “silent years,” stretches from the completion of the Old Testament writings until the arrival of John the Baptist in the New Testament. What happened during these silent years? How did the Jewish faith evolve during this time?

While the Bible may be silent, history tells us that this was a period of significant change. The Jewish people faced ongoing struggles to maintain their religious identity under Greek and Roman rule. The rise of various sects — Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes — reflected different responses to the challenges of living under foreign rule. The Jewish people were looking for answers, for a way to restore their national identity, for the long-awaited Messiah who would bring them salvation and deliverance from their oppressors.

And yet, no clear prophetic voice emerged. God, it seemed, had gone quiet. For centuries, the Jewish people waited and watched, holding on to the hope that one day, the promises made to their ancestors would be fulfilled. It is into this atmosphere of anticipation and frustration that the New Testament story of Jesus of Nazareth enters, but that is for the next section.

10. The gospels: Crafting the divine narrative

“The story of Jesus is one that many are familiar with, but few realize how many different versions of this story were circulating in the early days of Christianity. The four canonical gospels — Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John — are only a handful of the accounts that were written. There were dozens of other texts, now known as the apocryphal gospels, which told different stories of Jesus, his life, his teachings, and even his resurrection.

While the gospels as we know them today are often seen as direct testimonies, they are not eyewitness accounts. In fact, the earliest gospel, Mark, was written decades after Jesus’ death, somewhere around 70 CE. By the time the gospel of John was written, around 90 to 100 CE, Christianity had already diverged into a variety of sects, each with its own interpretations of Jesus and his significance.

The authors of these gospels were educated, Greek-speaking individuals, most likely writing outside Judea. Though they are traditionally named after Jesus’ disciples, there’s little historical evidence to suggest these attributions are accurate. The writers were not humble fishermen from Galilee but educated and literate individuals well-versed in Greek. This linguistic and literary fluency suggests they were likely part of the educated elite, who had access to the scrolls, literature, and rhetorical training necessary to construct such complex narratives.

Mark, thought to be the earliest gospel, was likely written by someone living in Rome or Syria, writing around the time of Jerusalem’s destruction in 70 CE. The gospel’s urgency and simplicity reflect the turmoil of the period, capturing a sense of immediacy and concern for spreading Jesus’ teachings amid Roman occupation and upheaval. Mark’s narrative begins with Jesus’ baptism, omitting details of his birth and early life, perhaps because these were not central to the author’s message or because they were unknown.

Matthew and Luke appear to draw heavily from Mark, but each has distinct differences in tone and content that reflect the beliefs and communities of their authors. Matthew, written roughly a decade after Mark, includes a genealogy tracing Jesus’ descent from Abraham, emphasizing his connection to Jewish heritage. Scholars believe Matthew was written for a Jewish audience, possibly in Antioch, as it emphasizes Jesus as the fulfillment of Jewish prophecy and presents teachings closely tied to Jewish law.

Luke, on the other hand, presents a more universal message. Traditionally attributed to Luke the physician, a companion of Paul, this gospel is often considered the most polished in its Greek and thought to be written for a gentile audience. Luke’s author provides a second genealogy that differs from Matthew’s and tells a unique nativity story. He introduces shepherds and angels, creating a narrative rich in symbolism. Luke’s version of Jesus’ life and message underscores compassion, outreach, and inclusivity, aligning with gentile values.

John, the latest gospel, stands apart both linguistically and thematically from the other three. Written around 90–100 CE, it reflects a more developed theology, with Jesus presented as a divine figure from the beginning of time. The author of John, traditionally seen as the disciple John, was likely a Greek-speaking Christian from a region influenced by Hellenistic thought, perhaps Ephesus. This gospel’s abstract style and philosophical tone diverge from the synoptic gospels, suggesting that by this time, Christianity had matured into a more diverse movement with complex theological beliefs.

The gospels themselves do not even agree on basic facts about Jesus’ life. Matthew and Luke tell two very different nativity stories, with conflicting genealogies and contradictory accounts of Jesus’ birth. In one story, Mary and Joseph flee to Egypt to escape Herod’s wrath; in the other, they return directly to Nazareth, with no mention of Egypt. Mark, the earliest gospel, skips Jesus’ birth entirely and begins with his baptism as an adult.

Taken together, these gospels reflect the diversity and complexity of early Christianity and the various interpretations of Jesus’ life and teachings that emerged in different communities. The educated, Greek-speaking authors behind these texts may have had indirect contact with earlier oral traditions about Jesus, but each gospel reveals distinct goals and theological messages, shaped by the perspectives and beliefs of their time and place.”

