Mary Magdalene

In the film, Mary Magdalene (2018), Mary Magdalene and the other disciples have two different interpretations of the Kingdom of God; these may be called the interior and the eschatological, respectively. The Kingdom of God is within, already and not yet fully realized, or not yet at all, as it will be ushered in by Christ in the Second Coming, which is yet to come. The film’s point of view is decidedly with Mary’s interior interpretation and against Peter’s revolutionary (i.e., against Roman oppression) eschatological take. After both sides fail to convince the other, Peter sidelines Mary in part also because of her gender, so she decides to preach and help people on her own. That the film does not portray Jesus and Mary as romantically involved is a smart move, for it sidelines a controversy that would otherwise distract the viewers from focusing on the question of the nature of the Kingdom of God. This focus is long overdue in Christianity, and is important because only one of the two interpretations—the eschatological—has dominated historically. The film is valuable theologically in that it gives the minority position—Mary’s interior interpretation—a voice. To be sure, Mary Magdalene is a controversial figure, so the choice of that character as a mouthpiece in the film for the minority theological position on the Kingdom is daring and not without its drawbacks. For one thing, she is a woman in a man’s world in the film. Outside of the film, in real life, a medieval pope denigrated her by erroneously identifying her as the prostitute in the Bible, and her reputation had to wait until the twentieth century for the Vatican to correct the error and label her as the Apostle to the Apostles. Finally, there is the Gnostic gospel, The Gospel of Philip, in which Jesus kisses her and the male disciples ask, “Why do you love her more than us?” That jealousy is present in the film, and plays a role in the dispute between Mary and Peter on the nature of the Kingdom. So, returning to the film, having her as the mouthpiece for a minority position that has not seen much light of day historically in Christianity puts the credibility of the interpretation at risk. Accordingly, it may not have much impact in shifting the emphasis away from the eschatological Kingdom in the religion, given the tremendous gravitas that any historical default enjoys.

The version of the Kingdom of God that has dominated in the history of Christianity has the Kingdom not yet here as it depends on the Second Coming of Christ. In contrast, the minority’s report, which Mary holds and advocates in the film, has the Kingdom being “already” and “not yet.” Whereas the Second Coming is external, being evinced in the world and on a collective level, Mary understands Jesus as preaching the importance of the interior conversion of the individual as being crucial to any change in the human condition externally in the world. Whereas the Second Coming commences a revolution against collective oppression and injustice more generally, Mary’s Kingdom gives primacy to each individual letting go of hatred and embracing love. Jesus’ second commandment, to love one’s neighbor, including one’s enemies, fits Mary’s version.

The film is unique among Christian films not only in providing a substantial and sustained dialogue focused on the Kingdom itself, but also in relegating the resurrection and the Second Coming to secondary roles. This corrective is overdue. When Mary joins the other disciples (for in the film, she is a disciple) to tell them that she has just seen Jesus risen, the men have much less trouble believing that Jesus would choose a woman as the witness than in Mary’s notion of the Kingdom. That is, the men seem something less than awestruck by Mary’s good news that Jesus has beaten death and is finally at peace, whereas they are very concerned about the Kingdom. This suggests that for them, the latter is more important. To them, the resurrection is just a sign that the Second Coming will indeed occur and bring with it the Kingdom on earth in a revolutionary battle against Roman oppression.

According to Mary Magdalene, the men misunderstand Jesus’ conception of the Kingdom of God. If she is right, they are relegating the resurrection to a mere sign for nothing. For one thing, Jesus’ insistence in Matthew 24 that “this generation will not certainly not pass away until” the Son of Man comes “on the clouds of heaven with power and glory” undercuts continued belief in the Second Coming itself, for it did not happen while Jesus’ generation was still alive. It does not undercut Jesus’ divinity to say that he is wrong about when the Son of Man would come on clouds of heaven to judge the living and the dead, for Jesus goes on to say at Matthew 24:36, “But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the father.” That the Son is thus not omniscient (i.e., having complete knowledge) raises questions about the relationship between the Father and the Son, but for our purposes here, the problem is that Jesus makes a statement about when the Second Coming will occur then contradicts being able to make such a statement by admitting that he doesn’t know when the event will occur. The contradiction is in scripture itself. Making a claim about something that the claimer knows is beyond the person’s knowledge is itself a mistake. Were I to tell you that I will be arriving next Tuesday and that I don’t know when I will be arriving, you would scratch your head in bewilderment.

When a gospel narrative contains a contradiction in dialogue, it is tempting to eclipse the biblical narrative by going behind it to ask what historically might have been said (we don’t know) or whether a copyist could have inserted the line about the current generation to get the Christians then to wake up. Such a copyist would have erred in creating the contradiction if the line about the Son not knowing the day or time was already extant in the manuscript; otherwise, whoever subsequently added the line about the Son not knowing the day or time—that line likely added after the generation alive during Jesus’ lifetime had died (and the Second Coming had not yet occurred)—erred in failing to remove Jesus’ (or the earlier copyist’s) statement claiming that the Second Coming was imminent.

Whether taking the errors in the gospel as a given or trying to get behind them by speculating about copyists, I contend that giving the Second Coming pride of place in interpreting what Jesus means by the Kingdom of God is not a smart move. Recently, I attended an “Oxford Movement” Episcopal Church “high church” service during which the pastor claimed that the season of Advent pertains to the Second Coming rather than to Christmas. I walked out during the homily and got some breakfast. At the diner, a professor at Yale’s divinity school told me that Advent had referred to the Second Coming from the second to the eighth centuries (notably not from the start). He said Advent came to be associated with Christmas because that is lighter. He was insulting the association with Christmas (even though he going to do some Christmas shopping after breakfast!) “Well,” I replied, “then Advent should be before Christ the King Sunday rather than after it.” That Sunday culminates the liturgical year because Christ the King refers to the Second Coming (which ushers in God’s Kingdom in that interpretation), which is the end of the story. Then the liturgical year begins again with the season of Advent, which I had assumed was universally known by Christians as period of awaiting the birth of Christ, the light coming into the world. How could that possibly be a degradation? I was implying that the Second-Coming referent had been wrong, and thus the subsequent tie to Christmas was an improvement. The scholar demurred. To place a season called advent just before Christmas but claim that the season pertains to another event is misleading at best. It’s just dumb. In actuality, Roman history suggests that Christmas on December 25 only began in the fourth century, so the Advent that had begun to be observed in the second century was a completely different season from what Advent is today. To take what was a completely different season and superimpose it on another season just because they both have the same generic name (advent means “arrival, emergence or coming of” something significant) and claim that the latter season should have the same meaning as the former is asinine. Having a liturgical reading on the Second Coming (e.g., Matthew 24) on the first Sunday of Advent, after Christ the King Sunday, constitutes a liturgical error, given that Christ the King ends the liturgical year. Liturgists would be better off creating an advent season (calling it something other than Advent) that leads up to Christ the King Sunday, and keeping the Advent season of Christmas where it is (i.e., leading up to Christmas, after the Sunday celebrating the Second Coming as the END).  However, to add a season oriented to the Second Coming ignores the scriptural (and perhaps historical) problems with the Second Coming itself. Even if taken only as myth, the Second Coming is weakened by the scriptural contradiction, especially if that comes out of copyist errors, which may suggest that the myth itself was added. The myth may have been added because the world really did not change in the first century of Christianity; something more was needed to effect the change of heart preached by Jesus in the Gospel narratives. That which was needed, however, may have been a different interpretation of the Kingdom of God—precisely that which Mary advocates in the film.

