Is Christianity More Pauline Than Jesus-Like?

The New Testament paints a vivid picture of the Jesus character, a Hebrew priest proclaiming only the Kingdom of God, and the Paul character, the self-appointed apostle whose mystical encounter with a Christ reshaped early Christianity. But what if Paul’s gospel, often seen as the cornerstone of modern Christianity, diverges from the message of the supposedly historical Jesus? It isn’t difficult to liken Paul to Balaam, the false prophet who blessed what he once cursed, yet remained an outsider, never fully trusted (Numbers 22–24). If Paul echoes Balaam (and he does), what does this say about the gospel he preached? Was it the same as Jesus’ message, or something else entirely?

In this post, I’ll explore the tension between Jesus and Paul in the New Testament, answering whether Christianity today is more Pauline than Jesus-like, and what that means for those seeking an authentic return to the message of that historical Hebrew priest we call “Jesus.”

Paul as Balaam: A Blessing with a Shadow of Doubt

The comparison of Paul to Balaam is interesting. Balaam, a non-Israelite prophet, was hired to curse Israel but was divinely compelled to bless them instead. Similarly, Paul, a zealous Pharisee, initially persecuted the Jesus Movement (Galatians 1:13,14). His dramatic conversion on the road to Damascus (Acts 9) transformed him into a fervent advocate for including Gentiles in the movement he once opposed. Yet, as Wilson (2014) argues, this shift raises questions about Paul’s reliability. Was his gospel a divinely inspired continuation of Jesus’ mission, or did it introduce a new theology that diverged from the original?

Yet much like Balaam, who was compelled to speak blessings over Israel while inwardly remaining suspect and ultimately tragic, Paul enters the Jesus movement not as a disciple of the Nazarene, but as an outsider who rebranded the message for Gentile consumption. Maurice Goguel, writing in Jesus the Nazarene: Myth or History? (1926), observed that “Christianity was born at the beginning of the second century from the meeting of the different currents of thought originating in Judea, Greece and Rome” and that “the person of Jesus was merely a literary fiction” for some early Christian thinkers, highlighting how quickly the focus shifted from the man to the myth (Goguel, 1926, p. 10). Though Goguel himself defends the historical Jesus, his analysis shows that the Jesus remembered by Paul is already a reconstructed figure—one whose teachings were submerged beneath theological reinterpretation.

Similarly, J. Gresham Machen in The Origin of Paul’s Religion (1925) acknowledges the radical divergence between Paul and Jesus. He frames Paul’s theology as something utterly unique, “not merely one manifestation of the progress of oriental religion,” but a wholly different system founded on a particular conception of Jesus’ death and resurrection (Machen, 1925, pp. 8,9). This mirrors the role of Balaam who, though speaking blessings, nonetheless aligned with Moabite interests and introduced elements foreign to Israel’s covenantal ethic. So too does Paul bring into the original Jesus movement an unprecedented fusion of Hellenistic religious forms and theological universalism.

Jesus’ Gospel: A Jewish Vision of the Kingdom

The Jesus character’s message, as depicted in the Gospels (written 20-60 years after Paul’s letters), was deeply rooted in the Jews’ religion (something Paul said he left behind in Galatians 1:13-15). He preached the imminent arrival of God’s Kingdom, urging repentance and a philosophical adherence to the Torah (Mark 1:15; Matthew 5:17). His teachings, like the Sermon on the Mount, emphasized ethical philosophical living, love for neighbor, and obedience to his Deity’s law (Matthew 22:37–40). As Wilson notes, Jesus’ followers, including James, continued these practices, functioning as a Jewish sect alongside Pharisees and Sadducees (Paul versus Jesus, p. 5). Salvation, for this Jesus, was about mindfully living accordingly within God’s covenant with Israel, not a cosmic transaction tied to his death.

Paul, however, rarely references Jesus’ life or teachings. In Paul versus Jesus (p. 19), Wilson points out that Paul mentions only sparse details about Jesus: he was born of a woman, was Jewish, had brothers, was crucified, and died (Romans 1:3; 1 Corinthians 9:5, 15:3). Paul’s focus is on a risen Christ, a cosmic figure whose death and resurrection offer salvation to all, independent of Torah observance (Galatians 3:28). This shift, Wilson argues, moves Christianity from a Jewish reform movement to a Gentile-centric religion resembling Roman mystery cults (p. 15).

Paul’s Gospel: A New Religion?

Pamela Eisenbaum, in Paul Was Not a Christian (2009), challenges the traditional view that Paul rejected Judaism for Christianity. She argues Paul remained a Jew, committed to monotheism, but saw Jesus’ death as God’s provision for Gentiles, not a replacement of the Torah for Jews (p. 9). Paul’s gospel was tailored for Gentiles, emphasizing Jesus’ faithfulness (not faith in Jesus) as the means of their inclusion in God’s plan (Romans 3:22). Eisenbaum suggests Paul’s mission was to extend Jewish monotheism to the nations, not to negate Jesus’ teachings but to reinterpret them for a broader audience (p. 10).

