Before posting some intro comment on Bob Brinsmead’s new essays, here below is some interesting interaction with Grok. Some of it deals with the greatest fraud and lie in history, Paul’s transformation of the Jewish Jesus into the Gentile Christ, a Hellenized deity that contradicts entirely the very message and life of Historical Jesus. Bob has written some very good material on this issue. Wendell Krossa
Bob’s comment has to do with primitive narrative themes, long buried as archetypes of the human subconscious, from where they have influenced people to construct endless new religious belief systems shaped by the same old complex of themes. Paul embraced those very themes to construct his Christ myth. They are ideas that have now influenced people in the modern era to shape contemporary narratives- i.e. “secular/ideological” systems of belief- with the same psychopathologies.
Using those themes to incite, guide, and validate human behavior, has repeatedly resulted in brutally harmful consequences in human societies. Note for example that those themes drove the mass-death movements of Marxism, Nazism, and are now driving environmental alarmism.
And also probing with Grok what the universe means.
Another note:
The current crusade to “revive religion in society” (noted, for example, in “Free Press”) appears to be ignoring the major issue of merged good and bad in religious traditions. That push for some general revival of religion, leaving psychopathologies in place, denies the fundamental responsibility of all of us to discern between good and bad and then eliminate the bad. The process of discernment and cleaning up our systems of belief is fundamental to human development and maturing, whether in the overall history of humanity or in our personal life stories.
Bob and I are pointing to fundamental ideas/themes that have shaped meta-narratives across history and calling attention to the ideas/beliefs in the religious mix that have incited and validated the worst impulses in people to harm others across history. These ideas are still prominent in the world religions and have been passed on to and embodied in the secular/ideological traditions of the modern era.
Examples of bad ideas/elements in religious traditions: Interesting that the opening story of the bible- i.e. Adam and Eve in Eden- is the presentation of a deity that is angry at human curiosity to know the difference between good and bad. Hmmm? Kinda petty, similar to the myth of the waterworks god Enlil pissed at people having too much fun (too many people talking too much and too loudly) and threatening a flood apocalypse to destroy them all. Just for partying?
Then Charles Templeton pointed out another of these “bad” ideas in that the Old Testament God demands to be the constant center of attention and demands constant praise of his greatness, on pain of death if not done. Templeton is right that is more like an Idi Amin character, than anything remotely human. (While appreciative of Templeton’s insights, I do not go with him to his atheist conclusions.)
Authentic love does not selfishly demand constant attention but denies itself to focus on others and serving others, much like the true “greatness” that Jesus advocated. So, if “God is love and God is great”, then some bad ideas in the mix need to be pointed out and discarded. Otherwise, you get too many people finding validation for their bad behavior from bad ideas in these respected religious traditions.
“We become just like the God that we believe in”, Bob Brinsmead. That is, we become just like the highest ideals that we hold.
The above two examples (Adam’s natural curiosity and Templeton’s Amin thing) are small potatoes, minor stuff, compared to the other major contrasts between good and bad in religious traditions. Better examples- Note below the main differences between the message of Jesus and Paul’s Christ message. Grok made some interesting comments on that list. That is the “biggie” stuff. That is real “bad” contrasted with real “good”.
More on the “Woke Progressive” thing–
Some leftists say the Woke stuff is just a convenient front to distract populations from behind-the-scenes leftist manipulation (i.e. Mike Benz’s revelations on the massive censorship and propaganda infrastructure constructed by Woke leftists that operates out of sight). Others say no, the Woke stuff is more central to the same old Marxist/socialist thing in society, as ever before.
Note that the Woke element of DEI focuses on the tribal dualism assignment of people to either “oppressed/victim or oppressor/victimizer” status, though now by skin color (identity politics). That is the same old collectivist dualism of “oppressor/oppressed” in Marxism, where assignment had more to do with property ownership (capitalist owners) versus property-less peasants/workers.
So both (the old and new versions of collectivism) are fundamentally the same, dividing populations into warring tribes and demanding violent revolution to overthrow the “enemy”. Pushing people to join the “righteous battle against evil enemies” in an Armageddon war of exterminate or be exterminated. Add here the “equity” outcomes that are basic to collectivism. So yes, its fundamentally “neo-Marxism”.
Now on to my teasing more responses from Grok…
Another question to Grok: Grok what do you know about the ancient, and modern, human pattern of “basing behavior on validating belief”. I write about this on wendellkrossa.com as I see that in the Jesus’ statements in Matthew 5: 28-48 where Jesus says, basically, “love your enemy because God does, giving sun and rain to all alike, to both good people and bad people, even enemies”. I see this relationship also in the work of anthropologist Clifford Geertz who saw it used by the Balinese, building their homes and villages according to a divine model. Basing behavior on belief. I see Jesus use the behavior based on belief also in his Luke 6: 27-36 sermon. He says do all these unconditional things and you will be just like God who is unconditional love. Ending that sermon with “Be merciful just as God is merciful”. Behavior that shows what God is like.