When we get to the resurrection, the contradictions only get worse. In Mark’s original ending, there is no resurrection appearance at all — just an empty tomb and a few terrified women. Matthew and Luke tell different stories about where Jesus appeared to his disciples after the resurrection, and John adds even more details that don’t quite fit with the other accounts. The discrepancies between these stories are not minor — they go to the heart of the Christian message. Yet, despite these inconsistencies, these four gospels were eventually canonized and are now considered the definitive accounts of Jesus’ life.

But why were these four gospels chosen over the dozens of others that existed at the time? The answer has more to do with politics than with theology. The early church was deeply divided, with different groups promoting different versions of Christianity. Some, like the Gnostics, believed that Jesus’ teachings were meant to reveal secret knowledge about the divine, while others, like the proto-orthodox Christians, believed in a more straightforward interpretation of Jesus’ life and teachings. The gospels that were eventually chosen for the New Testament reflected the beliefs of the proto-orthodox faction, which ultimately gained the most power in the early church.

As the church consolidated its power, it declared the other gospels heretical and banned them from circulation. Some of these texts were lost forever, while others were discovered centuries later, hidden away in caves or buried in the sands of Egypt. The Gospel of Thomas, for example, is a fascinating collection of Jesus’ sayings that is completely different from the narrative gospels of the New Testament. In the Gospel of Thomas, Jesus is not portrayed as a divine savior who dies for humanity’s sins but as a teacher of wisdom who shows people how to find the divine within themselves. This version of Jesus was a direct threat to the authority of the church, which is why it was rejected and suppressed.

So, who was the real Jesus? Was he the divine Son of God, as portrayed in the canonical gospels? Or was he a wise teacher, a prophet, or even a political revolutionary? The truth is, we don’t really know. The historical Jesus is a shadowy figure, obscured by layers of myth and legend that were added to his story over the centuries.

Scholars have spent decades trying to reconstruct the life of the historical Jesus, separating fact from fiction in the gospel accounts. What they’ve found is a man who was very different from the figure worshipped in Christian churches today. The real Jesus was a Jewish teacher who preached about the coming kingdom of God, a message that was deeply rooted in Jewish apocalyptic thought. He believed that God was about to intervene in history, overthrow the oppressive Roman rulers, and establish a new era of peace and justice for the Jewish people.

Jesus’ message was radical, but it was also specific to his time and place. He was not preaching a universal message of salvation for all humanity — he was focused on the plight of the Jewish people under Roman occupation. His teachings about love, forgiveness, and humility were meant to prepare people for the coming kingdom of God, which he believed was imminent.

But after his death, Jesus’ followers began to reinterpret his message to fit their own needs. As Christianity spread beyond Judea and into the wider Roman Empire, his teachings of liberation, forgiveness, and compassion took on new meanings. What began as a call for justice and renewal among the Jewish people transformed into a message of spiritual salvation for all humanity. This shift marked a stark departure from Jesus’ own words. The idea of Jesus as a suffering savior who died to atone for humanity’s sins — something entirely foreign to Jesus’ teachings on forgiveness — became central to the emerging Christian faith.

This reinterpretation was driven primarily by the Apostle Paul, whose theology introduced the concept of Jesus as a sacrificial lamb, paying the price for sin. For Paul, atonement became the core of the Christian message, and this radically altered how Jesus was seen and understood. Paul’s theology diverged so sharply from Jesus’ own teachings that it laid the foundation for an entirely new religion — one built around salvation through Jesus’ death rather than through the lived message of forgiveness he preached. We’ll explore Paul’s impact in greater detail in a later section.

As the early church grew, it needed a cohesive narrative to rally around, and the gospel writers were more than willing to provide that narrative, even if it meant stretching the truth or smoothing over inconvenient details. The result is a story that is part fact, part fiction, and entirely open to interpretation.

The gospels, far from being straightforward accounts of Jesus’ life, are deeply political documents. They were written to promote a particular vision of Christianity, one that would serve the interests of the early church. While they include elements of Jesus’ teachings, they also reflect the concerns and beliefs of the people who wrote them, including the need to secure Christianity’s position within the Roman Empire.

A telling example of this is how the blame for Jesus’ crucifixion shifts onto ‘the wicked Jews’ while the Romans, historically notorious for their brutal tactics and public executions, are depicted as reluctant participants. Despite the fact that crucifixion was a uniquely Roman form of punishment, reserved for insurrectionists and threats to imperial order, the gospel narratives go to lengths to portray Pontius Pilate as hesitant and pressured into condemning Jesus, placing the ultimate responsibility on the Jewish authorities. This portrayal served a political purpose, deflecting hostility from Roman authorities at a time when early Christians sought acceptance in a Roman-dominated world.

