From Jewish Messianism to Jesus
Without listing all the precursors who contributed to its development, we should, in accordance with the first Gospel (Mark’s), trace the origin of Christianity back to John the Baptist, a prominent figure at the turn of the century within the vast Jewish religious renewal movement “Yahad”—an alliance of diverse groups too narrowly referred to as Essenes— as the Qumran Scrolls show that this encompassed distinct tendencies—messianic, apocalyptic, and sectarian—all part of a broader movement. This “alliance” is believed to have been initiated around 70 BCE by the “Master of Justice” against the Pharisees, who had returned to power, and the high priests of the time. It should be emphasized that, in the Dead Sea Scrolls, the members of the Yahad present themselves as the “poor” (just as the Ebionites would later do) and refer to their community as the Nazarenes, meaning “guardians of the Covenant”—a term by which the early Christians (Stephen and Paul in particular) would later be designated in the Acts of the Apostles (24:5), although this designation—which has nothing to do with Nazareth—would later be reserved for Jewish-Christian Baptists who remained committed to the Law and rejected Paul, or even the divinity of Christ or his humanity (the Nazarenes, Ebionites, and later the Elkasites, who inspired Manichaeism and Islam). There are also the Mandaeans, who are not Christians—having not recognized Jesus—but were among the disciples of John the Baptist and, after his execution, perhaps of Dositheus, who presented himself as the promised Messiah. They were dualist Gnostics who continued the “baptism of John” but would continue to call themselves Nazarenes. There is an obvious continuity between Christianity and this “Essene” or Yahad movement (communion of bread and wine, etc.) and their apocalyptic messianism, which served as the breeding ground for early Christianity as they awaited the end while everything around them was collapsing.
One can see a contradiction in Flavius Josephus’s portrayal of John the Baptist—who had been an Essene and later a disciple of another baptist, Bannus—as he acknowledges John the Baptist’s ability to draw crowds while at the same time equating him with the sectarian practices of the Essenes, which makes it difficult to understand the considerable influence that justified his execution. However, while John the Baptist did indeed come from the same background, according to the Gospel he distinguished himself through the radical innovation of opening conversion by baptism to “all Israel”—a practice otherwise reserved for initiates after their purifying asceticism. This better explains the adoption of this Johannine baptism by the Hellenists and the diaspora, a rite that would form the foundation of Christianity. It is undoubtedly a retrospective illusion to portray John the Baptist as a forerunner of the openness to the conversion of non-Jews, but this was indeed at the heart of the discussions among the early Christians, right up to Paul, who definitively established it in the face of the hesitations of the Jewish Christians. In any case, here we have, with baptism and the openness to sinners—if not to pagans—the very foundation of Christianity as it was taking shape. The Gospels very explicitly place themselves in the tradition of John the Baptist, who is said to have announced the coming of Christ, who would succeed him, ushering in the Last Judgment and the end of time: “Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.”
Shortly after the martyrdom of John the Baptist, around the year 30, James the Just was presented as the leader of the first Christian community in Jerusalem—a fact that is anachronistic but attests to his spiritual authority, recognized by both Paul and Thomas. The fact that the title given to him in the Gospel—“brother of Jesus”—is repeated is misleading, for in pre-Gospel sources he is called “brother of Christ,” which is something entirely different; it does not refer to a specific historical figure but rather places him within the context of messianic Judaism. It is also significant that he was almost forgotten by the later Church. James the Just, regarded as a “master of the Law,” was essentially an ascetic and a religious figure devoted to the poor and revered as a saint in Jerusalem. According to Hegesippus, “James, nicknamed the Just, drank neither wine nor cider, ate no meat, did not cut his hair, did not use perfume, did not bathe, wore linen, and prayed at length for the people in the Temple.” This did not prevent him from being executed as well—thrown from the top of the Temple in 62 by the high priest, who viewed him as a rival and a heretic. A fringe scholar, Robert Eisenmann, sought to identify James the Just with the Essene “Master of Justice,” which does not correspond to the earlier dating of the Qumran Scrolls but highlights the kinship between his asceticism and that of the Essenes, albeit less mystical and sectarian. It can be argued that the epistle attributed to James, although written later, nonetheless reflects his views (blessed are the poor, love of neighbor, the overthrow of the rich, and the demand for putting faith into practice rather than mere belief). The Ebionites, who were also Baptists, remained loyal to James, having rejected Paul because they refused to renounce their Judaism and remained rooted in Temple Judaism. They represent early Judeo-Christianity in the service of the poor and closely aligned with the Didache, principles of wisdom found in the Qumran Scrolls. We see, however, that while they share many similarities with John the Baptist—much like James the Just—they differ radically from him by remaining centered on the Temple and prioritizing good works over conversion. This apparently did not prevent them from being considered part of the same movement of religious renewal (along with the Hellenists, etc.).