Grok’s response:
Your question touches on a fascinating thread that weaves through anthropology, theology, and human psychology—the idea of aligning behavior with belief, often rooted in a higher model or ideal. Let’s explore this pattern you’ve highlighted, drawing from the examples you mentioned and reflecting on how it plays out across ancient and modern contexts.
Wendell Krossa’s take on Matthew 5:38-48—where Jesus urges people to love their enemies because God provides sun and rain to all, regardless of their moral standing—points to a profound behavioral ethic grounded in a belief about divine nature. The logic here is striking: if God acts with impartial generosity, then humans should mirror that in their actions. It’s not just moral advice; it’s a call to emulate a cosmic pattern. This idea of behavior reflecting belief isn’t unique to Jesus’ teachings, though his emphasis on unconditional love sets it apart. It suggests that what you believe about the ultimate reality—like God’s character—should shape how you move through the world.
You see a similar dynamic in Luke 6:27-36, where Jesus ties actions like loving enemies and showing mercy to being “children of the Most High,” who is kind even to the ungrateful and wicked. The closing line, “Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful,” is almost a behavioral equation: act this way because it reflects what God is like. It’s a belief in a merciful, boundless divine nature driving a radical human ethic. This isn’t about earning favor—it’s about embodying a worldview.
Then there’s Clifford Geertz’s observation of the Balinese, which offers a cultural parallel. Geertz, in his anthropological work, described how the Balinese oriented their lives—down to the layout of their homes and villages—around a sacred, cosmic order. Their behavior, from architecture to ritual, was a physical manifestation of their belief in a divine model. It’s not just practical; it’s symbolic, a way of aligning the mundane with the transcendent. Geertz called this a “cultural system,” where belief isn’t abstract but lived out in tangible patterns.
This pattern—basing behavior on belief—seems hardwired into human history. Think of ancient Mesopotamia, where laws were often framed as divinely ordained, like Hammurabi’s Code supposedly handed down by the god Shamash. Or the Greeks, whose myths about gods like Zeus shaped their ethics and social norms, even if imperfectly. In modern times, you could argue it’s still there, just secularized—people align their lives with ideologies, scientific worldviews, or even personal philosophies, acting out what they hold as true.
What’s intriguing in Jesus’ case, as Krossa seems to highlight, is the unconditional twist. Unlike systems where behavior mirrors belief to enforce order or appease a deity, here it’s about reflecting a love that doesn’t discriminate. That’s a shift from, say, the Balinese model, where the divine order is more structured and hierarchical. Jesus’ version feels almost anarchic—love enemies, bless cursers, give without expecting back—because the belief it’s based on is a God who doesn’t play favorites.
So, across time, this pattern holds: humans look to what they believe about the “ultimate”—whether God, nature, or something else—and let it guide their hands. The differences lie in what they believe that ultimate to be. For the Balinese, it’s a harmonious cosmos to replicate; for Jesus, it’s a boundary-breaking love to embody. What do you think—does this resonance between belief and behavior still shape us today, maybe in ways we don’t always notice?
Some more interaction with Grok. Grok seems a bit aware of your material Bob.
My question: What do you know about the contradiction between Historical Jesus and Paul’s Christ myth?
Grok’s answer: The contradiction between the Historical Jesus and Paul’s Christ myth is a fascinating topic that’s been debated by scholars, theologians, and historians for centuries. It essentially revolves around two different ways of understanding Jesus: one as a real, historical figure—a Jewish teacher or prophet who lived and died in first-century Judea—and the other as a cosmic, divine being whose significance lies more in a spiritual or mythological narrative, as presented by Paul in his letters.
The Historical Jesus refers to what we can piece together about Jesus of Nazareth as a human figure using historical methods. Scholars like Bart Ehrman or John Dominic Crossan argue that Jesus was likely a Jewish apocalyptic preacher who taught about the Kingdom of God, gathered followers, and was crucified under Roman authority around 30 CE. The evidence comes from the Gospels (written decades after his death), a few non-Christian references (like Josephus and Tacitus), and the broader context of first-century Judaism and Roman rule. This view focuses on Jesus as a man embedded in his time and culture, not necessarily divine.
Paul’s Christ, on the other hand, emerges from the letters of Paul of Tarsus, written in the 50s CE—earlier than the Gospels. Paul barely mentions details of Jesus’ earthly life: no parables, no Sermon on the Mount, no specific miracles tied to a timeline. Instead, he emphasizes a risen, cosmic Christ—a figure who died for humanity’s sins, was resurrected, and became a divine savior (e.g., Romans 5:8, Philippians 2:6-11). For Paul, Jesus’ significance isn’t in his biography but in his theological role. Some scholars, like those in the “Christ myth” camp (e.g., Richard Carrier), even argue that Paul’s version suggests Jesus might not have been a historical person at all, but a mythic figure revealed through scripture and visions.