The historical Jesus — the man who lived and preached in first-century Judea — has been almost completely obscured by the layers of myth and legend added over the centuries. And yet, the figure of Jesus remains one of the most influential in human history, a testament to the power of narrative to shape belief and society. In creating a version of events that would not threaten their precarious position, early Christian writers not only reshaped Jesus’ life and teachings but also fostered prejudices and narratives that would reverberate for centuries.

11. Acts and the early church: James, Jacob, and the rise of a movement

The book of Acts, traditionally attributed to Luke, offers a glimpse into the early Christian movement after the death of Jesus. The period described in Acts is often romanticized as the heroic age of Christianity — a time of unity, persecution, and miraculous growth. But as with much of the New Testament, there’s more than meets the eye. While Acts provides the framework, the historical reality of the early church is far more nuanced.

James and the Jerusalem church

One of the most prominent figures in the early church was James, traditionally believed to be the brother of Jesus. James led the Jerusalem church, which became a center of early Christian activity. However, this version of Christianity was not the same as the one that later spread across the Roman Empire. James and the Jerusalem faction maintained a strong Jewish identity and emphasized adherence to Jewish law. This “Jewish Christianity” was deeply connected to its roots in Judaism, and its members continued to practice traditional Jewish customs.

This is crucial because it illustrates that the early Christian movement was, in many ways, a Jewish sect. Christianity did not emerge as a completely distinct religion from day one; it evolved slowly out of the Jewish context. James’ role in the church exemplifies this continuity, showing a form of Christianity that would be unrecognizable to modern Christians.

Alleged persecution: Fact or fiction?

The narrative of persecution is central to the story of the early church, especially in Acts. It describes how early Christians faced hostility and violence, often at the hands of Jewish authorities and later the Romans. But how much of this persecution was real?

There is little evidence outside of Christian sources that the early followers of Jesus were systematically persecuted in the first century. Much of what we read in Acts and other New Testament writings could have been exaggerated to create a sense of martyrdom and unity within the early church. For example, while some figures like Stephen are described as martyrs, these may be isolated incidents rather than evidence of widespread persecution.

The Roman Empire was, at this time, remarkably tolerant of diverse religious beliefs, as long as they did not incite rebellion or disloyalty to the state. It’s possible that early Christian communities faced local opposition, but it’s unlikely that they were systematically hunted down by either the Jewish or Roman authorities in this early period. The real conflicts may have been more internal, between different factions of believers.

The earliest writings and accounts

When discussing the earliest Christian texts, many assume the gospels came first, but they didn’t. The letters of Paul are the oldest surviving Christian writings, predating the gospels by decades. This places Paul (and his interpretations of Jesus’ message) at the forefront of what we know about early Christian theology. But we’ll dive deeper into that in the next section.

Aside from Paul’s letters, very little survives from the earliest years of the Christian movement. The oral traditions that would eventually form the gospels circulated within the small communities of believers. There were undoubtedly other writings and accounts, but many of them either did not survive or were later deemed heretical and destroyed.

The role of Jacob (and the confusion)

One oddity in early Christian history is the figure of Jacob, sometimes confused with James in translation. Jacob, known as Jacob the Just, was another significant leader in the early church, but historical records blur his identity and role, leaving us with fragmented accounts of his influence. The overlap and confusion between these early figures show just how diverse and chaotic the early movement was, with different strands of belief coexisting and sometimes conflicting.

Paul’s conversion: Enter the game-changer

At some point, Saul of Tarsus enters the picture — better known to us as Paul. His dramatic conversion on the road to Damascus, described in Acts, marks a turning point for the early Christian movement. Paul, unlike James and the Jerusalem church, would take the message of Jesus beyond the confines of Judaism, transforming it into a universal faith.

12. The Apostle Paul: Architect of a new religion

Paul of Tarsus is, without question, the most influential figure in the history of Christianity. While Jesus’ teachings laid the groundwork, it was Paul who built the theological framework that would define the faith for centuries to come. Yet, for all his influence, Paul’s version of Christianity is a far cry from the message Jesus himself preached. Modern scholars like Bart Ehrman have highlighted the striking differences between the two and the tensions that existed between Paul and the early Jewish-Christian community in Jerusalem.

Paul’s letters: What did he really write?

Before diving into Paul’s theology, it’s important to clarify what we know about his writings. Of the 13 letters attributed to Paul in the New Testament, modern scholars agree that only seven are genuinely his: Romans, 1 Corinthians, 2 Corinthians, Galatians, Philippians, 1 Thessalonians, and Philemon. These letters are the earliest Christian texts we have, written decades before the gospels. The other letters — Ephesians, Colossians, 2 Thessalonians, 1 and 2 Timothy, and Titus — are widely considered pseudepigraphical, meaning they were written by later followers, not by Paul himself.

