Paul’s Celestial Christ: Myth or Visionary Revelation?

Was Paul’s vision on the road to Damascus a genuine encounter or a clever reworking of Hebrew narrative to forge religious authority? I ask this question because beneath the surface of Paul’s dramatic conversion lies a subtle mimicry of the Hebrew Scriptures, most strikingly the story of Balaam and his donkey in Numbers 22. This blog post will look at the symbolic layers beneath Paul’s celestial Christ to explore whether Paul’s visionary religion is rooted in authentic revelation or constructed myth.

The Damascus Drama and Balaam’s Vision: A Curious Parallel

In Acts 9, Saul (later Paul) is dramatically halted while traveling to persecute followers of the Jesus character. He is thrown from his mount, blinded by a celestial light, and hears the voice of a risen Christ (Acts 9:3–5). This foundational story of Paul’s apostleship is eerily reminiscent of Numbers 22, in which Balaam, also journeying on a seemingly divine errand, is stopped by a vision of an angel, unseen by him but visible to his donkey. After being rebuked by both the ass and the angel, Balaam's eyes are opened to the heavenly warning.

What ties these two stories together is not only the structure; a prophetic figure traveling with malicious intent, confronted supernaturally on the road; but also the theological implications. Balaam, though given words from God, is remembered as a false prophet (2 Peter 2:15; Revelation 2:14). If Paul's experience is shaped after Balaam’s (and the author writing the book of Acts does do this), could this be an intentional literary signal suggesting Paul’s revelation is similarly spurious?

Literary Fabrication or Prophetic Fulfillment?

As Maurice Goguel outlines in Jesus the Nazarene: Myth or History?, the early Christian narrative was not formed in a vacuum. Rather, it was steeped in a milieu of prophetic exegesis and creative reworking of Hebrew traditions. The Gospels and Paul’s epistles repeatedly claim that Jesus’ life and death fulfilled Old Testament prophecy, but Goguel cautions that these “fulfillments” may have been discovered after the fact or created to match existing prophetic patterns.

This methodology helps explain the similarities between Paul and Balaam. The author of Acts, likely aiming to authenticate Paul’s apostleship (and to subtly reveal the character of his ministry), mirrors the Balaam narrative, perhaps knowingly. But if Balaam, a non-Israelite seer who sought to curse Israel but was overruled by “divine intervention,” is ultimately judged false, then what does that imply for Paul, whose own vision also contradicts the established leadership of the Jerusalem apostles?

The Celestial Christ: Vision or Invention?

J. Gresham Machen, in The Origin of Paul’s Religion, defends Paul as a genuine recipient of divine revelation. He argues that Paul’s religion was not shaped by paganism or borrowed myth, but by a real encounter with the risen Christ and continuity with the historical Jesus. Yet, Machen concedes that Paul's writings do not focus heavily on Jesus' earthly life, suggesting that Paul's Christ is primarily a celestial being—not a rabbi of Galilee but a divine redeemer whose drama unfolds in the heavens more than on earth.

This celestial emphasis is precisely what gives rise to mythic interpretation. Paul's Christ appears to many as a revealed being, introduced through apocalyptic visions rather than historical witness. There is nothing historical about Paul’s Jesus. Unlike the other apostles who are scripted to have known Jesus in the flesh, Paul boasts, “I did not receive [the gospel] from any man… but by revelation of Jesus Christ” (Galatians 1:12). This bold claim sidesteps the earthly ministry of Jesus and lays apostolic authority on visionary ground alone.

Mythic Constructs and Prophetic Mimicry

There are good reasons to suspect Paul’s Christ is a theological construct more than a historical memory. As Goguel explains, Pauline thought was deeply influenced by mystical concepts of sin, redemption, and divine intermediaries, concepts common not only in Jewish apocalyptic literature but also in surrounding Hellenistic religious thought. His Christ is not merely a messiah; he is a cosmic savior operating beyond time and space.

Goguel identifies the tendency of early Christian authors to create stories that match prophecy, transforming figures like Jesus, and possibly Paul, into eschatological templates. This meshes well with the idea that Paul’s Damascus experience, echoing Balaam’s confrontation, is less about spontaneous revelation and more about literary and theological construction.

Theological Implications: The Mark of a False Prophet?