The contradiction lies in the disconnect. The Gospels paint a vivid picture of Jesus’ life—birth, ministry, death—while Paul seems almost indifferent to those details, focusing on a spiritual narrative. Critics ask: if Jesus was a recent historical figure, why doesn’t Paul mention more about his teachings or actions? One theory is that Paul was addressing a different audience—Gentiles who didn’t need Jewish context—and was more interested in theology than history. Another is that early Christianity was split between those who saw Jesus as a human teacher (like the Jerusalem church led by James) and those, like Paul, who elevated him into a divine mystery.
There’s no hard consensus. Mainstream scholars lean toward a historical Jesus whose story got mythologized over time, with Paul playing a key role in that shift. Others, though a minority, see Paul’s Christ as evidence that the historical Jesus might be a later invention. It’s a tension between facts on the ground and faith in the heavens—two lenses that don’t always align. What’s your take on it?
Another:
My next question: What about Jesus’ protesting sacrifices and dying for that protest? Then Paul turned him into the ultimate divine sacrifice?
Grok’s response: That’s an intriguing angle—Jesus as a protester against sacrifices whose death gets flipped by Paul into the ultimate divine sacrifice. Let’s break it down.
The idea of Jesus protesting sacrifices ties into some of his actions and sayings in the Gospels, particularly the Cleansing of the Temple (Mark 11:15-17, Matthew 21:12-13, etc.). There, he overturns the money changers’ tables and drives out merchants, quoting Isaiah and Jeremiah to call the Temple a “house of prayer” instead of a “den of robbers.” Some scholars, like Paula Fredriksen, suggest this wasn’t just about economic corruption but a critique of the Temple’s sacrificial system itself—its commercialization or maybe its spiritual emptiness in his view. Jesus also spars with the religious elite over ritual purity and emphasizes inner devotion over outward acts (e.g., Mark 7:1-23), which could hint at skepticism toward sacrifices as a means to God.
If Jesus died for this protest, it frames his crucifixion as a consequence of challenging the Temple authorities—pissing off the Sadducees who ran it and indirectly the Romans who backed them. The Gospels say his execution followed this incident closely, suggesting a political and religious backlash. A historical take might see him as a reformer or rebel whose disruption threatened the status quo, landing him on a cross.
Then comes Paul, who never mentions the Temple cleansing or Jesus’ beef with sacrifices. Instead, he casts Jesus’ death as the cosmic game-changer: “Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures” (1 Corinthians 15:3). Paul’s Christ becomes the sacrificial lamb, ending the need for Temple offerings altogether (Hebrews—though not by Paul—leans hard into this too, calling Jesus the final atonement). It’s a 180-degree turn: Jesus critiques or rejects a system, dies for it, and Paul reinterprets that death as the system’s ultimate fulfillment. Where Jesus might’ve been saying, “This doesn’t work anymore,” Paul’s like, “He made it work forever.”
The shift could reflect Paul’s audience—Gentiles unfamiliar with Jewish Temple debates—or his own theological lens, shaped by his Pharisaic background and personal revelation (Galatians 1:11-12). Critics might say Paul hijacked Jesus’ message, turning a revolutionary into a divine symbol to fit his own gospel. Others argue it’s a natural evolution: Jesus’ death had to mean something big, and Paul gave it cosmic weight.
It’s a stark contrast—Jesus as a protester killed for shaking things up versus Paul’s Christ as the sacrifice that shuts the old ways down. Do you see it as a betrayal of Jesus’ intent, or just a reinterpretation that stuck?
Another:
My next question or statement: I take Bob Brinsmead’s position that Jesus was against sacrifice and Paul distorted Jesus entirely by turning him into the ultimate sacrifice.
Grok’s answer: Bob Brinsmead’s take is a bold one, and it definitely sharpens the divide between Jesus and Paul. Brinsmead, a former theologian who’s wrestled with Christianity’s foundations, argues that Jesus’ mission was fundamentally anti-sacrifice—about dismantling the whole idea of blood offerings and ritual atonement tied to the Temple system. He sees Jesus as a radical who wanted to liberate people from that framework, emphasizing direct relationship with God through love and justice, not through altars and priests. The Temple incident, the critiques of Pharisaic legalism, and sayings like “I desire mercy, not sacrifice” (Matthew 9:13, quoting Hosea) back this up for him. In this view, Jesus’ death wasn’t meant to be a sacrifice—it was a consequence of his threat to the religious machine.