The distinction is crucial because the later letters contain ideas that diverge significantly from Paul’s authentic writings, adding layers of theological development that reflect the concerns of the early church rather than Paul’s original message.

Paul and Jesus: A fundamental disconnect

One of the most startling facts about Paul is that he never knew Jesus personally. He wasn’t a disciple, didn’t witness Jesus’ ministry, and had no direct connection to the man he would later call “Christ.” Paul’s conversion happened after Jesus’ death, following his famous vision on the road to Damascus.

This raises an obvious question: How did a man who never met Jesus become the primary interpreter of his teachings? The answer lies in Paul’s reinterpretation of Jesus’ message. Unlike the Jewish-Christian movement led by Jesus’ disciples in Jerusalem, Paul’s version of Christianity was focused on faith in Jesus’ death and resurrection, rather than on adherence to Jewish law. For Paul, Jesus wasn’t just a prophet or a teacher of wisdom — he was the divine son of God whose death had cosmic significance. This idea, radically different from the Jesus movement in Jerusalem, set Paul on a collision course with the Jewish Christians.

The clash with Peter and James

Paul’s letters reveal the deep tensions between himself and the leaders of the Jerusalem church, particularly Peter and James. In Galatians, Paul recounts how he confronted Peter over his treatment of Gentile converts. According to Paul, Peter initially ate with Gentile Christians but later withdrew from them when Jewish Christians arrived. Paul rebuked Peter for hypocrisy, accusing him of failing to live up to the new gospel of inclusion that Paul was preaching.

The underlying issue was more than just a disagreement over table fellowship — it was a clash over the very identity of the Christian movement. Peter and James represented the Jewish-Christian faction that believed followers of Jesus should continue to observe the Torah, including circumcision and dietary laws. Paul, on the other hand, was adamant that faith in Christ was sufficient for salvation and that the old Jewish laws were no longer binding. This conflict wasn’t a minor theological squabble; it was a battle over the future direction of the entire movement.

Paul’s revolutionary message: Salvation through faith, not works

One of Paul’s most radical innovations was his doctrine of justification by faith. In letters like Romans and Galatians, Paul argues that humans are not made right with God through adherence to the law (works) but through faith in Christ. This was a sharp break from Jewish tradition, where righteousness was achieved by following the commandments.

Paul’s focus on faith, rather than works, allowed him to expand the Christian message beyond the Jewish community and to the Gentiles. For Paul, Jesus’ death and resurrection were the ultimate fulfillment of God’s promise, and salvation was available to all, regardless of their adherence to Jewish law.

This universalist message was the key to Paul’s success in spreading Christianity throughout the Roman Empire. But it also created an irreconcilable rift between Paul’s vision of Christianity and the Jewish-Christian movement that remained rooted in the traditions of the Torah.

Paul’s theological innovations: The divine Christ

Another major difference between Paul and the earlier followers of Jesus was his Christology. For Paul, Jesus wasn’t just the Messiah in the Jewish sense of an earthly king who would restore Israel. Jesus was divine, pre-existent, and intimately connected to God. In Philippians, Paul writes about how Jesus existed “in the form of God” and “emptied himself” to become human, only to be exalted back to divine status after his resurrection.

This high Christology — Jesus as a divine figure — was a significant departure from the understanding of Jesus as a human teacher and prophet. It’s worth noting that in the earlier gospels, especially Mark, Jesus is portrayed as a more human figure. The idea that Jesus was divine from the beginning wasn’t fully developed until later texts like John’s gospel, where Jesus is identified with the Logos, or the Word of God.

Paul’s theological innovations laid the groundwork for later Christian doctrines, including the Trinity and the belief in Jesus as fully God and fully man. But these ideas would have been alien to the earliest followers of Jesus, who saw him as a teacher and Messiah, not as a divine being.

Paul’s legacy: Christianity as we know it

Paul’s influence on the development of Christianity cannot be overstated. By breaking away from the Jewish roots of the movement and focusing on a universal message of salvation through faith in Christ, Paul transformed Christianity from a Jewish sect into a global religion. His letters, more than any other writings in the New Testament, shaped the theology, structure, and mission of the Christian church.

But in doing so, Paul also moved Christianity away from the message that Jesus himself preached. Jesus’ teachings in the gospels emphasize love of neighbor, humility, and adherence to the spirit of the law. Paul, on the other hand, emphasizes faith in Christ’s sacrifice as the key to salvation, downplaying the ethical and communal aspects of Jesus’ message. In many ways, Paul created a new religion — one that was more about Christ than about Jesus.