In Numbers 22, Balaam claims to speak for God, even prophesying truly at times, but his ultimate legacy is one of deceit and seduction. He leads Israel into compromise (Numbers 31:16) and is repeatedly condemned in the New Testament as an archetype of the false teacher.

Why would the author writing the book of Acts have Paul’s conversion echo such a controversial figure?

Some may argue this is coincidental or merely typological. But for those attuned to the literary crafting of biblical narratives, this parallel is troubling. Could Acts be subtly critiquing Paul’s role by embedding him in a Balaam-like framework? Or did later editors overlook the irony, unintentionally exposing the fragility of Paul’s claims?

The Mask Behind the Vision

Paul's celestial Christ, proclaimed through a private vision and divorced from any known “historical Jesus,” bears all the signs of mythic fabrication. When compared to the Old Testament story of Balaam, the similarities are more than poetic; they are prophetic inversions. Balaam was rebuked for claiming divine vision while leading people astray. Paul, claiming his own isolated revelation, introduces a radically new understanding that sidelines the supposed teachings of Jesus and the leadership of those believed to have walked with him.

Whether one sees Paul as a visionary apostle or a reinvented Balaam may depend on one’s theological commitments. But the flow of Numbers 22 within Paul’s narrative should not be ignored. We should be asking whether Paul’s fall from his beast is an act of “divine commissioning,” or a literary confession that, like Balaam, he is a prophet whose mouth may have been opened, but whose message was not rightly “inspired.”

Watch on Youtube

PowerPoint Presentation on the conspiracy behind Paul’s vision (click)

What did Paul actually teach? (click)

Is Paul’s Argument Biblically Legitimate? (click)

References

Goguel, M. (1926). Jesus the Nazarene: Myth or History? New York: D. Appleton & Company.

Machen, J. G. (1925). The Origin of Paul’s Religion. Grand Rapids: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Company.

From Vision to Victory: How Gods Become Kings of Empires

In October 312 AD, Constantine stood before the Milvian Bridge and gazed into the noonday sun. He claimed to see a fiery cross superimposed upon it, bearing the words, “In hoc signo vinces” —“By this sign, conquer.” That night, he was said to have received a dream instructing him to mark his soldiers’ shields with the Chi-Rho, the emblem of Christ, and march on Rome (Odahl, 2010). He did so, transforming a minority faith’s symbol into an imperial standard and securing victory. Later coinage even depicted an angel placing a crown on his head as he clutched that same standard, proclaiming divine legitimacy for his rule.

This moment marked more than a military triumph; it signaled a radical reimagining of sovereignty. Jesus, once supposedly thought of as a Galilean preacher who refused earthly crowns, but more recently classed as a demigod within the Greco-Roman religious world, had now entered the command structure of the Roman army, and not just metaphorically, but structurally. In doing so, Constantine followed a pattern deeply embedded in the ancient world: the transformation of supposedly divine figures into cosmic sovereigns whose will shaped the laws of empire.

This phenomenon finds a striking parallel in the earlier reign of Ptolemy I Soter, ruler of Hellenistic Egypt. Ptolemy sought to unify Greek and Egyptian populations under a single imperial cult, introducing Serapis (a syncretic deity merging Greek and Egyptian traditions) as the divine patron of the Ptolemaic state (Pfeiffer, 2008). Serapis was not merely a god of healing or the underworld; he became the celestial counterpart to the ruling royal pair, Isis being his mythological consort. By aligning the king with this newly crafted divine figure, Ptolemy ensured that the monarchy could be worshipped as a living embodiment of cosmic order—a model later echoed by Constantine.

Like Constantine, Ptolemy understood that the fusion of religion and statecraft was not simply a matter of political convenience; it was a philosophical necessity. Just as Constantine saw in Christianity a unifying force capable of binding together a fractured empire, Ptolemy saw in Serapis a symbolic bridge between cultures. Both leaders recognized that gods must become kings, and kings must become gods, if they were to hold together the vast, diverse populations under their rule.

The establishment of the ruler cult under Ptolemy I was not just an extension of Pharaonic tradition, where the office of the king was divine, but the individual was not. Rather, it was a deliberate Hellenistic innovation that deified the living monarch, aligning him with the pantheon itself.