So far, there is only an evolution of Judaism and no mention yet of Jesus (at least in the oldest part), much less of a crucifixion. This is where the Hellenization of Judaism comes into play, asserting itself from Philo of Alexandria to the Therapists who sought to heal souls, while other esoteric traditions were developing, such as that of Hermes Trismegistus (who spoke of the Son of God). The name of Jesus would become the standard-bearer of the Jewish (or Gnostic) esoteric movement, which found expression in the Gospel of Thomas, according to which the kingdom is within us. This “Gospel” explicitly pledges allegiance to John the Baptist (“no one is greater than John the Baptist”), although it spiritualizes inner baptism, and to James the Just (Jesus said to them: “Wherever you are, you will go to James the Just, for whom heaven and earth were created”). This allows us to date it and clearly shows how James the Just—who emphasized the “works” of faith and cannot be equated with Thomas—was able to bring together the various pre-Christian movements through his holiness but also through a concern for the poor that was shared by all.
It is possible that the name “Jesus”—a very common name that means “Savior” (like the first name “Salvatore”)—had already been adopted by Messianic groups, but it appears with Thomas to give “hermetic” wisdom a Jewish character, though it is reduced to the simple formula introducing each of the logia: “Jesus said.” It contains numerous parables and sayings that would later be included in the Gospels (half of the 114 logia) and are believed to belong to a “Q source” from which Matthew and Luke drew, and which may simply be a version of this “proto-gospel,” devoid of any narrative or crucifixion of this Jesus, the master of wisdom and inner salvation, but foreshadowing the Beatitudes (a reversal of values). It should be emphasized, however, that in the Sermon on the Mount (an initiatory text), there are two nearly incompatible parts: the Beatitudes, which stand above the Law and are very distant from Essenism, and the “Antitheses,” whose guilt-inducing rigor is closer to it—evidence of a composite text and contradictory positions. There are also several layers of redaction in the Gospel of Thomas as we know it, with some later logia possibly being post-gospel in origin; yet it is impossible to reduce this collection of “sayings of Jesus” to a mere abridgment of the Gospels, as believers claim, and it is precisely because these teachings predated Jesus’ supposed preaching that his actual existence is by no means necessary.
The Fusion of the Jesus of Wisdom and the Sacrificed Christ
Beyond this Jesus as a teacher of wisdom, those whom the Acts of the Apostles call the Hellenists (referred to as Nazarenes) would be decisive figures in early Christianity—the very people Paul sought to persecute before his conversion on the road to Damascus, where these disciples of John the Baptist had withdrawn. He did not invent the Jesus Christ of his vision, since he fought against his followers—notably because they opposed the Temple and sought to be more universal in their outlook. It is clear that these Hellenists were indeed disciples of John the Baptist, for they adopted his baptism and made it accessible to all. In any case, it was these Greek-speaking Jews who, after the death of John the Baptist, are said to have shaped the figure of Jesus whom John had announced as his successor, merging the Jesus as a teacher of wisdom with the mystical Christ of the Essenes—the figure of the “Suffering Servant” (Isaiah 53)—and even his Passover sacrifice, but as a cosmic rather than an earthly event, just as in Paul’s writings (who, however, would not adopt the dimension of the sage-teacher, unlike the Gospels). It was through them that Christianity was able to begin the fusion of Jewish tradition with Platonism (following in the footsteps of Philo of Alexandria), detaching it from political messianism and ethnic identity in favor of an eschatological millenarianism—convinced that the end was very near.