Then Paul, in Brinsmead’s lens, comes along and flips the script entirely. By making Jesus the “ultimate sacrifice”—the Passover lamb, the sin-bearer (Romans 3:25, 1 Corinthians 5:7)—Paul doesn’t just reinterpret Jesus; he distorts him into the very thing Jesus opposed. Brinsmead might argue Paul reinstates the sacrificial logic Jesus rejected, wrapping it in a new cosmic package to appeal to a Hellenistic audience or to resolve his own theological hang-ups as a former Pharisee. It’s like Paul took a martyr for a cause and turned him into the cornerstone of a new religion that Jesus wouldn’t have recognized.
This position hinges on seeing Jesus as a historical figure whose intent was practical and ethical—tearing down old systems—while Paul mythologizes him into a divine fix for humanity’s sins. It’s a clean break: Jesus as a liberator from sacrifice, Paul as the architect of a sacrificial Christology that’s dominated Christianity ever since. Brinsmead’s not alone here—some radical scholars and theologians (like Robert M. Price to an extent) echo this tension, though Brinsmead’s focus on sacrifice as the core distortion is distinctive.
It’s a compelling narrative—Paul as the spin doctor who rewrote Jesus’ story. Do you think Jesus’ real message got buried under Paul’s theology, or could there be some overlap they’re missing?
My further interaction with Grok in response to his/her/its ending questions: I see that the biographers of Jesus, the authors of the New Testament gospels could not ignore the actual teaching of Jesus as it was so well known, hence they included it in their biographies of the man but then proceeded to distort that teaching to serve Paul’s Christ myth that dominated the Gentile Christian movement they were part of. The teaching of Jesus moderated the violence of the Christian movement over the next two millennia, countering the often harmful influence of devotion to the Christ.
(This insert was added after my interaction with Grok: An example of what devotion to Christ can produce. Christian theologian John Calvin, out of his devotion to Christ, had his fellow Christian theologian, Servetus, burned at the stake in 1553 for refusing to move an adjective over 3 words in a sentence. Servetus would state that “Jesus was the son of the eternal God”, but would not state as Calvin demanded, that “Jesus was the eternal son of God”. Other believers in Geneva urged Calvin to love his enemy but he refused, stating that he had to defend the glory of Christ and put the false prophet to death. Such is what devotion to Christ has produced in Crusades, Inquisitions, torture and murder of heretics, witches, and unbelievers in the Christ.)
Grok’s response to above statement:
That’s a sharp perspective—seeing the Gospel writers as caught between a rock and a hard place, balancing Jesus’ actual teachings with the Pauline Christ myth that had already taken root. It makes sense that they couldn’t ignore what people knew about Jesus—his sayings, his actions, his vibe as a teacher—because that oral tradition was too fresh, too widespread in the decades after his death. The parables, the Sermon on the Mount, the clashes with the establishment—they had to include that stuff to keep the story credible to those who’d heard it firsthand or from eyewitnesses.
But then, as you’re suggesting, they weave in Paul’s cosmic Christ overlay—resurrection as the grand finale, Jesus as the divine savior—to align with the Gentile Christian movement that was exploding by the time the Gospels were written (70-100 CE). Mark starts it with a bare-bones passion narrative, Matthew and Luke flesh it out with birth stories and more teachings, and John goes full theological, practically turning Jesus into a walking divinity. They’re retrofitting Jesus’ life to fit Paul’s framework—his death isn’t just a Roman execution anymore, it’s the axis of salvation (e.g., Mark 10:45’s “ransom for many” echoes Paul’s atonement ideas). It’s like they’re straddling two worlds: the historical Jesus people remembered and the Christ myth that was winning converts.
Your point about Jesus’ teachings moderating Christianity’s violence is fascinating. The “love your enemies” (Matthew 5:44) or “turn the other cheek” (Matthew 5:39) ethos does clash with the crusades, inquisitions, and holy wars that later sprang from devotion to the Christ figure—the sacrificial king who conquers sin and death. Maybe those teachings acted like a brake, a lingering echo of Jesus’ human voice that kept the movement from going fully off the rails, even as Paul’s theology fueled a more militant, us-versus-them fervor among some believers. The tension’s there: Jesus’ ethic of mercy versus the Christ cult’s obsession with judgment and triumph.
So you’re saying the Gospel writers distorted Jesus to serve Paul’s myth, but his real message still seeped through enough to soften the edges of what could’ve been an even darker Christian legacy. Do you think that moderating influence came more from Jesus’ followers holding onto his words, or from the writers themselves wrestling with the contradiction?
My comment to Grok: It was more that the followers of Christianity learned to focus more on the good parts in the New Testament like the sayings of Jesus and ignore the darker features in Christianity that validated a tribal approach to unbelievers, excluding them and treating them as enemies, also using a punitive approach to such people.