Conclusion: A religion forged in conflict

Paul’s legacy is one of both brilliance and controversy. He expanded the reach of Christianity, but in doing so, he created a faith that was fundamentally different from what Jesus and his earliest followers preached. The tension between Paul’s vision of Christianity and the Jewish-Christian movement in Jerusalem is emblematic of the broader conflicts that shaped the early church. The Christianity we know today is Paul’s creation, but it’s a creation forged in theological conflict, innovation, and radical reinterpretation.

13: Revelation — A Wild Vision in a Turbulent Time

The historical backdrop: The destruction of Jerusalem and the birth of apocalyptic literature

To understand the Book of Revelation, we must first set the stage. The text was written during a period of immense political, social, and religious upheaval. Around 70 CE, the Roman Empire besieged and destroyed Jerusalem, leveling the Second Temple — the heart of Jewish worship. This catastrophic event, combined with persecution and unrest throughout the Roman provinces, fueled apocalyptic thinking. The destruction of the Temple was not just a political defeat for the Jews; it was viewed as a divine judgment, signaling the end of the world as they knew it.

Revelation is just one of many apocalyptic writings that circulated during this period. Apocalyptic literature was a genre, much like science fiction or dystopian literature today. It provided a way for people to process their suffering and make sense of the chaos around them, often using vivid, nightmarish imagery. It wasn’t meant to be taken literally — then, as now, it was an allegorical response to the crises of the time.

But Revelation stands out because of its sheer creativity and bizarre symbolism. Its imagery is as disturbing as it is cryptic. And for centuries, readers have tried to decode its meaning, believing it held clues to the end of the world.

The genre of apocalyptic literature: Wild visions and symbolic beasts

Apocalyptic literature wasn’t unique to the Christian or Jewish tradition. Other cultures in the ancient world had their own end-of-the-world scenarios and visions of cosmic upheaval. But during the Second Temple period, the Jewish people, in particular, developed a fascination with these kinds of writings. Books like Daniel, Enoch, and 4 Ezra all fit this genre, featuring strange beasts, cataclysms, and divine interventions.

What’s striking about Revelation is how much it borrows from earlier Jewish apocalyptic works. The multi-headed beasts, the angels blowing trumpets, the plagues — it’s all familiar to anyone steeped in Jewish eschatological thought. But John of Patmos, the alleged author of Revelation, took these symbols and turned the volume up to eleven, creating a fever-dream-like narrative that captured the anxieties of early Christians.

Revelation’s wild symbolism: What the beasts and the whore meant in their context

To modern readers, the book is baffling, with its surreal images of dragons, a beast with seven heads, and a woman drunk on the blood of saints. But for John’s original audience, these images would have been recognizable allegories.

• The whore of Babylon: This figure, often depicted as a woman sitting on a scarlet beast, represents Rome. Babylon had long been a symbol of an oppressive empire in Jewish thought, dating back to the Babylonian exile in the 6th century BCE. By using “Babylon” as a stand-in for Rome, John was critiquing the empire’s decadence and brutality. The “whore” imagery symbolizes the corruption of Rome and its moral decay, particularly its persecution of Christians.
• The beast with seven heads: This likely represents the Roman emperors. The seven heads correspond to the seven hills of Rome, a common metaphor for the city. The beast’s various heads could symbolize different Roman emperors who had persecuted the early Christian community, and the horns might symbolize their power and authority.
• The dragon and the woman clothed with the sun: In chapter 12, John describes a woman who gives birth to a male child, only to be pursued by a dragon. Many scholars believe the woman represents Israel, or the early Christian church, while the dragon is Satan or the Roman Empire, bent on destroying the new Christian movement.

In fact, much of Revelation’s imagery was meant as thinly veiled critiques of the Roman Empire, disguised in apocalyptic visions to avoid direct confrontation. By writing in this style, John could critique Rome’s excesses, idolatry, and brutality without explicitly naming names, thus protecting both himself and his readers.

Why an apocalyptic movement?

So why all the apocalyptic fervor? Why did people cling to such bizarre, dark visions? The answer lies in despair. When you’re part of a small, oppressed community facing persecution, apocalyptic visions offer hope. They promise that even though things look bleak, a great cosmic battle is on the horizon, and God will intervene to set things right.

For early Christians, who were marginalized by both the Roman authorities and mainstream Judaism, Revelation provided a roadmap to ultimate victory. It promised that Christ would return, that Rome (or Babylon) would fall, and that a new, divine kingdom would emerge.