These Greco-Essene were indeed the first Christians and the least well-known, although they appear in the Acts of the Apostles alongside the charismatic-prophetic figures of Philip and Stephen. The latter would become the first Christian martyr, stoned to death for challenging the notion that God could be confined within a temple. He impressed others with his faith, proclaiming, “I see the heavens opened, and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God,” and even crying out, before falling under the blows, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them!” However, it is by no means certain that, for him, Jesus had already come, since he spoke of him in the future tense: “for we have heard him say that Jesus will destroy this place and change the customs that Moses handed down to us.” The protests of the Hellenists, as recorded, against the exclusion of their widows from the relief efforts for the poor in Jerusalem, reveal both the rejection they faced and their sense of belonging to the same community. However, after Stephen’s martyrdom, the Hellenists were driven out of Jerusalem and joined the diaspora, particularly in the region of Damascus, becoming the first missionaries of the new faith and converting people (including non-Jews) through baptism—a rite that was detached from any specific location, independent of the Temple, and highly mobile. The early days of Christianity were essentially a baptismal movement in which baptism replaced circumcision as a marker of belonging to the community (along with shared meals and participation in supporting the poor and widows). “Whoever believes and is baptized will be saved” (Mark). Note that a distinction is made between those who received the “baptism of John” (Acts 18:24–25) and those who received the “baptism of Jesus,” the latter eventually supplanting the former.
Paul, the Revelation of the Cross, and the Theology of Weakness
It is on this basis that Paul will truly establish a Christianity open to the Gentiles and distinct from Judaism, although it remained fairly marginal before the Jewish War and the destruction of the Temple. He, too, will recognize the authority of James—or at least seek his impossible approval—in the abandonment of Jewish law. His relationship with the Hellenists is just as ambiguous, for he profoundly transformed their theology, relying solely on revelations from his own visions. He transforms their heavenly Christ into a crucified figure; on the other hand, as has been noted, there is no longer any question of Jesus as a master of wisdom. Instead, he emphasizes the apocalyptic tendency of Persian inspiration, already present, among others, among the Essenes (Rule of the War of the Sons of Light against the Sons of Darkness). One might consider that “Paul” is first and foremost the name given to the profound influence of Persian cosmology—so prevalent in Antioch, where he began his preaching, and which had been the capital of the Seleucid Iranian Empire (to which Tarsus belonged) until 64 BCE. He was, however, merely extending this influence onto the Judaism of his time, which softened its dualism—a dualism that would recur constantly throughout history.
Indeed, his theology—which thus builds upon late Judaism influenced by Persia—draws on numerous themes from Zoroastrianism, particularly the sacrifice and resurrection of the final savior. The "Son of Man” plays the role of the Saoshyant, the Zoroastrian savior, the miraculous son of Zoroaster, born of a virgin conceived by the prophet’s preserved seed, charged with defeating Evil and raising the dead. The theme of the “Son of Man,” already found in the Book of Enoch and the Aramaic fragments discovered at Qumran, betrays—despite his denial—this Persian origin, as does the ancient repetition of the dualisms of light/darkness, good/evil, truth/falsehood, as well as the themes of paradise, resurrection, judgment, and final salvation. It can be said that Paul drew upon the form of Judaism most heavily influenced by Persia, emphasizing it to the point of breaking with Judaism.