Therefore, I submit that it is foolish to pin the Kingdom of God to a theological concept that is problematic even within the faith narrative alone (i.e., without eclipsing by asking historical questions). Practically speaking, to predicate the arrival of the Kingdom on the Second Coming, which did not arrive while Jesus’ generation was still alive, may push the arrival of the Kingdom off indefinitely, and thus keep Christians from acting so as to bring about the Kingdom now. To be sure, even if the Kingdom is to come in the future, the Bible indicates that Christians can do things now so as to be able to enter the Kingdom in the future. In Matthew 25, Jesus says that when “the Son of Man comes in his glory,” people who have cared for the poor, prisoners, and, moreover, strangers will “inherit the kingdom,” which is “eternal life.” Essentially, the Kingdom in this version is heaven, which may explain why Jesus says that the generation then alive would still be alive when the Son of Man and the heavenly Kingdom arrive. In caring for people beyond one’s friends and family, Christians can make it more likely that they will go to heaven.

It is interesting, however, that enemies are not mentioned explicitly even though Jesus commands his followers to love their enemies. This omission is problematic because, more than helping the poor and even neighbor-love in general, coming to the aid of one’s enemies (and detractors) would “move mountains” in bringing about interpersonal and world peace. The great fault in the eschatological version of the Kingdom lies in not being able to recognize that the Kingdom is present in a heart that overcomes its hatred in order to care even and expressly for enemies, and in a world that is constituted by such individuals who have voluntarily undergone the interior transformation that brings forth forgiveness and even caring where it is least convenient but most needed, given human nature.

Viewing the Kingdom as exclusively “not yet” may itself be erroneous, for Jesus says in Matthew 3:2 that the Kingdom is at hand. There’s a bigger, more intractable problem, however, because Matthew 3 states that the Kingdom is “already” whereas Matthew 24 has the Kingdom “not yet.” The two different interpretations of the Kingdom are both in the Gospel! This is problematic if, as in the movie’s theology, the Kingdom is and ought to be the main focus of Christians and Christianity itself. Supporting this primacy, Jesus states in Luke 4:43 that preaching on the Kingdom of God is the purpose for which he has been sent. This situates him as a means in relation to the Father’s kingdom; he—meaning his preaching—is the way to his Father’s kingdom. To take the way for its destination is to conflate means and ends. It is generally agreed that ends are more important than means.

It is imperative, therefore, that we delve into the rival interpretations of the Kingdom, which we can do by analyzing the dialogue between Mary and Peter in the room where the disciples are hiding on Easter. The film definitely has its point of view, which is in support of Mary’s interpretation. The film backs this up by showing Mary as being the closest to Jesus in a religious (not romantic) sense. For instance, in one scene, after Mary has walked away from the disciples to spend time with Jesus in a field, both characters literally and figuratively look down on the anti-Roman zealotry of the disciples.

After Jesus has risen from the dead, Mary goes to the disciples to give them the good news that Jesus has beaten even death, and is now at peace. Mary refutes Peter’s conception of the Kingdom of God as awaiting the Second Coming for the people to rise and Jesus be crowned king so Roman rule would finally be vanquished. “Jesus never said he would be crowned king,” she tells the disciples. “The kingdom is here, now,” she explains in dispelling the disciples’ misinterpretation of Jesus’ preaching on the Kingdom. The disciples see no kingdom because the Roman occupation has not ended, but she insists that “it’s not something we can see with our eyes; it’s here, within us. All we need to do is let go of our anguish and resentment and we become like children, just as he said. The Kingdom cannot be built by conflict, not by opposition, not by destruction; [rather] it grows with us, with very act of love and care, with our forgiveness. We have the power to lift the people just as he did, and then we will be free just as he is. This is what he meant.” The kingdom, she goes on, is not the sort that is of revolution “born in flames and blood.” Peter dismisses Mary’s version, insisting, “just outside that door, there is no new world. No end of oppression. No justice for the poor, for the suffering.” In keeping with, and applying, her interior-oriented notion of the Kingdom, she asks Peter, “How does it feel to carry that anger around in your heart?” If Peter wants a new world, he first needs to swallow his demons—doing so is the only kind of change that can change the world. Nevertheless, he insists that the fact that Mary has seen the risen Jesus means that “he will bring the kingdom.” It is something not yet rather than here already in the heart ministering to anguish and hatred. “The world will only change as we change,” Mary retorts. Otherwise, what we’re left with is cascading revolutions and oppressions with the human heart unchanged in its balance against its own demons. Real change can only come from within, person by person, rather than collectively, as by organizations such as revolutionary governments. This is the point of view expressed by the film. The disciples opposing Mary have misunderstood Jesus. She is, after all, closest to Jesus throughout the film, so her claim of having understood better what he had in mind is credible.

The implications of the dialogue (and the film’s point of view) are important. For one thing, liberation theology is radically off the mark because it puts societal structures ahead of intrapersonal transformation. We won’t get economic and political structures that do not oppress without the people in business and government letting go of their anger and hatred, as well as their related power-aggrandizement and greed. Moreover, the focus on Jesus, including on his resurrection, is itself off the mark, but so too is the belief that the Second Coming will usher in the Kingdom, for it is “already” here even though it is “not yet” in the sense that not nearly enough individual hearts have transformed themselves for the proverbial mustard seed to manifest into a tree with many branches. Going person by person, eventually enough people will have let go of anguish and hatred and thus be better able to love their enemies for the Kingdom to manifest societally in a peaceable kingdom.

Perhaps the most radical implication is that the focus of the Church should be on helping individuals to face their demons and help not only strangers, but also enemies, rather than on worshipping Jesus. In the film, Mary asks the men if they had heard Jesus ever say he would be crowned king. Because in the Gospels Jesus refers to the Kingdom of God as his father’s Kingdom, it stands to reason that the Father is the king, and Jesus dutifully serves him by telling people about his father’s kingdom. This is not to deny Jesus’ divinity, for he is resurrected both in the Gospels and the film. Nevertheless, of the three manifestations (or personae in Latin) in the Trinity, Jesus Christ has received by far the most attention throughout the history of Christianity. The film does not go so far as to suggest that Jesus should not be worshipped. In the film, he is not worshipped, even by his disciples. Rather, in one scene he and Mary watch the men pray to the God of Israel (rather than to Jesus). Even once Mary tells the other disciples that Jesus has risen, they do not drop down and worship him in that scene; rather, their emotional attention is on the nature of the Kingdom, which is thus presumably more important to them. It is not as if the Kingdom itself can be worshipped, and the disciples do accept Mary’s claim that Jesus has risen from the dead, so it is reasonable to think that they would eventually worship him were the film extended. Such worship would not be their primary focus, however, yet neither would Mary’s version of the Kingdom. The film is thus tragic in that we see the disciples except Mary coalesce around Peter and his version, and we know that historically, their side has been dominant while a pope relegated Mary to being a prostitute. The challenge for Christianity may be in how to shift the focus from that of worshipping Jesus and waiting for the Second Coming before the Kingdom can be realized to the worship being a means to focus on Mary’s version of the Kingdom and the human agency that it implies and indeed even mandates. 