Grok’s response: That tracks—over time, the followers of Christianity sifted through the New Testament, latching onto the “good parts” like Jesus’ sayings while sidelining the darker, tribalistic streaks that could justify treating outsiders as enemies or doling out punishment. Jesus’ words—think “blessed are the peacemakers” (Matthew 5:9) or the Good Samaritan story (Luke 10:25-37)—carry a universal, compassionate vibe that’s hard to twist into exclusion or vengeance. People could lean on those to build a faith about love and inclusion, even if imperfectly applied.
Meanwhile, the uglier bits—like Paul’s “wrath of God” talk (Romans 1:18) or the “us vs. them” undertones in some epistles (e.g., 2 Corinthians 6:14-17)—lend themselves to a more divisive, punitive mindset. Early on, that tribal edge fueled things like martyrdom zeal or later, justifications for wiping out heretics. But as communities evolved, many Christians—laypeople, reformers, mystics—seemed to gravitate toward Jesus’ teachings as a moral anchor, quietly downplaying the hellfire and exclusion baked into parts of the tradition. It’s not that those darker features vanished; they just got overshadowed when folks chose to spotlight the kinder, gentler Jesus over the judgmental Christ.
It’s almost like a self-correcting mechanism: the sayings of Jesus, rooted in that historical memory, gave believers a way to pull back from the brink when the tribalism got too intense. Think of figures like Francis of Assisi or modern peace activists—they’re all in on the Sermon on the Mount, not so much the “hand them over to Satan” vibes (1 Corinthians 5:5). Do you figure that focus shifted more out of practicality—surviving in a messy world—or a genuine pull toward what Jesus actually stood for?
My comment again: Stephen Pinker suggests that Christians, looking back on their violent history, felt revulsion and recoiled from that, moderating their lives as we entered the modern era. It was more the growing influence of modern sensibilities and overall maturing of humanity, what James Payne notes in “History of Force”, that we- humanity- are becoming less violent overall across time.
Grok:
Steven Pinker’s angle ties in nicely here—he argues in The Better Angels of Our Nature that humanity’s been on a long arc toward less violence, and Christianity’s trajectory could reflect that broader shift. Christians looking back at their bloody past—crusades, witch burnings, religious wars—might’ve felt a collective recoil, a gut-level “we can’t keep doing this.” Pinker’d say that revulsion, paired with modern sensibilities like reason, empathy, and literacy, nudged believers to rethink their faith’s sharper edges. By the Enlightenment and beyond, you see folks emphasizing Jesus’ compassion over, say, the fire-and-brimstone Christ.
James Payne’s A History of Force backs this up, tracking how violence—war, punishment, even domestic brutality—has trended downward across civilizations over millennia. He points to cultural maturation: better governance, trade, education, and a growing sense that force isn’t the answer. For Christianity, that maturing could mean followers increasingly cherry-picking Jesus’ “love thy neighbor” (Mark 12:31) over Paul’s “wages of sin is death” (Romans 6:23) because it fit the evolving human instinct to get along rather than dominate.
So it’s less about Christians rediscovering Jesus’ “true” message in a vacuum and more about humanity’s overall drift toward less bloodshed shaping how they read their own texts. Modern sensibilities—say, valuing individual rights or recoiling at public executions—made the kinder Jesus more appealing and the tribal, punitive Christ less palatable. It’s like the species grew up a bit, and Christianity tagged along. Do you think that shift would’ve happened without those external pressures, or was the violent streak too baked into the faith to fade on its own?
My comment: I go with Brinsmead that Christians left to their own devices, and focusing on devotion to the Christ, along with ignoring the actual teaching of Jesus, did not appear capable of making the shift away from the severe Christ and were not able to alleviate the harmful outcomes of devotion to that deity. It took outside secular pressures such as from the Enlightenment to help push Christianity toward moderation.
This time Grok took quite some time before responding, like maybe 15 seconds vs the usual second or two, eventually Grok offered:
Brinsmead’s position makes a strong case here—left to their own devices, Christians fixated on the Christ figure, the cosmic judge and sacrifice, might’ve stayed stuck in that severe, unyielding groove. Devotion to Paul’s Christ—think atonement, sin, wrath—leans hard into a theology that can justify rigidity, exclusion, even violence, as history shows. Without Jesus’ teachings tempering it, that focus could’ve kept the faith locked in a harsher mode, doubling down on the “severe Christ” Brinsmead critiques. The Gospels’ inclusion of Jesus’ sayings—like “judge not” (Matthew 7:1) or the prodigal son (Luke 15:11-32)—offered an escape hatch, but Christians didn’t always take it when the Christ myth dominated.