However, this was not a conversion to Persian dualism—as Manichaeism would later be—but rather a reinterpretation in the shadow of the cross, intended as a strict monotheism that transcends dualism through the recognition that evil has no independent existence—despite the adoption of the figure of Satan (“the god of this world” 2 Cor 4:4), who replaces the Zoroastrian “God of Evil” in the cosmic struggle between Good and Evil. The irony of (sacred) history is that this monotheism, which rejects dualism, will need the Trinity to preserve its coherence.
The essential point is not there, but in what lies at the heart of his theology of the cross—which is the strength of the weak and the defeated. “When I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Cor. 12:10). Salvation does not come “in spite of defeat,” but “through defeat” and within defeat. This reversal of values—which was already present in the Beatitudes—certainly made it a “religion of slaves,” yet it nevertheless appealed first and foremost to elites weary of Stoicism and the hollow morality of the Masters. René Girard claims that the novelty of Christianity lay in recognizing the innocence of the victim, which is simply absurd, given how many examples there are. The sacrifice of a god is itself not at all original. Nor can one say that the transformation of weakness into strength is new; it is found everywhere (not only in Taoism), but Paul’s theology of weakness is more radical in its reversal of values (echoed in the Gospel by “the last shall be first”), which, paradoxically, would eventually come to govern the Empire. Without dwelling here on his theology of defeat, it is clear that it would prove decisive after A.D. 70.
There are several points to emphasize: first, that in his early letters—and despite an obvious interpolation that is not at all in his style (1 Cor. 15:3–5)—Paul speaks no more than Thomas of a historical Jesus but only of a divine Jesus Christ, the one of his vision; and above all, he is the first to introduce the theme of his crucifixion (kerygmatic). He speaks only of this, but as a cosmic drama with no (or very little) reference to historical facts. His earliest letters are dated to the 40s, whereas the first accounts of Christ’s Passion date from after 70. It can be said that it is from his epistles that the emergence of universal Christianity dates, which makes Christ’s crucifixion the sacrifice that saves us. This marks a reversal of apocalypticism and a messianism rooted in the past, for the expected Messiah has already come—not in glory but covered in infamy—which signals the end of Jewish political messianism, though it retains a connection to Judaism and will ultimately prove perfectly suited to the Empire.
From Marcion’s New Testament to the Establishment of Dogma
The much later composition (after 70) of the first true Gospel, that of Mark, can be attributed to a Hellenist (written in Greek), a disciple of John the Baptist, who may have sought to illustrate his prophecy through fiction by giving substance to this Jesus and his fantastical adventures (though the original version ends at the empty tomb without a resurrected Jesus appearing to the apostles). It must be said that at the time there were all sorts of prophets, visionaries, healers, and magicians, which surprised no one. Mark drew as much from Paul’s theology as from other sources (Thomas), often closely related to the Qumran Scrolls, and even from the conventional teachings of Hillel, which foreshadowed, in a more moderate way (“Do not do to your neighbor what is hateful to you. That is the whole Torah”), which would become Jesus’ supreme commandment (“You shall love your neighbor as yourself”). This demonstrates the great interpenetration between these movements. The later example of the Gospel of John, so different from the Synoptic Gospels, has the advantage of showing how speculative the Gospels can be, owing their acceptance solely to their message and their popularity among the faithful, not to their historical value (any more than Paul’s letters do).