Agora vs. Fatima: Contending Christianities

The films Agora (2009) and Fatima (2020) contain very different depictions of Christianity. By depictions, I mean ways in which Christianity can be interpreted and lived. This is not to say that all of the interpretations are equally valid, for only those that contain internal contradictions evince hypocrisy. The sheer extent of the distance between the depictions shown in the two films demonstrates not only the huge extent of latitude that religious interpretation can have, but also just how easy it is even for self-identifying Christians, whether of the clergy or the laity, not only to fail to grasp Jesus’ teachings in the Gospels, but also to violate the two commandments even while believing that Jesus Christ is divine (i.e., the Son of God). The human mind, or brain, can have such stunning blind spots (or cognitive dissidence) when it comes to religion that even awareness of this systemic vulnerability and efforts to counter it are typically conveniently ignored or dismissed outright. This is nearly universal, in spite of claims of humility and fallibility more generally, so I contend that the human mind is blind to its own weakness or vulnerability in the religious sphere of thought, sentiment, and action. Augustine’s contention that revelation must pass through a smoky stained window before reaching us is lost on the religious among us who insist that their religious beliefs constitute knowledge. I contend that this fallacy as well as the larger vulnerability to hypocrisy should be a salient part both of Sunday School and adult religious education. For the vulnerability is correctable, but this probably requires ongoing vigilance. That is, the problem is not that the divine goes beyond the limits of human cognition (as well as perception and emotion) as Pseudodionysus pointed out to deaf ears in the 6^th century; the human brain is fully capable of spotting and countering its own lapses in the religious domain. In other words, the problem here is not that of the human mind being able to understand the contents of revelation because must travel through a darkened window before reaching us; rather, the problem lies in grasping what Jesus preaches in the Gospels and putting the spiritual principles into practice, rather than doing the opposite and being completely oblivious to the contradiction, which is otherwise known as cognitive dissidence. The two films provide us with the means both to grasp this problem and realize how much it differs from a healthy faith that has the innocence of a child’s wonder.

Agora is set in Alexandria, Egypt from 390 to 410 CE, while Fatima is set in Fatima, Portugal in 1917. Both are based on historical events. Agora centers around Hypatia, a pagan mathematician and astronomer whom Bishop Cyril had his Christian brotherhood kill for having refused to convert, especially considering that she had considerable political influence locally. Historically, the brotherhood skinned Hypatia alive; in the film, her ex-slave Davus, who loves her, suffocates her before the brotherhood can stone her to death. He who has not sinned throw the first stone apparently does not apply to the members of the Christian brotherhood, who are no strangers to using violence. Earlier in the film, they throw stones at Jews at a music concert for listening to music and eating sweets, according to Cyril, on the Sabbath. This prompts the Jews to retaliate, and the brotherhood in turn with Cyril saying that even women and children should be killed.  Earlier still, the brotherhood is among the Christians who fight the pagans, who start the violence because Theophilus, the Christian bishop (or patriarch) who precedes Cyril encourages the Christian crowd to throw food at a statue of one of the Egyptian deities. Whereas violence used to “answer the insult” is not an inconsistency in the Egyptian religion, such a response contradicts Jesus’ second commandment, which includes serving rather than insulting one’s neighbor. The presence of God is most of all in love that is not convenient, and thus that goes against the human instinctual urge to retaliate.

In the Gospels, Jesus preaches on how a person can enter the Kingdom of God. In Luke (4:43), Jesus says, “It is necessary for me to proclaim the good news about the kingdom of God . . . because I was sent for this purpose.” Jesus attempts to orient his hearers to the Kingdom of God. The latter should be the focus of a Christian. Peace characterizes that kingdom, and the way to peace is through loving one’s enemies. More concretely, this means turning the other cheek, both literally and proverbially, but this is not enough. A person must go further to help, or serve, one’s detractors, which, incidentally, does not mean staying in an abusive relationship. Serving a person who insults Jesus, rather than retaliating, is an excellent way into the Kingdom of God.

In Agora, both Theophilus and Cyril miss an opportunity due to their hatred and prejudice against other religions. A person being served even as that person insults the helpful person’s ideals is more likely to convert to Christianity by grasping the humble strength that lies in voluntarily serving one’s detractors. The way not to convert is to insult, violently attack, and retaliate. The two Christian bishops are far from being able to enter the Kingdom of God. Like the Pharisees in the Gospels, the two patriarchs of Alexandria evince Jesus’ teaching that many who are first, or presume themselves to be first, are actually last—behind even the poor who suffer from illness (presumed even by Jesus to result from sin).

Humility, as is present in the willingness to serve even jerks and people whose political, social, or religious ideology contradicts one’s own, is shown by the three children who see and hear the Virgin Mary in Fatima. Those children suffer the hostile disbelief of the mayor and even Maria, the mother of Lucia, one of the children. Maria is a character of irony, as she seems so devoted to the Virgin Mary and yet is so hostile. As Paul wrote, faith without love is for naught. In 1 Corinthians (13:2), Paul writes, “if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.” What sort of love?  Loving your friends and favorable neighbors is not enough. In Matthew (5:43-45), Jesus says, “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven.” The presence of the divine can be sensed by both the Christian and one’s detractor as the former helps the latter in spite of attitude of the latter toward the former. The Christian lays that aside and instead feels compassion in helping a fellow creature who is existentially so dependent on God. To view one of God’s creatures as such is to take on God’s perspective, and out of the sense of basic vulnerability comes the motive of compassion. A more basic bond between finite creatures can then be felt by both, and the presence of God is this bond because the dependence is so basic to a person’s being. Bringing this presence of God to humanity is Jesus’ task in preaching how to enter the Kingdom of God by loving one’s enemies.

Devotion to a deity or quasi-deity (for Mary is believed by Catholics to be in heaven in body and soul) is of no value and is even hypocritical if the person is not helping, but rather attacking people deemed as bad or as threats or antagonists. In Agora, Maria is convinced that her daughter Lucia is lying, and thus is needlessly and selfishly putting the family at risk of attack and financial ruin. Mobs are not known for their wisdom. Maria is only superficially a Christian. In actuality, she worships herself, as she presumes to be omniscient in knowing that the Virgin is not really visiting Lucia and the other children. That Maria’s devotion is for naught because she is cold rather than loving even to her daughter can be discerned from the fact that the Virgin is not visible to Maria while she is standing behind Lucia during a visitation. The implication is that believing in the Virgin Mary and even sacrificing to her in the misguided belief that doing so will cause Maria’s son to come back from the war alive are for naught if in heart and deed there is not love even and especially where it is difficult. The faith of the three children that the Virgin really is there and the willingness to pass on the Virgin’s messages even after the children are briefly imprisoned by the mayor evinces love that is difficult, and Lucia’s caring for her sick mother is a case of loving one’s detractors can thus be contrasted with Maria’s harsh mentality that is at best heroine worship. Maria imposes on her daughter a severe religious causality that merely supports Hume’s contention that we really don’t understand causation. Maria is consumed by getting the Virgin to keep Maria’s son alive in war, whereas Lucia resists the pressure of the priest, bishop, and mayor to tell them something that the Virgin said not to tell anyone. Far from insulting the Virgin by betraying her, Lucia protects her.

Whereas in Agora the Christians insult other gods, and then fight rather than serve those whom the Christians have insulted, in Fatima the Virgin Mary tells the children to pass on the message to stop insulting the Abrahamic god by sinning and not being sorry for doing it (i.e., repenting). Even the Christian bishops in Agora not only sin by insulting and attacking their enemies, but also fail to repent. The blind are leading the blind into hypocrisy and sin under the auspices of piety—serving Christ. Contrast the way in which the bishops serve (or defend) Christ with the way in which the three children serve the Virgin.