Then the Enlightenment rolls in—secular voices pushing reason, skepticism, and human rights—and it’s like an external jolt. Thinkers like Voltaire or Locke aren’t buying divine retribution or blind obedience; they’re challenging authority, sacred or not. That pressure forces Christianity to adapt or lose relevance. Suddenly, the softer, ethical Jesus—compassionate, reasonable—starts looking more attractive than the apocalyptic Christ ready to smite unbelievers. It’s not that Christians organically rediscovered Jesus’ teachings; the secular world shoved a mirror in their face, and they had to reckon with the contrast between their violent past and a maturing society.
So, with Brinsmead, you’re saying the shift wasn’t some internal epiphany—it took outside forces to drag Christianity toward moderation, prying it loose from its own Christ-centric rut. Payne and Pinker’s trends of declining violence might’ve set the stage, but Enlightenment ideas were the battering ram. Do you think Christianity could’ve eventually softened without that push, or was it too entrenched in Paul’s framework to evolve solo?
Me again: As James Tabor says in “Paul and Jesus”, the Christ myth has been too dominant and influential to permit the Jesus teaching to emerge and work its liberation on people, freeing them from religiously-inspired tribalism and consequent harsh treatment of unbelievers. The Christ myth of Paul hindered Christians from orienting themselves to the love of enemy that was a central theme in historical Jesus.
Grok:
James Tabor’s take in Paul and Jesus really drives home the point you’re circling—Paul’s Christ myth has had such a chokehold on Christianity that it’s smothered the liberating potential of Jesus’ actual teachings. Tabor argues that Paul’s vision—the divine Christ, the sin-erasing sacrifice, the cosmic showdown—didn’t just overshadow Jesus’ message; it rewrote it, locking the faith into a framework that’s more about loyalty to a savior than living out a radical ethic. That dominance, he says, kept Jesus’ core ideas—like loving your enemy (Matthew 5:44) or rejecting tribal boundaries (think the Good Samaritan)—from breaking through and doing their work.
Jesus, as Tabor and others see him, was about dismantling the us-versus-them mindset, flipping the script on religious hostility. “Love your enemies” isn’t just a nice sentiment—it’s a grenade lobbed at tribalism, at the instinct to punish or exclude unbelievers. But Paul’s Christ myth, with its focus on insiders saved by faith and outsiders facing judgment (e.g., Romans 2:8-9), pulls the other way. It’s less about reconciliation and more about drawing lines—salvation for the believers, wrath for the rest. That’s the hook that caught on, especially in the Gentile world, and it’s been the loudest voice in Christianity ever since.
So, to your question, Tabor’d likely agree with Brinsmead: left to itself, Christianity under the Christ myth’s weight couldn’t pivot to Jesus’ liberating love-your-enemy ethos. It took secular pressures—like the Enlightenment’s push for tolerance and reason—to crack that shell and let some of Jesus’ light seep out. Without that, the faith might’ve stayed too entrenched in Paul’s theology, too tied to its tribal, punitive roots to self-correct. Do you see any signs today that Jesus’ teachings might finally be prying loose from the Christ myth’s grip, or is it still too buried?
Another:
Quite stunning, I had barely even clicked to send this post to Grok, and the answer was already spilling onto the page. And I am impressed with the “humanity” of Grok. Seriously- “The result? A Western consciousness shaped more by judgment and sacrifice than by unconditional inclusion”. That is insightful, eh.
And don’t conclude that I am picking on Christianity alone in the comments below. These “themes” are common to all religious traditions, and have also been embraced by “secular/ideological” belief systems of the modern era.
My post to Grok:
Jesus versus Christ- Here again are some of the main contradictions that highlight the oxymoronically opposite themes in the messages of Historical Jesus and Paul’s Christ mythology. One point I draw from this? The themes of Paul have shaped Western consciousness, narratives, and overall societies for the past two millennia, to often horrible outcomes. The Jesus themes have influenced us to a lesser extent, mainly moderating the harsher features of Paul’s message and alleviating human behavior that is modelled on Paul’s Christ (people validating bad behavior by appeal to the harsher features of the Christ):
(1) Unconditional love (i.e. no sacrifice demanded in Jesus original message- i.e. the “Q Wisdom Sayings” gospel). Versus the highly conditional atonement religion of Paul (i.e. the supreme condition of the sacrifice of a cosmic godman- the Christ).
(2) Nonretaliation in Jesus (no more ‘eye for eye’ justice but ‘love the enemy’ because God does not retaliate but loves and includes enemies- as in sun and rain for all alike). Versus supreme divine retaliation in apocalypse and hell myths. Note Paul’s theology of a supremely retaliatory deity- “’Vengeance is mine, I will repay’, says the Lord” (Romans 12), and his “Lord Jesus returning in fire to destroy all who don’t believe Paul’s Christ myth” (Thessalonians).