While Christianity does indeed find its distinctive character in Paul and the theology of the cross, this constitutes only one element that must coexist with other trends and, in particular, will give rise to a narrative portrayal of its mystical concepts in numerous gospels that construct the myth as the “fulfillment of the Scriptures” (Matthew). To speculate whether a prophet who was actually crucified (or a Jesus hanged on the eve of Passover, as mentioned in the Talmud) might have served as his model is a hopeless and futile endeavor, for it was not this event that triggered the emergence of Christianity, but rather Paul’s vision, followed by the destruction of the temple. Admittedly, there was no shortage of preachers, healers, and prophets of the apocalypse at that time, but vague similarities are not enough for believers; they want to believe in miracles and the resurrection! Those who are determined to uphold the historicity of a Jesus—of whom there is no archaeological evidence—are unable to specify which one; this supposedly simpler hypothesis adds nothing, other than to assume that the early believers were indeed speaking of a specific man, and that the Gospels are not reconstructions—except that they draw on earlier traditions—and that those who denied his historical existence were also ancient (Docetism, among others) and, moreover, denounced from the outset by those who defended the Incarnation. Above all, this “historicity” obscures the actual history of early Christianity and its diversity. In fact, to present this new theology of the cross and salvation through defeat, there was no need—following the mass crucifixions of the Jewish War—for any specific real-life events. As always, it was the success of these orally transmitted gospels (there were dozens of them, some highly fantastical) that validated the process, with each gospel seeking to answer questions left unresolved by the previous ones (resurrection, virginity, etc.). One could say that this was a communal creation, but it significantly distorted the initial project—especially, of course, after it became the official religion. In any case, it was not until the very beginning of the second century, with Ignatius of Antioch portraying Jesus as a martyr (having borne witness in his own flesh through his sacrifice), that the (historical) incarnation began to assert itself against mythological interpretations.
Outside of Antioch and the early Pauline networks, the figure of Paul does not seem to have been central in the early days. In any case, he did not hold the status of an apostle. Even if his epistles may have circulated in certain circles, we know of them only through Marcion, which nonetheless attests to a certain degree of obscurity, despite the fact that he was present at the very dawn of Christianity and was its true founder, having provided the framework for the religion of the crucified one that the Gospels had subsequently adopted. His theology must have been held by a very small minority at first, before spreading once the defeat of Judaism was complete—but above all through its popularization in the Gospels. It therefore took Marcion’s publication of Paul’s letters—very late in the game—for the Roman Church to adopt them, positioning Paul both at the very beginning of Christianity and at its culmination.
Marcion’s role in the formalization of Catholic orthodoxy is highly revealing of the situation at that relatively late date, when he, too, disputed the historical existence of Jesus. He accepted only the Gospel of Luke, stripped of all Jewish references (and quotations from the Old Testament) as well as the birth and genealogy of Jesus, but he believed that his anti-Jewish form of Christianity could fit within the Christian movement to the point of donating a considerable sum (200,000 sesterces) to the Roman Church—which would nevertheless excommunicate him in 144 for heresy, though this did not prevent the Marcionite Church from flourishing.
He did indeed advocate a dualistic doctrine, further evidence of the influence of Zoroastrianism and a cosmic dualism that had permeated not only late Judaism—as we have seen—and the Essene and Baptist sects, or the magi Simon and Theudas, but also the new cult of Mithras, which would much later inspire the quest for the Holy Grail. Not being Jewish but a Greek from northern Turkey, his contribution lay in contrasting the vengeful God of the “Old Testament” with the God of Love of the “New Testament” (as he called Jesus’s preaching), where, Paul insisted, love replaces the Law, thus preaching a break with Judaism that would be rejected by the Church (since the Incarnation requires its historicity), although the Church would adopt its vocabulary. It was in response to his condemnation that he published his sources: his Gospel (an “expurgated” version of Luke) and, above all, the Epistles—ten letters by Paul, collected for the first time—which would this time be adopted by the Church (in a revised form). For it was in response to Marcion’s offensive that the Church sought to formulate its Creed and harmonize the Gospels, as Tatian’s Diatessaron attempted to do in 160. The four Gospels would henceforth be cited together, but it was indeed the publication of Paul’s letters that brought about their final coherence, restoring them to their original source.