It is ironic that the Christians in Agora who arrogantly presume to know God’s will even as they violate it destroy the Alexandria’s great library, which a pagan says is “the only thing that remains of the wisdom of man.” Historically, had the Christians not destroyed that library, the world might have not only books written by Aristotle, but also early Christian manuscripts that have been lost. Again, the Christians in Agora are working at cross-purposes—not just given their desire to convert, but also in terms of learning more about Jesus’ preaching on how to enter the Kingdom of God. Pride and prejudice are indeed short-sighted.

Historically, Augustine borrowed from Plato and Aquinas was practically in love with Aristotle, and yet the Christians burned down the library of Alexandria in 410 CE to destroy pagan knowledge—Paul’s “wisdom of Athens.” Similarly, Queen Elizabeth II of Britain forbid her own sister the love of her life because he was divorced, but then allowed her own children to divorce their respective spouses, most notably Princess Diana. Elizabeth refused to give her stamp of approval, which was necessary, on her sister’s marriage to Peter Townsend because one of the queen’s roles is as the head of the Church of England, which did not allow divorces at the time. Where there is no act of love and mercy, however, faith and ecclesiastical position are for naught. In Elizabeth’s son’s coronation, the stultifying arrogance of exclusion evinced in the seating arrangement itself belied the new king’s claim of being a Christian, much less the head of a Christian institution. The invited guests in the farthest pews—those blocked by a screen-wall from being able to see the events in the ritual—sat in humility closer to the Kingdom of God than did the man sitting on King Edward’s throne.

The Kingdom of God is conceptualized differently in the two films. The Christians in Agora are oriented to a political Christendom without pagans, whereas the Virgin and the three children—and the children shall lead them—view the kingdom as a matter of not insulting God (i.e., not sinning). Whereas the former conception is externally oriented, against the pagans and Jews, and thus is earthly, the latter notion is of the interior, of the heart, within a person. The Kingdom of God is within. There’s no need to wait until the Son of Man comes on clouds.  Christendom viewed as a kingdom on earth led to the Crusades in which four popes raised armies to kill rather than love enemies. Alternatively, the popes could have sent Christians to serve the Muslims in the Holy Land. The land would then have been truly holy rather than the site of Christian hypocrisy.

In his tome, Leviathan, Thomas Hobbes’s “Kingdom of Darkness” is none other than the Roman Catholic Church on earth—the same institution that has protected priests who have raped children and the bishops such as Cardinal Law who enabled the criminals rather than held them accountable. In doing so, those clerics, whether directly or, as in the case of Joe Ratzinger (Pope Benedict XVI), by knowingly transferring a rapist papist priest to avoid scandal for the universal church, can be viewed as vicariously stomping out the innocent faith of the three children in Fatima. I believe there is a special place in hell for adults who snuff out the innocence of a child, whether or not those adults believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God. In The Da Vinci Code (2006), the last living descendent of Jesus tells a monk who murders for God: “Your God burns murderers.” Doubtless the descendent distancing the Christian god from herself is due to all the hypocrisy that often occurs because so many Christians erroneously believe that accepting Jesus as one’s personal lord and savior is sufficient. The Kingdom of Darkness has much to atone for, and transferring accessories to crimes of violence against children to posh Vatican positions (e.g. Cardinal Law) rather than having the corrupt clerics serve the victims who would permit it speaks volumes concerning convenience versus inconvenient love.

Bishop Cyril in Agora believes that Jesus Christ is the Son of God; this belief works against the bishop, as it had for Theophilus, as both characters use it to justify defending Jesus by violence against the non-Christians who are critical of the insulting Christians. Cyril preaches that Hypatia is a witch, which in turn sets brotherhood on a quest to kill her. It is ironic that the brotherhood had been set up to “safeguard Christian morality,” which ostensibly was needed because the splitting of the Roman Empire in two meant that that the end of the world was nigh. Cyril reads a passage from Paul that woman should keep silent. Hypatia has definitely not been silent; in fact, she has considerable influence on her former student Orestes, who is now the Roman prefect who governs the city. How dare a woman, and a pagan no less, have such influence!, Cyril not doubt feels as he characterizes Paul’s opinion women as “the word of God.” A human opinion in a letter no less is the Word of the living God. To regard an opinion as such is to reckon it as infallible truth. Such truth is immutable, and the role and status of women deemed proper in Paul’s world have changed over time and from place to place. In utter contrast to Cyril in Agora, the three children in Fatima listen to the Virgin’s messages rather than give their own opinions. The children regard the messages as different in kind. Indeed, the children resist considerable pressure in not revealing the Virgin’s message not to tell anyone something about the future. Unfortunately, the human mind has a proclivity to emblazon opinion with the veneer of truth, and then to seek to enforce such truth by imposing it on other people. The arrogance of self-entitlement can be guarded against by keeping in mind that the fallible and limited human mind should not be so sure of itself on religious matters as to regard itself as infallible.

The two films also differ on how the Christians approach forgiveness. Astonishingly, Ammonius, a leader of the brotherhood in Agora, rebuffs Davus, Hypatia’s the ex-slave who suggests that they should forgive rather than retaliate against the Jews. Ammonius declares, “Only Jesus can forgive the Jews.” Wrong! In Matthew (18:21-22), “Peter came up and said to him [i.e., Jesus], ‘Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?’ Jesus said to him, ‘I do not say to you seven times, but seventy-seven times.’” Neither Patriarch, Theophilus or Cyril, are in the business of forgiveness, especially to the enemy.

In contrast, Lucia in Fatima forgives her mother after the miracle of the Sun moving around in the sky convinces everyone in the crowd, including Maria, that the children were right all along; the Virgin Mary really is there. Lucia still loves her mother in spite of Maria’s chilly hostility and refusal to trust her daughter even though the Virgin obviously trusts Lucia. But the latter’s faith is not perfect. In asking the Virgin to do a miracle so the crowd would believe the children’s claim that the visitation is real, Lucia succumbs to the sensationalistic undercutting of religious meaning or truth by the assumption that the validity of religious preaching relies on something supernatural happening. The innocent faith of the children is nigh eclipsed by the more sensationalistic need for verification of the Christian adults who gather in the field to personally benefit from the visitations. Pray for this, pray for that; this is human, all too human. 

The salience of the need for a supernatural, metaphysical miracle, even for the viewers of the film, to prove that the Virgin is really there in the story world, and, by fallacious implication in 1917 as a historical event apart from the film, almost eclipses importance of the childlike faith of the children in the film. Only after the miracle has occurred can the movie end; the viewers would not be satisfied otherwise. The need of Maria, the bishop, the priest, and even the mayor to know definitively that the Virgin is really there with the three children is a need that the film’s viewers have as well.  Even Lucia wants a miracle; even she lapses in giving the need to convince the crowd any importance, especially relative to the content of the Virgin’s message. The important thing is to stop insulting God. Cyril and his followers in Agora insult God with their hypocrisy in God’s name.

Interestingly, witness accounts in October, 1917 attest to the miracle of the Sun moving around in the sky and even coming closer as a historical event, which could be seen from as far as 40 km away. It is tempting to let the metaphysical or religious actuality of the Virgin Mary (or the historical or risen Jesus) be the focus; to be sure, such a deviation from the children’s faith and the Virgin’s message is much less damaging than is the violence by the Christians in Agora, for that is antipodal to the way into the spiritual space of God’s “kingdom,” or way of being. For it is God’s presence felt within and between people as love especially when such love is not convenient that is of value in itself. Even religious personages pale in comparison. In the Gospels, Jesus sets the Kingdom of God as that for which he is tasked with orienting people. Within that kingdom, the presence of the divine can be sensed, made possible by an inconvenient love that expands human nature itself such that the human instinctual urge for the divine can be more satisfied and perhaps even be fulfilled.