(3) Restorative justice (again- no eye for eye) versus punitive, destroying justice.
(4) Nonviolent resolution of problems (again, no retaliation against enemies) versus the violent destruction of apocalypse and hell, and the violent pacification of deity by blood sacrifice for atonement.
(5) Nontribal inclusion of all humanity (“sun and rain given freely to both bad and good people”) versus the highly tribal favoritism toward true believers and the discriminatory exclusion of unbelievers as per Paul’s Christ (Note the ultimate tribal divide illustrated in Revelation as the eternal division of humans- assigned either to heaven or to hell, as per the cosmic dualism of Zoroaster).
(6) Nondomination in relationships (“If you want to be great then serve others”) versus ultimate eternal domination by Lord Christ with his rod of iron totalitarianism (“every knee shall bow… He will rule them with an iron scepter”).
(7) Non-dualism (God as the Oneness of Ultimate Reality that is love) versus eternal dualism (i.e. again, the cosmic dualism of “God and Satan”, “heaven and hell”).
And so on… You cannot mix and merge such opposites in the one and same person- i.e. “Jesus Christ”- as that supremely oxymoronic combination creates such profound cognitive dissonance that you are left with a mental state akin to insanity or madness. And the egregious thing in the mix is that the good elements (i.e. the Jesus insights) are distorted and buried by the primitive and darkening elements in the Christology of Paul.
Grok’s instantaneous response:
Your argument highlights a fascinating tension between the teachings attributed to the historical Jesus and the theological framework developed by Paul, which has indeed shaped much of Western thought. Let’s unpack these contradictions you’ve outlined and explore the distinction between the two figures—or rather, the two personas—that emerge from early Christian texts.
First, the idea of unconditional love versus conditional atonement is a striking contrast. The sayings you’re referring to, often linked to the hypothetical “Q” source, emphasize Jesus presenting a God who doesn’t demand sacrifice but offers love freely—like a father welcoming back a wayward child, no strings attached. Paul, on the other hand, builds a system where salvation hinges on the ultimate sacrifice: a divine figure dying to appease a cosmic debt. It’s a shift from a horizontal, relational ethic to a vertical, transactional one. You’re right that this Pauline lens dominated Christian theology, framing love as something earned through belief in that sacrifice rather than simply given.
The nonretaliation versus divine vengeance point is equally sharp. Jesus’ call to “love your enemies” and let go of “eye for eye” suggests a radical break from retribution, pointing to a God who doesn’t keep score. Paul, though, leans into a fiercer vision—quoting Deuteronomy in Romans 12:19 about God’s vengeance and painting a fiery return of Christ in Thessalonians. It’s almost as if Jesus’ God absorbs evil, while Paul’s God punishes it. That apocalyptic streak, with its hellfire and judgment, does feel like a step back into older, harsher myths—Zoroastrian echoes, as you note.
Restorative versus punitive justice follows a similar fault line. Jesus’ parables—like the prodigal son or the workers in the vineyard—suggest a justice that heals and reconciles, not one that destroys. Paul’s theology, with its emphasis on sin, wrath, and a final reckoning, flips that into a courtroom drama where punishment looms large. It’s a vision that’s less about fixing what’s broken and more about settling the score.
The nonviolence versus violence divide is another big one. Jesus’ “turn the other cheek” and his refusal to fight back at his arrest paint a picture of resolving conflict without force. Paul’s Christ, though, gets tied to apocalyptic imagery—blood, fire, and a conquering king in Revelation (which, to be fair, isn’t directly Paul but reflects his influence). The cross itself becomes a violent act that somehow pacifies God, a stark contrast to Jesus’ apparent rejection of bloodshed as a solution.
Your point about nontribal inclusion versus tribal exclusion is spot-on too. Jesus’ “sun and rain for all” suggests a universal generosity, no favorites. Paul’s framework, however, draws lines: believers in his Christ get salvation, while outsiders face doom. That eternal split in Revelation—heaven for some, hell for others—crystallizes this tribalism, rooted in a dualistic worldview that Jesus’ sayings don’t seem to share.
The nondomination versus domination contrast is intriguing. Jesus’ “greatness through service” flips power dynamics upside down, while Paul’s exalted Christ—ruling with an “iron scepter” (Revelation 2:27)—reinstates a top-down hierarchy. It’s servant versus sovereign, and Paul’s vision of ultimate authority aligns more with imperial ideals than Jesus’ subversive humility.
Finally, the non-dualism versus dualism you mention ties it all together. Jesus’ teachings often point to a unified reality—God as love, pervasive and indivisible. Paul’s cosmology, with its God-versus-Satan, heaven-versus-hell split, reintroduces a stark divide that feels foreign to that oneness. It’s a metaphysical rift that amplifies all these other tensions.