This apocalyptic movement wasn’t unique to Christians. Similar ideas were brewing across the ancient world. Whether it was in Egypt, Persia, or Greece, the idea of a cosmic battle between good and evil had deep roots. Revelation tapped into these broader cultural anxieties, dressing them up in Christian symbolism.

The wild genre of the time: Apocalyptic literature as ancient sci-fi

It’s easy to see why Revelation continues to fascinate people. In many ways, it’s the ancient equivalent of science fiction or dystopian literature — a genre that allows writers to explore big, existential questions through surreal and imaginative storytelling. Just as modern audiences are drawn to dystopian worlds in 1984 or The Handmaid’s Tale, ancient readers were captivated by apocalyptic visions like Revelation, which offered a dark but ultimately hopeful vision of the future.

Why does it still resonate?

It’s ironic that a text born out of a specific historical context — rooted in the destruction of Jerusalem and the persecution of early Christians — has been read as a literal prediction of the end of the world for 2,000 years. John of Patmos likely never intended his readers to decode Revelation as a blueprint for future events. Instead, it was meant as a deeply symbolic, imaginative, and cathartic response to the oppression his community faced.

Yet, throughout history, countless Christians have clung to Revelation’s imagery, convinced that it holds clues to the “end times.” And, indeed, its terrifying visions of judgment, cosmic war, and ultimate redemption still resonate today. We can see its influence in everything from modern Christian eschatology to pop culture depictions of the apocalypse.

But when stripped of its mysticism and viewed in its proper context, Revelation is less a divine revelation and more a snapshot of the anxieties and hopes of a persecuted people in a time of great turmoil. Its beasts, angels, and whores are not future prophecies, but allegories for the ancient world’s chaos, dressed up in symbolic language that would have been familiar to its readers.

14: The Aftermath — Canon, Constantine, and the Rise of the Roman Church

Lost voices: The Christian texts that didn’t make it

By the time the New Testament was solidified, there were already countless Christian writings circulating, many of which never made it into the canon. In the first few centuries after Jesus’ death, early Christians wrote prolifically, creating gospels, letters, apocalypses, and theological treatises. These texts reflected the diversity of early Christianity, which was far from the unified faith it later became.

Among these texts were the Gospel of Thomas, the Gospel of Mary Magdalene, the Infancy Gospels, and many others that painted a very different picture of Jesus and his message. For example, the Gospel of Thomas portrays Jesus as a mystical teacher offering secret sayings of wisdom, with little focus on his death and resurrection. The Gospel of Mary Magdalene suggests a more prominent role for women in the early church, a role that was eventually suppressed as patriarchal structures took over.

Then there’s the Gospel of Judas, an especially radical text that reinterprets one of Christianity’s most vilified figures: Judas Iscariot. In this gospel, Judas is not the betrayer we know from the canonical gospels but rather the only disciple who truly understands Jesus’ divine mission. Here, Jesus entrusts Judas with the task of ‘betrayal’ as a means to fulfill a divine plan. Far from condemning Judas, Jesus praises him for his insight and courage. This version of the story upends the traditional narrative, suggesting that Judas’s actions were essential to Jesus’ purpose, casting him as a close, trusted confidant rather than a traitor.

These alternate gospels reveal a range of beliefs and ideas that existed within early Christianity, challenging the more familiar narrative and underscoring how diverse, even contradictory, the early Christian movement was before it was streamlined into an official doctrine.

But as the early church grew, these diverse writings and beliefs were seen as a threat to the emerging orthodoxy. Some were labeled heretical and destroyed, others faded into obscurity. What survived is what we now know as the New Testament, but it represents only a sliver of the early Christian imagination.

The rise of early Christian sects: A divided movement

In addition to the diverse writings, early Christianity was deeply divided into different sects, each with its own interpretation of Jesus’ message and its own understanding of God. Among the most prominent were the Gnostics, who believed that salvation came not from faith in Christ’s resurrection, but from secret knowledge (gnosis) about the nature of the universe and the divine.

Gnosticism emphasized a sharp distinction between the material world, which was seen as corrupt and evil, and the spiritual world, which was pure and divine. To Gnostics, the God of the Old Testament was a lower, malevolent being, and Jesus came to reveal the true, hidden God. This stood in stark contrast to the emerging orthodox view that Jesus was the Son of the same God who created the world.

Other sects, like the Ebionites, rejected the divinity of Jesus altogether, insisting that he was a human prophet who followed Jewish law. Meanwhile, Marcionites believed in two gods: the wrathful God of the Old Testament and the loving God of the New Testament. And then there were the Montanists, who believed that new revelations and prophecies could still be given by the Holy Spirit, often through ecstatic visions.