See: God's Gold

The Greatest Story Ever Told

The Greatest Story Ever Told (1965) is known for being the first Hollywood movie in which the face of Jesus is shown. From the standpoint of the next century, the scandal in showing Jesus could only seem antiquated, if not outright silly. Rarely can such perspective on a scandal exist as it is occurring. In its own time, a scandal seems all-important and critically in need of being addressed lest life as we know it would otherwise come to an end. Ten years earlier, Nikos Kazantzakis' novel, The Last Temptation of Christ, had also been controversial, as was the 1988 film of the same name (and based on the novel) because Jesus imagines himself in the sexual act and he may struggle with mental illness. This scandal was more serious than was that which greeted The Greatest Story Ever Told even though the Jesus of Last Temptation ends up rejecting the temptation to avoid the cross and is thus faithful to his Father in the end. The viewer is left, however, without a decisive answer as to whether the film's Jesus suffers from mental fits because the film ends with Jesus dying on the cross. The theological validation of Jesus is made in Greatest Story, though curiously not chiefly in the usual way this is done in narratives about him. I submit that this deviation makes the film highly significant in that it emphasizes religious experience as a reaction.

The two parts of The Greatest Story are separated by an intermission. The climax before it outdoes the one that comes at the end of the film. Ironically, the focus in the first climax is on the disciples' reactions rather than Jesus' face. Jesus walks up a hill to Lazarus' tomb to bring him back to life. Although we briefly see Jesus' face as he looks into the tomb, the chief shot is from the perspectives of the disciples downhill looking up. In fact, we only know that Jesus has succeeded by the reactions of the people watching the event from afar. We never see Lazarus. Seeing the reactions--verbal and nonverbal--is a more powerful way of conveying the significance of the event in religious terms. The astonishment and urgency to tell others we see suggests that the event was not just unusual, but more crucially supernatural and thus sourced in divine power intervening through Jesus. The reaction of the disciples to Jesus' resurrection at the end of the film is muted in relative terms. For viewers who are very familiar with the Passion Story of Jesus, the emotional reaction at the end of the film may also be muted.

In retrospect, some viewers may notice that the reactions of the disciples (and others) at Lazarus coming back to life (as distinct from being resurrected) are not the reactions that are typically seen in Churches during worship. Although in John (20:29) it is written, "Blessed are those who have not seen [me] and yet believe," it is also true that human reactions from witnessing a miracle of the significance of Lazarus would naturally be more intense than from hearing about miracles from the lectern in a church. Indeed, because Christians down through the centuries have not witnessed any such miracles of that magnitude personally, but only through a book, muted reactions have been the norm.  That is to say, relative to the reactions of the disciples and others in the film during the first climax, the intensity of Christians has been less in merely hearing about the miracle. Christians may notice that the miracles that evince a supernatural aspect are believed only in the narrative. This is not to say that the miracles were not empirical (i.e., historical) events; rather, my point is that Christians through the centuries have as their source the Bible, whose inerrancy pertains to belief rather than knowledge. Empirical facts, as from historical accounts written by historians, count as knowledge; belief does not. For such Christians, a miracle can be a literary device because the belief must come out of a book. The device, I submit, lends authenticity to the principles that a religious narrative conveys, rather proffers proof of an empirical event in the past. In short, Christians since the eye-witnesses such as those depicted in the first climax of the film have been dependent on the Bible sans direct experience.

I do not mean to suggest that religious experience from a miracle depends on being an eye-witness. This is where the film has particular value. The narrative device can trigger a distinctly religious reaction (i.e., experience). Watching the reactions from the Lazarus event, which itself was largely hidden from the viewer, the viewer may have a reaction that transcends emotions. Such a distinctively religious reaction, as for instance from feeling the hair raise on one's arms, is itself a religious phenomenon that exists even if miracles are only a literary device without having happened historically. None of us can know whether or not they did.  It is amazing that a mere literary device can trigger such a distinctive spiritual (rather than emotional) reaction. Generally, symbols, myths and rituals can trigger religious reactions. The reaction to a significance of a type that transcends our realm is distinctly religious or spiritual, and thus part of the human experience even if miracles are not. 

In short, the film's visual point-of-view assumes an unusual vantage point as Jesus is performing the miracle on Lazarus by focusing on the onlookers and thus their respective reactions. In contrast, a traditional vantage-point is assumed as viewers look at the raised Jesus talking with his disciples. Containing these two different perspectives in the two climaxes of the film, it points greater attention on the Lazarus miracle than that of Jesus' resurrection. The greater attention is itself distinct because the reactions that people would have to witnessing a significant, empirical miracle are highlighted. As a result, some viewers in turn may have a novel reaction that is distinctly religious and yet does not require that miracles occur outside of being a literary device. The reaction itself may point to the human propensity to transcend the limits of perception, cognition, and even emotions and thus to have a distinctively religious or spiritual experience. Such an experience, rather than major figures, may be the point that religions try to convey.  

The Case for Christ

A film narrative oriented to an investigation of Christianity is tailor-made to illustrate the potential of film as a medium to convey abstract ideas and theories. In The Case for Christ (2017), a skeptical journalist—Lee Strobel—takes on the contention that Jesus’ resurrection in the Gospels was also a historical event (i.e., happened historically). Lee states the proposition that he will investigate as follows: “The entire Christian faith hinges on the resurrection of Jesus. If it didn’t happen, it’s a house of cards. He’s reduced to a misunderstood rabbi at best; at worst, he was a lunatic who was martyred.” The journalist’s initial position is that the resurrection didn’t happen historically; it is just part of a faith narrative (i.e., the Gospels). Lee wants to test the proposition by interviewing experts. The dialogues between the journalist unschooled in theology and the scholars of religion provide a way in which complex ideas and arguments can be broken down for the viewer and digested. The journalist stands as a translator of sorts similar to a teacher’s function in breaking down knowledge new to students so they can grasp and digest it.

The journalist attends a debate between two scholars of religion, Singer and Habermas, on the historical Jesus movement in Biblical hermeneutics—that is, on what the Gospels, as faith narratives, can tell us about Jesus as a historical person. Singer denies that information in a faith narrative, or myth, can be taken as historical evidence. Logically, to treat a religious text as a historical account is to commit a category mistake (i.e., ignoring the distinction between two categories). For one thing, the incorporation of history into a faith narrative serves religious points, which are of a higher priority than historical accuracy. In writing a religious narrative, the writer’s intent is not to provide a historical account; historians do that.

For example, the synoptic Gospels differ on when the Last Supper takes place relative to Passover. Different theological points are being made. Jesus being crucified during Passover likens him to the animals sacrificed in Exodus. Jesus is the Lamb of God. Were the authorial intent to provide a historical account, this theological point could not be made if the historical Jesus was crucified after Passover. It makes sense that a writer who is religious would be more faithful to his theology than to history. The Gospel writers selectively appropriated historical accounts without verifying them as historians would have done. In fact, the writers would even have been inclined, given how important their faith was to them, to take sayings passed on orally as unfettered (i.e., unbiased) historical accounts.

A Gospel writer (and Paul) could have written things as if they were historical to make theological points. Paul’s miraculous experience on the road to Damascus provides the man who had prosecuted Christians with status in Jesus’ inner circle. The historical nomenclature tends to crystalize over centuries as the historical “fact” eclipses Paul’s religious reason for portraying the miracle as having really happened (i.e., as an event in empirical history). That is, the authorial intent in making an event seem historical by using historical nomenclature is often overlooked by faith-readers, especially in an era in which empirical facts are the gold standard covering even religion. Therefore, Singer’s position is that the Gospels cannot be assumed to be reliable sources of historical information.