Christian syncretism
However, while the Pauline epistles were indeed incorporated into the “proto-Catholic” canon beginning in 170, it is a “revised” Paul—no longer the apocalyptic Paul nor the dualistic Paul of Marcion—but a doctrinal Paul, serving the ecclesial order and providing theological justification for spiritual authority, concealing the subtleties of his theology of the crucifixion and weakness beneath more conventional traditions (charity). Christianity did not arise from a prophet named Jesus, nor from John the Baptist, nor from Paul alone, but from a series of successive reconfigurations: apocalyptic expectation and the call to conversion (John the Baptist), Judean asceticism devoted to the poor (James), Hellenized wisdom (Thomas), the theology of the crucifixion and universal salvation (Paul), followed by proto-Catholic standardization (which is the purpose of the councils). This is not a mere arbitrary and contingent juxtaposition but the synergy resulting from the combination of a prophetic pole, a communal pole, and Hellenized circles that developed a universalist interpretation. Prophetic tradition provided religious energy, the community provided a social structure, and Hellenization enabled expansion, but it was Paul’s most original and decisive act that constituted a complete reversal of the initial apocalyptic outlook.
Amid a multitude of sects, the development of Christianity cannot be attributed to a single man, nor to a single source, nor to an immutable revealed doctrine—if only because of its internal contradiction between the figure of a heavenly Christ, disregarding his historical life, and what the Gospels would make of it: a mythological narrative that one must believe in, with all its absurdities and miracles. These contradictions, which gave rise to numerous “heresies,” are the scars of its multiple origins, of a continuous rearrangement of Jewish, Persian, and Mediterranean traditions, from which the “theology of weakness” and of the cross was forged—a theology that would dominate the West for centuries and continue to evolve, notably during the era of martyrs exalted by Montanism and, of course, Augustine, who would prove to be a pivotal figure, particularly in the development of inner guilt—less pronounced among Eastern Christians—or, finally, the belated integration of a cult of the Virgin, a resurgence not only of Zoroastrianism but also of Celtic traditions, which reflected the importance of women’s faith.
What is surprising is to see opposing conceptions both claiming to represent true Christianity, without doubting that they belong to the same overarching movement (calls for unity are constant). There was an undeniable appeal to its universal morality as well as its eschatology, bringing together all manner of theologies—much like Marxism, which has seen a wide variety of interpretations and splinter groups citing Marx, all believing in equality and the end of history without agreeing on the rest. Thus, we find various figures that are more or less incompatible: the one God and the Law of Judaism, the Greek Logos and the dualism of flesh and spirit, the god who dies and is reborn from the mystery cults and Zoroastrianism, and the traditions of wisdom and Egyptian Hermeticism. These contradictions, however, made it possible to address different audiences: the devout Jew, reassured by references to the fulfillment of prophecies in Matthew; the illiterate masses, captivated by the narrative and miraculous accounts in Mark; the mystics who identified with Paul’s cosmic Christ or the secret sayings of the Gospel of Thomas. But they could all come together around the Beatitudes and charity.
The end times, between what is already here and what is not yet
“Benjamin is to Paul what the modern catastrophe is to the cross: the moment when defeat becomes promise.” Jacob Taubes
With Walter Benjamin, the “theology of defeat” survives the death of God in a secular version of the Pauline kairos: time is not continuous; it is constantly suspended by the possibility of redemption. Redemption through the negative—the salvific power of disaster—is found in Adorno, Taubes, Agamben, and Žižek. For Taubes, Paul conceives of kairos, time in tension, “the time of the end”: “I tell you, brothers, the time has grown short” (1 Cor. 7). What is remarkable, in fact, is that, ever since Paul, Christianity has found itself in an in-between time—one with which we are quite familiar—between the “already-there” and the “not-yet” of a long-awaited end to history. Since Christ died for us on the cross, there is no other savior to await; the kingdom is already here in the transformation of the Empire, even before the final apocalypse that the early Christians believed was imminent (just as we do). Yet everything continues as before—what, then, is this endless period of limbo, this “phoney war” before the catastrophe?