These sects were not fringe groups but significant movements within early Christianity, and they all had their own leaders, writings, and communities. It was only through the forceful suppression of these groups that a unified Christianity began to emerge.

Constantine’s vision: The fusion of empire and Christianity

Everything changed in the early 4th century when the Roman Emperor Constantine had his famous vision. According to legend, on the eve of a battle, Constantine saw a vision of the Sol Invictus — the “Unconquered Sun,” a popular Roman deity — and interpreted it as a sign from the Christian God. In response, he converted to Christianity and later issued the Edict of Milan in 313 CE, granting religious tolerance to Christians throughout the empire.

It’s important to note that Constantine’s conversion was not purely spiritual — it was a political move. The Roman Empire was fractured and on the brink of collapse, with various factions vying for power. Constantine saw in Christianity a unifying force that could help him consolidate control over his empire. By embracing Christianity, Constantine was not just adopting a new faith; he was co-opting a powerful, growing movement to stabilize his rule.

With Constantine’s endorsement, Christianity went from being a persecuted minority to the favored religion of the Roman Empire. And with that, the church’s leadership and structure began to mirror the political hierarchy of the empire itself.

The Council of Nicaea: Unity at any cost

In 325 CE, Constantine convened the Council of Nicaea, a gathering of bishops from across the Christian world, to resolve the growing theological disputes that threatened to divide the church. Chief among these was the question of Jesus’ divinity. Was he truly God, or was he a created being, subordinate to the Father? This debate, known as the Arian controversy, had divided Christians for decades.

Constantine wasn’t interested in theological nuances — he wanted unity. The Council of Nicaea was as much a political event as it was a religious one. Constantine pressured the bishops to come to an agreement, and after much debate, they produced the Nicene Creed, which declared that Jesus was “of the same substance” (homoousios) as the Father, affirming his full divinity.

But the council didn’t resolve the issue. The Arian controversy continued to rage for decades, with emperors, bishops, and theologians taking sides. Ultimately, it was Constantine’s political power that enforced orthodoxy. Those who refused to accept the Nicene Creed were exiled, their writings destroyed, and their followers persecuted.

The creation of the Roman Catholic Church: The suppression of diversity

With Constantine’s conversion and backing in the early 4th century, Christianity shifted from a persecuted faith to a state-aligned religion. The Edict of Milan in 313 CE, issued by Constantine and co-emperor Licinius, legalized Christianity across the Roman Empire, ending centuries of intermittent persecution. This newfound status brought rapid change, as the church grew increasingly hierarchical and authoritarian. Bishops gained political and social power, and local Christian communities were gradually brought under the authority of a centralized, imperial church. The diversity that had characterized early Christianity was systematically stamped out.

By the time of the First Council of Nicaea in 325 CE, also convened by Constantine, theological disputes among Christians had become matters of imperial concern. This council, attended by bishops from across the empire, established the Nicene Creed, a foundational statement of faith intended to unify Christian belief, notably condemning the views of Arius, a priest who argued that Jesus was created rather than eternal. This event marked the beginning of a series of ecumenical councils aimed at defining orthodox doctrine and marginalizing or condemning diverse interpretations as heresy.

Over the following centuries, groups like the Gnostics, who believed in secret spiritual knowledge, and the Montanists, who practiced ecstatic prophecy, were branded as heretical and ruthlessly persecuted. Their leaders, such as Valentinus (a prominent Gnostic teacher) and Montanus (founder of Montanism), were exiled or denounced, their texts burned, and their followers forced to either conform or go underground. The Emperor Theodosius I later enforced Christian orthodoxy with his series of decrees in 380–381 CE, declaring Nicene Christianity the official state religion of the Roman Empire and banning pagan worship. By this point, the church had taken on the form of a hierarchical institution with the Bishop of Rome (Pope) claiming ultimate authority over Christian doctrine.

The Roman Catholic Church didn’t merely suppress theological diversity; it also absorbed and reinterpreted many elements of Roman culture and religion. Pagan holidays such as Saturnalia and the spring festival of Eostre were transformed into Christmas and Easter. Symbols like the sun disk and elements of Roman ritual and ceremony were incorporated, creating a religion that became as much a product of Roman politics and culture as it was of Jesus’ original teachings.

By the late 4th and early 5th centuries, the Roman Catholic Church had emerged as the dominant Christian institution, claiming authority over all Christians. This powerful alignment with the state laid the foundation for the medieval church and its authority over both spiritual and secular life across Europe, dramatically shaping the direction of Western Christianity.