Habermas answers Singer by claiming that the Gospels are indeed reliable sources of historical events. As a public event, the crucifixion would have had witnesses—sympathizers and critics. Habermas points out that an atheist school of thought “now believes that the earliest known report of the resurrection was formed no later than three years after the Cross.” Habermas cites a book by Gurd Luderman, which discusses the report. Unlike Singer, Habermas believes that the obvious faith-interest of the sympathetic witnesses in the resurrection having really occurred would not cause them to lie. That many witnesses saw Jesus after he resurrected adds to Habermas’ confidence.

It is interesting that in using the word, really, to refer to history, I have just committed a common error wherein even in religious matters, the historical criteria trumps, or is more real, than religious truth, whose reality comes to us by symbol, myth, and ritual. The religious truth of the resurrection is contained in the Gospels, whose theological truths transcend history, just as the Creator transcends Creation.  

Implicit in Habermas’ position is the rhetorical question: why would people of faith lie? Why would people deeply motivated by religious truth violate truth itself by fabricating their historical accounts of Jesus after his resurrection? Habermas would likely dismiss the “ends justify the means” rationale for doing bad things for a good outcome. Fundamentalists may be particularly susceptible to this way of justifying doing bad things in service to a faith even though an objective observer would see the hypocrisy. The two scholars may thus be debating, at least in part, how human nature interacts with religion.

The journalist’s initial position rephrased is that if the resurrection did not happen historically (rather than only in the faith narratives), then religious truth in the faith narratives would have no value. In other words, faith serves history rather than vice versa in the religious domain. To be sure, it can be argued that if the historical Jesus did not “really” resurrect in physical body and spirit, then his true followers will not resurrect after their physical death. The religious truth necessitates the historical event, yet no reliable (i.e., independent of the faith narratives) historical account exists. The journalist and Habermas are thus diametrically opposed.

Historians overwhelming contend that the Jesus passage in Jewish Antiquities, written by Flavius Josephus, a Jewish historian who covered Jesus’ period in Judaea, was actually added subsequently in order to include Christian faith claims that go beyond what a historian would include in writing history, and what a Jew would believe and thus proselytize through writing “history.” The journalist would strongly agree that historical accounts that are separate from faith narratives can be susceptible to interpolated (i.e., injected) faith material that is portrayed as historical. Josephus mentions Jesus and his followers, though “close in style and content to the creeds that were composed two or three centuries after Josephus.”[1] Specifically, Josephus’ uses of “the Greek verb forms such as aorists and participles are distinct in the passage on Jesus.” They are “different than the forms that Josephus uses in other [Pontius] Pilate episodes, and these differences amount to a difference in genre.”[2] The passage on Jesus is close to the Gospels, which are faith narratives, whereas the other events involving Pilate are written in verb forms used by historians to write histories.

A Jewish historian such as Josephus would not have been inclined to include Christian faith-claims, especially as part of a historical account. For example, the parenthetical () “if indeed one ought to call him a man” is not a historical fact and not something to which a Jew would subscribe. Furthermore, Josephus did not use the literary device of parentheticals except in his passage on Jesus. This suggests that a later Christian editor or copyist may have inserted material within sentences to include elements of the Christian faith (even inserting phrases within sentences distinct from the sentences’ contents) morphed into historical content by means of historical nomenclature (i.e., using words that make something seem historical). That is, the interlarded additions in the passage on Jesus conflate two distinct genres, faith narratives and historical accounts.

As a Jew and a historian, Josephus would not likely have written that Jesus was a teacher to people willing to “accept the truth.” This is not a historical statement, for truth is not a historical event. This applies also to the statement, “He was the Messiah.” Finally, the statement that after three days, Jesus was “restored to life” (i.e., resurrected) is not something that a Jew would take as a historical event.[3] Interestingly, not even Habermas sites Josephus; rather, the religious scholar relies on witnesses in the Gospels, thus conflating the two genres: myth (i.e., faith narratives) and history.[4] Singer points out that taking witnesses in a faith narrative as providing historical evidence is invalid by the criteria of history.

In short, Josephus would indeed have been a very unusual Jew had he believed these faith claims to be valid; he would have been a deficient historian had he viewed them as historical accounts rather than faith claims.

Justus of Tiberius, a rival historian, did not include Jesus even though this historian “wrote in great detail about the exact period of Tiberius’s reign that coincided with Jesus’s ministry.”[5] Therefore, even the validity of Josephus’ mention of Jesus as a historical person living in the Middle East can be contested. Perhaps the entire passage of Jesus was implanted by a later editor or copyist sympathetic to Jesus. If so, then no historical record exists to support the claim that Jesus existed historically rather than only in the faith narratives. We could not know whether Jesus’ resurrection really happened by appealing to historical evidence (e.g., witness accounts separate from those in the Gospels).

After the debate, Habermas and the journalist sit down for a coffee. “How can anyone talk about historical evidence for a resurrection when the resurrection is by its very nature a miracle?” the journalist asks. “We all know miracles can’t be proven scientifically.” The source of a miracle is outside of Creation, and thus its natural laws and processes. “We don’t have to prove a miracle in order to prove the resurrection, Habermas replies. “You just have to show that Jesus died and was seen afterwards.” Interestingly, Habermas uses the word show rather than prove. This may suggest that he has already ceded some ground on how difficult it is to prove that an event happened empirically two thousand years ago. The journalist seizes on this vulnerability of historical studies. “Right,” he says, “but the very people who claimed that they saw him are religious zealots. In my line of work, we call those biased sources.” We are back to the problem of the selective use of history in faith narratives, and in taking Josephus’ historical account as valid historically.

Habermas dismisses the problem of biased sources and declares, “I care about the facts.” The journalist cleverly hinges on the problem of what constitutes a fact. “So what are the facts, Dr. Habermas? The resurrection narrative is more legend than it is history.” To be sure, that the resurrection is in a myth does not in itself mean that Jesus did not resurrect historically (i.e., it was a historical event). Even if neither the witnesses in the Gospels nor even Josephus’ historical account suffices under historical criteria, historical events have surely gone unreported by historians. In effect, the journalist is using his stance in the discussion as a fact. Habermas spots this fallacy and replies, “Really? Not according to historical records. Did you know that we have a report of the resurrection from specific eye-witnesses that dates all the way back within months of the resurrection itself? That source also adds that five hundred people saw Jesus at the same time.” However, because Habermas is relying on witnesses in a faith narrative, or myth, we cannot count them as historical witnesses. In other words, he is conflating the two genres and not offering a counterargument to the problem of biased sources. Even the journalist falls victim to conflating the two genres.

Replying to Habermas, the journalist says, “That’s still just one historical source—the Bible.” Habermas replies, “Wrong, there are at least nine ancient sources both inside and outside the Bible confirming that disciples and others encountered Jesus after the Crucifixion.” Notice that Habermas refers to ancient sources inside the Bible. The word ancient is a historical term. Habermas is likely invoking Josephus’ historical account, which as discussed above is problematic in itself as a historical source. If the scholar is counting other historical accounts, he would have to confront the consensus among historians that Josephus provides the only mention of Jesus in a historical account (as well as the consensus that Josephus’ account is problematic as a historical source). It would be presumptuous of Habermas as a religious scholar to claim superiority over historians in deciding what constitutes a valid historical account (i.e., by criteria in the discipline of history). Would the historians then have superiority over scholars of religion on religious questions?