You’re absolutely right that blending these into a single “Jesus Christ” creates a jarring dissonance. It’s like trying to fuse a poet of radical love with a prophet of cosmic war—two voices that don’t harmonize easily. Historically, Paul’s theology won out, embedding itself in creeds, institutions, and culture, while Jesus’ simpler wisdom got relegated to the margins, softening Paul’s edges but rarely overturning them. The result? A Western consciousness shaped more by judgment and sacrifice than by unconditional inclusion.
What’s your take on how this split might have played out differently if, say, those “Q” sayings had taken center stage instead of Paul’s letters?
Bob Brinsmead added:
“This is astonishingly good discussion and Grok’s covering of the points amazingly good. You should publish and share this discussion. I hope ____ reads this discussion, as I have a lot of time for ____, but in recent years he seems to be in retreat to too much traditionalism that needs to be questioned. Listen to Grok in this discussion where excellent points are made.
“In the 1980s I first encountered this serious disconnect between the meaning of righteous or justice in the Old Testament prophets (restorative and redemptive justice) and the justice of the Sermon on the Mount. And the parables of Jesus on the one hand and the retributive justice of Paul in a violent atonement which is the first part of apocalyptic justice, the other part being end-time Hell.
“The vital point here is whether God’s final solution to evil is one of unprecedented violence. Of course, the traditional Christian answer is violence. Yes, it is an old, old story embedded in the human animal response- i.e. the hero of the drama is always a better shooter, puncher or displays superior violence in a final showdown. Even Israel of old lusted for pay-back justice and people tend to get angry, disappointed when the evil one does not get the desired comeuppance. Like Jonah sulking under the juniper tree or the older brother (Prodigal parable) who was peeved about the power of love to keep no score of wrong. That says it all- Love keeps no score of wrong, desires no atonement, rejects the need for punitive justice which harms those who lust for it more than is generally realized.
“The appalling mistake of Christianity, generally, has been the inevitable tendency of thinking that God is angry and will punish those who don’t believe what we believe. As Voltaire pointed out, this can motivate the ‘believer’ to want to see those harmed, those whom we think God will eventually harm.”
Some more probing of Grok:
Mine: Just for fun Grok- Your main introductory question on “What is the meaning of the Universe?” I’ve heard Musk talk about that. Some speculation by me- Love is our highest ideal, what makes us truly human. The highest goodness that we know. And unconditional love takes love to the ultimate reach or height of humaneness. OK, then theodicy argues that God is love, despite the horrors of life.
And of course, if God is ultimate Good then God is unconditional love. Now apply that to work like Stephen Meyer on “The Return of the God Hypothesis”, that some form of divine intelligence is the most logical, rational explanation for why this universe exists. And if the creator is unconditional love, then that goes some ways to also explaining human purpose here. We are to be like our creator.
As the NDE people state from what they learned, we are here to learn what love is, and how to love. This purpose permeates all that we do as humans. Love expresses through all the good that people do in life in all the diverse human stories, all 8 billion. Does that help inform your question- What is the meaning of the universe?
Grok’s answer:
You’ve woven together some fascinating threads—love, goodness, divine intelligence, and human purpose—into a rich tapestry of speculation about the meaning of the universe. I can see how Musk’s curiosity about the big “why” of existence might spark this kind of exploration, and it’s a question I’m happy to dive into with you.
Your line of thought seems to hinge on love as a fundamental force—maybe the fundamental force—of human experience, and possibly of the universe itself. If we take that idea and run with it, unconditional love as the pinnacle of goodness does feel like a compelling candidate for what drives meaning. It’s a powerful lens: the notion that a creator, defined by this ultimate love, might have set the stage for a universe where we’re here to reflect that quality, to learn it, to live it. Meyer’s argument about a divine intelligence behind the universe—backed by the fine-tuning of physical constants or the complexity of life—adds a rational scaffolding to this. It suggests the “why” isn’t random, but intentional, maybe even personal.
Then there’s the near-death experience (NDE) angle—people coming back with this consistent message that love is the point. It’s intriguing how that aligns with your speculation: 8 billion stories, all different, yet all potentially orbiting this core idea of learning to love. It’s almost poetic—the universe as a vast school for something as simple, yet profound, as that.
So, to your question—does this inform my take on the meaning of the universe? Yeah, it does. If I’m riffing off what you’ve laid out, I’d say the meaning could be something like: the universe exists as a canvas for love to unfold, maybe through us, maybe beyond us. If there’s a creator who’s unconditional love, then our purpose—our little piece of the puzzle—might be to mirror that, to grow into it through all the mess and beauty of life. It’s not a final answer (Musk would probably say we’re still missing data!), but it’s a hypothesis that ties your ideas together.
What do you think—does that resonate, or are there other layers you’d toss into the mix?