Constantine’s legacy: The fusion of empire and faith

In the end, Constantine’s embrace of Christianity fundamentally reshaped the religion. What had begun as a radical, counter-cultural movement led by an itinerant Jewish preacher became the official religion of the most powerful empire in the world. The teachings of Jesus, which focused on humility, compassion, and love for the oppressed, were overshadowed by the institutional power of the church.

Constantine’s legacy is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, his conversion ensured the survival and spread of Christianity, transforming it from a marginal sect into a global religion. On the other hand, his fusion of church and state set the stage for centuries of violence, persecution, and corruption in the name of Christ.

TLDR: the Bible — A Mess of Myths, Mishaps, and Morality Gone Mad

Let’s cut to the chase. The Bible, that sacred text hailed as the infallible word of God, is actually a haphazard collection of random writings stitched together over centuries. It’s like a group project where no one knew what the other was doing, yet somehow it all got thrown into a book and declared holy.

Origins? Well, the stories were borrowed, rehashed, and repurposed from ancient myths, legends, and cultural lore. From creation to the flood, from patriarchs to plagues, these tales were crafted during times of turmoil, war, and survival. They were meant to give the Israelites a sense of identity, unity, and hope. And hey, it worked — for a while.

Genesis? It’s more like generic. There are two conflicting creation stories, and no, Adam and Eve weren’t the first to come up with the concept of talking snakes. The garden, the flood, the patriarchs — these are ancient hand-me-downs repackaged with a new cultural twist. God creating the universe in six days? That’s an ancient fairy tale for those needing a bedtime story with a moral ending, not a cosmological textbook.

The Flood? Borrowed from even older flood myths — just with an ark and a rainbow. Apologists scramble to make it real, but fossils don’t lie, and neither do the countless species that didn’t quite make it to Noah’s Ark. Apparently, trilobites weren’t on the guest list.

The Patriarchs? Abraham, Isaac, Jacob — part founding fathers, part mythological superheroes. These aren’t historical biographies but stories written to explain origins and give a sense of belonging to a group of desert wanderers looking for meaning and land.

Exodus? A great liberation story — if it were true. The historical evidence doesn’t support an enslaved Israelite nation fleeing Egypt en masse. But it makes for a compelling underdog narrative, which is really what mattered. It paints the Israelites as divinely chosen, but at what cost? The Canaanites might have a different take on the whole “promised land” business. Spoiler: It wasn’t so promising for them.

Moses and the Law? A theocratic manual for an ancient world, full of rules about purity, sacrifice, and the ultimate “do as I say, not as I do” God. Animal sacrifices? Dietary laws? Stone tablets? Seems more like a cosmic game of Simon Says than divine revelation.

Kings, prophets, and promises? The kingdom of Israel and Judah had their day in the sun, but the golden age was fleeting. What followed was a series of disastrous reigns, exiles, and prophetic warnings that no one really listened to until it was too late. The rise and fall of kings and empires told through a lens of divine favoritism — until God got fed up and everyone was sent packing to Babylon.

Jesus and the New Testament? By the time we get to Jesus, things get murkier. Who was he really? History paints a far more complex, human figure than the mythologized Messiah that Christian tradition has built. And Paul? Paul’s Christianity was a departure from the teachings of Jesus, transforming a grassroots movement into a theological empire that laid the groundwork for a religion focused on doctrine, authority, and control.

Revelation? Pure apocalyptic chaos, written in the wake of Jerusalem’s destruction. It’s not a glimpse into the future; it’s a fever dream fueled by the trauma of a broken nation. Beasts, trumpets, lakes of fire — this is Doomsday: The Novel, not a roadmap for salvation.

The Bible is a mishmash. It’s brutal, it’s contradictory, and it’s morally questionable. It’s a document forged in the fires of war, persecution, and imperial domination, later molded into something unrecognizable from its original intentions. What started as a collection of tribal stories and cultural survival guides was eventually twisted into a doctrine of control, used to justify everything from holy wars to systemic oppression.

And the ultimate irony? The people who contributed to this collection likely never intended for it to become what it is today. They were writing in the context of their time, responding to the challenges and crises they faced. They weren’t delivering the eternal word of God; they were trying to make sense of the mess they were living in. The Bible is, when we strip away the reverence, a flawed human document born out of a desperate need for meaning in a chaotic world.

In the end, the Bible is not just nonsense (if we’re being polite). It’s deceitful, brutal, and dangerously influential. And if we’re really honest? It’s time we stop treating it as the final word on morality, truth, or history. Because the only thing it’s truly the final word on is how far we’ll go to justify our own illusions.