Pointing to the problem of biases sources, the journalist claims that the disciples and others who encountered Jesus after the Crucifixion “were already followers of Jesus.” This gives us an idea of what would be needed to have a valid historical source. Such a witness would have be verified as independent of Jesus and his followers, and mentioned in a historical account, which itself would have to be authenticated. This is not to say that Jesus’ followers could not have witnessed an event such as the resurrection and reported it orally to others. A historical account would need more support; however, as such witnesses would have had a faith-interest in reporting the event as empirical even though the resurrection has religious truth-value in the faith narratives alone.

Strangely, Habermas uses Paul, a zealot for Christ. “Think of Saul of Tsaris,” Habermas says. “He originally was a persecutor of Christians.” However, Paul’s letters are from the perspective of Paul as a devoted follower of Jesus. How could Habermas possibly think that because Paul as Saul had been against the Jesus movement that he would be unbiased after his conversion? Indeed, Paul’s own written account of his conversion experience is subject to the point that he could have added in his miraculous vision to legitimize himself as an apostle even though he had not met Jesus. Also, just because Paul’s letters are historical artifacts does not mean that their contents report historical events. Paul was not writing historical accounts, and so his religious messages and religious-interest could have used historical events selectively and even invented some. The warping effects of religious ideology on cognition (and ethics) can be significant.

Habermas next accepts the journalist’s initial premise that if Jesus’ resurrection is not a historical event, then the Christian faith would collapse. This is so because it depends on that historical event. Nevertheless, that faith has not collapsed, or been discredited, and in fact Christians have even been willing to die in its service. “If the early church fathers knew that the resurrection was a hoax, then why would they willingly die for it?” Habermas’ assumption can be critiqued.

Firstly, that Christianity has not collapsed does not necessarily mean that the theological resurrection in the faith narratives happened historically. Christianity could have endured due to the intrinsic value of the religious truth that is in the faith narratives (and Paul’s letters). It may have been enough that those narratives depict the resurrection as a historical event without the event having taken place empirically (i.e., outside of the narratives).

Secondly, Habermas assumes that if the resurrection did not occur as a historical account, then the early Church fathers would have known that the resurrection as a historical event was a hoax. This assumption too does not hold, for the fathers could have erroneously assumed that the historical nomenclature (i.e., wording) used in the faith narratives is sufficient to guarantee that the resurrection was also a historical event (i.e., apart from its mention as such in the Gospels). That is, the portrayal in the Gospels of the resurrection as a historical event does not mean that the resurrection “really” happened. Furthermore, to put so much emphasis on whether the resurrection really happened eclipses the value of the resurrection’s religious truth-value in the faith narratives. Lastly, Habermas assumes that if the resurrection were not a historical event, then the church fathers would have known it. They were not omniscient, so it is possible that the historical event did not occur and yet the fathers assumed from the historical nomenclature in the faith narratives, casting it in a historical light, that the resurrection must have happened as a historical event.

Habermas then brings up the Christian assumption that Jesus’ resurrection must have “really” happened (i.e., historically) for Christian souls to subsequently be able to enter heaven. Without that empirical event having taken place, no souls could go to heaven. “I know that I’m going to see my wife again someday,” Habermas says. He is committing a category misstate, however, in claiming that knowledge rather than belief pertains to faith. The religious studies scholar Joseph Campbell once asked why faith would be needed at all if were knew that heaven exists and that we would go there. Empirical knowledge, unlike belief, requires the certainty that scientific evidence can make more likely than can faith-claims. Such claims are true in a religious sense, and thus provide certainty as to religious truth, but not to empirical facts. The hold of Habermas’ religious ideology on his epistemological knowledge (i.e., what counts as knowledge) is responsible for his embellishment of religious belief as knowledge. The added certainty that knowledge provides is without merit, but this is of no concern to Habermas as the assumption of certainty conveniently aids his religious ideology.

Habermas nonetheless declares, “What I want and what I don’t want has no impact on truth. That said, if Christ’s resurrection means that I get to be with Debbie again, then I have no problem being happy with that. Sometimes truth reminds of us of what is really important.”

I submit that what a person wants does have a bending impact on one’s hold on truth. That is, even though religious truth itself is changeless, by definition, concepts of religious truth in a human mind can wittingly or unwittingly serve the ideological interests of a mind (i.e., person). Habermas assumes that his desire to be with his wife in heaven has no impact on his belief that Jesus’ resurrection in the faith narratives refers to a historical event, and, furthermore, that the historical resurrection made it possible for souls to go to heaven. In other words, a historical event made possible a spiritual (i.e., nonempirical) state that is outside of history. This belief is based on an underlying belief: that of the Incarnation (i.e., God made flesh in Jesus).

Putting aside the matters of people who had died before the historical resurrection and non-Christians thereafter that challenge Habermas’ belief-claims, Christian theology contends that the Crucifixion in the Gospels, as also a historical event, makes it possible for souls to enter heaven. Jesus’ vicarious atonement made possible by his willingly sacrificing himself even though he is innocent makes possible the reunification of a human being with God. Specifically, Jesus’ death pays the price of original sin. In contrast, Jesus’ resurrection as “first fruits” means that the saved souls that are in heaven will someday be bodily resurrected. Therefore, even though Habermas claims to know that Jesus’ historical resurrection made going to heaven possible, Christian theology begs to differ; the historical resurrection made bodily resurrection possible. Habermas is thus overstating the importance of a historical resurrection in regard to him being able to be with his dead wife again. Put another way, even from the standpoint of theology, we can see that embellishment can result from self-interest, which includes the matter of the veracity (i.e., truth) of a religious ideology even hyperextended to cover historical empirical facts.

After speaking with Habermas, the journalist makes an appointment to speak with a Roman Catholic priest whose specialty is biblical manuscripts. Especially because Christians rely so much on the faith narratives in believing that the resurrection was also a historical event, the question of the manuscripts’ authenticity is highly relevant. Specifically, the question can be raised as to whether the manuscripts we have are accurate copies of the originals. Just as a Christian copyist may have added the non-historical faith claims to Josephus’ reference to Jesus and his followers, copyists may have embellished the biblical manuscripts by adding miracles and even claiming that they “really” happened. That is, copyists may have used history as a justifying basis for religious truth rather than in sufficing to treat the latter as being intrinsically valid in its own domain, and thus as needing no validation from other domains.

The journalist first points out to the priest, “Just because I write something down and bury it in dirt, it doesn’t make it true. How can we be sure of the reliability of these manuscripts?” The priest answers, “The same way we authenticate any historical document—by comparing and contrasting the copies that have been recovered. It’s called textual criticism. The more copies we have, the better we can cross-reference, and determine if the original was historically accurate, and the earlier they come in history, the better.” If a biblical passage is in all of the extant copies—and even better, word for word—then the chances is higher that a copyist did not tamper with the passage. It would still be possible, however, for changes to have been made by a copyist that are reflected in all of the extant copies available now. This would be increasingly possible the earlier the copyist. It should be noted that the historical accuracy of a copy of a manuscript refers back to its original manuscript, rather than to whether the events in that original really (i.e., empirically) happened. Even if a Gospel’s original writer used historical nomenclature to describe an event in the narrative as being a historical event does not mean that the event in the narrative corresponds to a historical event outside of the narrative. Historical nomenclature itself is a narrative device in service of the narrative’s theme or point.