Similarly, Constantine positioned himself not just as a Christian emperor, but as a new kind of ruler, one who mediated between the divine and the temporal. His alliance with Licinius in 313 AD produced what we now call the Edict of Milan, granting legal recognition to Christian worship across the empire. Yet Constantine’s deeper strategy was theological as much as political. By convening the Council of Nicaea in 325 AD, he sought to forge a creedal unity that would serve both as spiritual doctrine and civic glue. Heresy was no longer just doctrinal error – it became a form of sedition against the cosmic order.

Just as Ptolemy I elevated Serapis above local deities to create a universal divine figure for a multicultural empire, Constantine elevated the Jesus character above all other gods. He did not “invent” orthodoxy, but he nationalized it. Through basilicas built at imperial expense, judicial privileges granted to bishops, and tax exemptions codified into law, Constantine wove the Church into the very fabric of imperial governance. The crucified Lord, once a symbol of suffering and humility, was now enthroned on the emperor’s seal, flanked by angels.

Yet both emperors understood that such transformations required careful calibration. Ptolemy’s integration of Egyptian gods like Isis and Anubis into the broader framework of Serapis-worship allowed him to maintain cultural legitimacy without erasing indigenous belief systems (Pfeiffer, 2008). Likewise, Constantine refrained from immediate theocratic dominance. Though urged by some Christian advisors to outlaw animal sacrifice outright, he instead chose selective pressure; closing temples linked to immorality, stripping others of wealth, but allowing pagan shrines to remain so long as public order was preserved (Errington, 1988). He honored his title of Pontifex Maximus, chief priest of traditional Roman religion, while posing as “God’s” chosen friend, a balancing act between majority pagan constituencies and an ascendant Christian (pagan Hellenistic Jews) elite.

The result was a new ontology of power. For Constantine, as for Ptolemy, victory and order no longer came from the capricious gods of old, but from a singular divine source whose will was interpreted through imperial decree. Just as Ptolemaic propaganda portrayed the monarch as a “god-king” embodying both Greek ideals and Egyptian symbolism, Constantine recast himself as the earthly executor of the Jesus character’s cosmic kingship.

This transformation was irreversible. Even later emperors who flirted with reviving paganism found the machinery of the state already speaking the language of the Nicene Creed. As Pfeiffer notes, once a divine figure is enshrined within the imperial apparatus, it becomes nearly impossible to disentangle theology from politics. The god has become king, not only in heaven, but on earth.

Thus, Constantine did not merely adopt a religion, he crowned its Jesus (or its Serapis) as king of an empire. And in doing so, he fulfilled ancient imperial logic: the fusion of professed divine sovereignty and worldly dominion, a vision as old as Ptolemy’s Serapis and as enduring as the pagan cross on the imperial banner.

References

Errington, R. M. (1988). "Constantine as Pontifex Maximus." Greece & Rome , 35(2), 165–180.

Humphries, M. (forthcoming). Constantine and the Conversion of Europe . Oxford University Press.

Odahl, C. M. (2010). Constantine and the Christian Empire . Routledge.

Pfeiffer, S. (2008). The God Serapis, His Cult and the Beginnings of Ruler Worship in Ptolemaic Egypt . Unpublished manuscript.

From Mystical Messiah to Imperial Creed: How the Jesus Movement Became Roman Orthodoxy

Before orthodoxy, there was plurality. As Rebecca Lyman explains, early Christian communities developed in urban networks, often shaped by Jewish scripture and Greek philosophical reflection. These communities offered varied theological models: some viewed Jesus as the incarnate Logos (John 1:1), others as an adopted son of God, and still others, such as the Monarchians, saw Father, Son, and Spirit as mere titles of the one God acting in history.

This diversity was not a defect but a generative force. Drawing from the Hebrew Bible and Greco-Roman philosophical cosmologies, early Christians articulated rich soteriologies (salvation doctrines) that emphasized divine mediation and unity in creative tension. I, in my book A Fallen Record, add some weight to this interpretation, exposing how the original teachings of Jesus were aimed at personal spiritual regeneration rather than external conformity to legal religious codes. I highlight that love, as originally taught from the Bible, means “to edify,” and that “edification is mental” and rooted in comparative spiritual reflection; not institutionalized mandates (Jackson, 2018, p. vi).

This meshes with a broader theme: that the early Jesus movement was most likely a deeply internal, philosophical journey toward enlightenment, not simply a religious subscription. It wasn’t until the third century that bishops began to gather in synods to assert doctrinal boundaries; initially local, but increasingly prescriptive.