The writers would have known themselves to be writing faith narratives rather than historical accounts because the writers wrote primarily of religious belief-claims that go beyond history, and thus the writing of historical accounts. The proof of the genre is in the writing itself (i.e., what is written). Writers of religious belief-claims rather than historical accounts would not have felt obliged to record only historical events. In fact, the latter could be selectively appropriated and even invented to suit the construction of the faith-narratives. A major drawback of this device is that readers may assume that religious truth needs historical verification to be valid. This fallacy is especially possible in an empirical-fact, or scientific era. Therefore, cross-referencing manuscripts to get as close as possible to the original manuscript can only get us so far if our aim is to ascertain the historicity of Jesus’ resurrection outside of the faith-narratives.

For example, the Gospels do not have the same women discover Jesus’ tomb. To be sure, the Gospel writers may not have had access to the same information. Even the accuracy of historians’ accounts can suffer from this problem. Alternatively, in writing faith narratives, the Gospel writers may not have been motivated to obtain the information and verify it as historians are. Instead, the writers of the faith narratives may have chosen characters to make theological or ecclesiastical points.

Because women in ancient Jewish culture (i.e., historically) were deemed to be unreliable witnesses—as a religious studies scholar tells the journalist—the Gospel writers’ decision to specify that the witnesses at the tomb are women has been taken as support for the historical veracity not only for the witnesses, but also the resurrection itself. “Why else, the religious scholar from Jerusalem asks the journalist, would “all four Gospel writers record that it was women who discovered the empty tomb?” But were the writers recording? Historians do that, whereas the writers of faith narratives make religious points to serve a religious theme, or faith.

Perhaps the Gospel writers, who differed in their choice of which women are at the tomb, made their respective choices to support different theological or ecclesiastical points. There were, after all, factions in the early church. For example, Paul is said to have differed from the Jerusalem church on whether converts must be circumcised. Whether or not to include Mary Magdalene as a witness at the tomb (all four Gospels do, but Paul does not) and whether she is first among the women has ecclesiastical implications both concerning her status as an apostle and whether women should hold leadership positions in the church. Considering Paul’s opposition to this and the fact that he excludes women at the tomb, we cannot conclude that he was oriented to providing a historical account; his agenda was ecclesiastical.  Similarly, rather than recording an account from historical research, the Gospel writers could have been pushing back against Paul by providing a basis on which women could have legitimate authority in the early church.  All this is in line with the point that the Gospel writers were writing faith narratives rather than historical accounts, and that Paul’s letters are not historical accounts, but, rather, preachments.

In fact, given the clear difference between the two genres, the writers of the faith narratives would have known that their readers not assume that they were reading historical accounts. Yet many evangelical Christians in the twentieth century disregarded both the authorial intent and the early reader response—both being in the faith-narrative genre—in assuming that the Gospel writers were operating as historians as well as men of faith. A further assumption is that the faith role does not have any impact on the historian role, so the Gospels can be taken literally.

In biblical hermeneutics (i.e., methods of interpretation) until the twentieth century, figurative, symbolic, analogical, and literal interpretations were generally understood as equally valid and thus as useful—the objective being to use the one that fits best for a given biblical passage in deriving religious truth. With science propelling technological advancement, and thus dominating Western society by the mid-twentieth century, the literal (i.e., “historical fact”) kind of interpretation enjoyed a presumptive place for any biblical passage that could be taken as historical. This new predominance would have been unknown both to the Gospel writers and to interpreters prior to the twentieth century. That is, the Gospel writers could scarcely have anticipated the overarching role for literal interpretation even when they were using historical nomenclature to make religious points in their faith narratives.

Distant culturally and through oceans of time from the writers’ world and literary context, we can unwittingly reflect our culture in approaching the Gospels. Of course, we do not know how the writers would react were they alive today because much of their intents, especially for particular verses, are lost to us today. Instead, we supply our own intents onto the page and presume that the authors had the same intents. In our era, empirical facts are hegemonic (i.e., on top), so we naturally assume that history plays a salient role in the construction of a faith narrative. We even subordinate religious truth in a faith narrative to the extent that it is not supported by empirical, historical facts. By implication, we are of little faith in scarcely believing that  religious truth has its own intrinsic value and is therefore not in need of historical justification and sanctification.

Perhaps we cannot help remaking an ancient religion in our own societal image. Perhaps religious ideology bends space and time to reflect what is acceptable to us. The medium of film, being in our era rather than that of the founding of an ancient religion, can operate as a facilitator. Helped by the suspension of disbelief, we believe that we are “in” Jesus’ world, and thus closer to his story and its religious meaning. What we see of ancient Judaea on the screen only reflects what the filmmakers construct, based on the faith narratives and what historians have uncovered of that locale back then. Film viewers are not in Judaea as it was. They are not in the garden and at the crucifixion. Yet the viewers naturally feel that they have never been closer to them. Furthermore, the illusion and related suspension of disbelief that the medium of film has can lead the viewers to assume the historicity as factual rather than conjectured. For example, seeing the dramatic coming of dark clouds as Jesus dies on a cross can result in a false sense of historical accuracy as in, so that’s what it was really like. Future Good Fridays that are sunny may not even feel like Good Fridays.

Additionally, what conjecture that film can give us of the story world as historical too combines with the religious interpretation or ideology (i.e., a set of aligned interpretations) driving the film to present the narrative’s point, or theme. This can uplift the faithful or give them reason to subject their faith to critique. These are not necessarily mutually exclusive. A faith pruned of bad assumptions can become a healthier mature tree. What need of childish things does an adult faith have? A film can aid in this process.

I contend that The Case for Christ falls short because the pruning tools provided are not strong enough. The character arc of Lee, the journalist—that is, his transformation or inner journey over the course of the film narrative—goes from an atheist stance to an affirmation of evangelical Christianity. In spite of this protagonist having a critical stance toward religion (and Christianity) through most of the story, he suddenly decides that the resurrection was indeed a historical event. This can be taken as the filmmakers’ desired stance, at least as far as the movie goes. I have emphasized the critique of this stance precisely because the film does not give the arguments enough credit. In other words, the film makes a “straw man” argument against the resurrection being a historical event. The case against Christ is too easily pushed aside by the case for Christ. So I lean here in the other direction, not because I personally take the anti-historical-event side, but, rather, because moviemakers and viewers alike would benefit by understanding that the dialogue on Christianity could have been better written, with better arguments on the skeptic’s side, so that the viewers, whether atheist or theist, could have a better grasp of the difficulties involved in using faith narratives to make historical claims. 

For Christian viewers, a more realistic stance could prompt a realization that religious meaning or truth is inherently or intrinsically of great value. For example, the spiritual value of turning the other cheek, or, even better, helping people who have insulted or even attacked you does not depend on historical facts. In other words, such value need not stand on the stilts of history. In fact, religious truth transcends history. The means that Jesus teaches, such as turning the other cheek or loving enemies, are so foreign to human nature and history that the source of the value can be viewed as being beyond human nature and history, and thus divine. If the medium of film can facilitate a recognition of the sui generis (i.e., unique) nature of religious value (of religious truth or meaning) as distinct from and independent of historical facts, the medium is indeed more valuable than perhaps we realize in handling deep meaning.

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[1]   Paul Hopper, “A Narrative Anomaly in Josephus: Jewish Antiquities xviii: 63, In Linguistics and Literary Studies, Monika Fludernik and Daniel Jacob, Eds. (Walter de Gruyter, 2014), pp. 147-170.

[2] Ibid.

[3] The Testimonium Flavianum, in Flavius Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 18.3.3, section 63, translated by Louis Feldman (The Loeb Classical Library).

[4] On this distinction in Judaism, see Von Rad’s two-volume History of Israel.

[5] Paul Hopper, “A Narrative Anomaly in Josephus.