Constantine’s Calculus: Christianity as Imperial Glue

Enter Constantine. In the fourth century, Christianity moved from being one among many pagan religious currents to the favored cult of the Roman Empire. Johannes Wienand notes in Contested Monarchy that Constantine’s rule hinged on creating ideological unity across an empire fractured by war and religious pluralism. Christianity, especially in its emerging Trinitarian formulation, offered a compelling, even if deceiving, symbolic order.

By convening the Council of Nicaea in 325 CE, Constantine wielded theology as statecraft. No longer was doctrine merely a matter for spiritual discernment; it became a matter of imperial cohesion. The Nicene Creed served both to define Christian belief and to establish political unity, asserting that the Jesus character was “of one substance” (homoousios) with the Father. This was no small theological tweak, as it was a metaphysical claim enforced by imperial decree.

And as Potter (2006) makes clear, the transformation of Roman governance under emperors like Diocletian and Constantine was tightly interwoven with these theological shifts. Religious unity was essential to administrative stability.

Creeds and Councils: Institutionalizing the Ineffable

The Council of Nicaea was only the beginning. As Lyman observes, the subsequent councils and theological treatises forged a new ontology of divine unity: a Trinitarian Deity, eternally co-equal and co-eternal in three persons. These developments were not inevitable outgrowths of scripture, but carefully negotiated outcomes shaped by politics, persuasion, and ecclesiastical muscle.

I, in A Fallen Record, echo this concern, pointing to how Christian elders and clergy strayed from the Bible’s intended “mental” path of edification and instead reintroduced “legal religious ordinances”—structures the Jesus character is written to have abolished. This institutionalization was a return to the very bondage that Jesus sought to liberate people from (Jackson, 2018, pp. viii–xi).

From Cross to Cathedral: The Architecture of Empire

As Leif Vaage’s Religious Rivalries in the Early Roman Empire shows, Christianity’s rise involved not just belief but strategic adaptation to Roman modes of power. Where the image of the Jesus character once preaching in fields and synagogues existed, now his image stood colossal in basilicas. The church became Rome’s spiritual senate. The bishop of Rome (later the Pope) took on roles of adjudication and administration once reserved for imperial magistrates.

Potter (2006) provides a valuable lens for understanding this shift. The transformation of cities, social hierarchies, and even domestic life under Rome’s rule embedded Christian institutions into every facet of public and private life.

Cathedrals became the architecture of belief, and belief itself became architecture: rigid, hierarchical, and imperially endorsed.

A Mindful Reflection

The story of how the Greek cosmic Logos became the Christ of cathedrals is not merely a tale of theological evolution; it is a narrative of institutional capture. The mystical, esoteric teachings of the Jesus character were transmuted into imperial doctrine. Unity came at the cost of diversity. Orthodoxy became a crown falsely beautiful, heavy, and exclusionary. It reminds me of Isaiah 28:1, “Woe to the crown of pride, to the drunkards of Ephraim, whose glorious beauty is a fading flower...”

I’m hoping this blog post raises the same concern that I highlight in A Fallen Record, that for the sake of our devotional conversation’s character, we capture a faith born of personal conscience “written not with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God” (2 Corinthians 3:3). This means moving beyond tradition-bound creeds to rediscover the contemplative and philosophical fact found at the core of the scriptures from Genesis to Malachi.

We also can’t forget, as Potter (2006) does remind us, that every empire, even Rome, was just a philosophical project, an attempt to order the cosmos by ordering society. If this is true, then to re-engage the mind at the core of the scriptures is not a retreat from history, it is a reclaiming of philosophy for our inward society.

References

Jackson, L. J. (2018). A Fallen Record: The Christian Transgression. Fideli Publishing, Inc.

Lyman, R. (2024). The Theology of the Council of Nicaea. St Andrews Encyclopaedia of Theology.

Potter, D. S. (Ed.). (2006). A Companion to the Roman Empire. Blackwell Publishing.

Vaage, L. E. (Ed.). (2006). Religious Rivalries in the Early Roman Empire and the Rise of Christianity. Wilfrid Laurier University Press.

Wienand, J. (Ed.). (2015). Contested Monarchy: Integrating the Roman Empire in the Fourth Century AD. Oxford University Press.