Yet, this reinterpretation created a divide. Wilson highlights that Paul’s letters, like Galatians, show him distancing himself from Jerusalem’s authority, insisting he received his gospel directly from Christ (Galatians 1:11,12). This independence, coupled with his dismissal of Torah practices for Gentiles, led to accusations of distortion. As Wilson (2014) notes, Paul’s opponents in the original Jesus Movement saw his teachings as a departure from Jesus’ Torah-based message (p. 8).

These thoughts are interesting because while Eisenbaum argues that Paul never left Judaism (Eisenbaum, 2009), Goguel’s historical investigation points to a theological re-centering. He writes that “the person of Jesus...is the product, not the creator, of Christianity” for many early communities (Goguel, 1926, p. 11). That statement reinforces the idea that Paul’s letters, with their sparse references to Jesus’ teachings and dense metaphysical framing of the crucifixion and resurrection (see Romans 6:3–11; 1 Corinthians 15), place the Jesus character into a mythic structure alien to the rabbinic ethic found in Matthew or the Didache. Goguel argues that the Gospels themselves are often "dominated by dogmatic and allegorical ideas" (p. 10), suggesting that Pauline theology had already started to shape even the narrative memory of Jesus before it was canonized.

Machen, though defending Paul’s orthodoxy, inadvertently reinforces this divide by admitting that Paul’s gospel required a radical break from Judaism’s national identity: “Gentile freedom, according to Paul, was not something permitted; it was something absolutely required” (Machen, 1925, p. 13). Yet this absolutism is absent from Jesus' teachings, which prioritize righteousness, Torah adherence, and Jewish communal life. The Balaam analogy here becomes sharper: just as Balaam did not curse Israel directly, neither did Paul overtly reject Jesus, but both altered the trajectory under a veil of blessing.

Christianity Today: Pauline or Jesus-Like?

The tension between Jesus and Paul has major implications for modern Christianity. Paul’s letters, written decades before the Gospels, shaped early Christian theology more than Jesus’ teachings. His emphasis on faith over works, universal salvation, and the cosmic Christ became central to Christian doctrine, especially after the Roman Emperors Constantine and Theodosius endorsed Paul’s vision in the 4th century (Paul versus Jesus, p. 3). The Gospels, while preserving Jesus’ Jewish (Hellenistic Jewish) teachings, were later interpreted through an already established Pauline lens, often downplaying their Torah-centric elements.

G.A. Wells, in The Jesus Myth, argues that Paul’s minimal reference to Jesus’ historical life suggests he was more concerned with a mythical Christ than the historical Jesus (p. 19). This aligns with Wilson’s view that Paul’s religion was “quite a different religion altogether” from Jesus’ (Paul versus Jesus, p. 16). Modern Christianity, with its focus on salvation through faith, sacraments, and the divinity of Christ, reflects Paul’s theology more than Jesus’ call for mental and spiritual living within Judaism.

Combining insights from Goguel and Machen clarifies that modern Christianity owes more to Paul’s reinterpretive genius than to the historical Jesus' teachings. Machen notes that Paul’s exclusivist theology; insisting that “there is no other name under heaven...by which we must be saved” (Acts 4:12); drew Gentiles away from syncretic religious expressions and into a dogmatic system (Machen, 1925, p. 9). But that dogma diverged from Jesus’ Torah-centric ethic, one which even Goguel insists was deeply embedded in a specific Jewish framework (Goguel, 1926, pp. 12–13).

In this light, Paul's gospel acts like Balaam’s oracle: impressive, far-reaching, and infused with “divine” imagery, but ultimately carrying within it a “doctrine of Baal” that introduces division. The Jesus character’s original message (should we incline ourselves to actually invoke the Hebrew Scriptures), rooted in covenantal justice, mental spiritual discipline, and community responsibility, becomes eclipsed by a mystical faith in a risen Christ who, as Machen admits, “possessed sovereign power over the forces of nature” (Machen, 1925, p. 5), a cosmic redeemer rather than a Galilean prophet.

What Does This Mean for Seekers of the Historical Jesus?

For those seeking an authentic return to Jesus’ message, the Pauline influence poses a challenge. Jesus’ gospel was not about himself at the center of a message, but about transforming human lives through ethical conduct and Torah observance, anticipating only God’s Kingdom within and the Son of Man (who he is not) destroying those preventing the reign of that Kingdom within doers. Paul’s gospel, while rooted in Jewish monotheism, shifted the focus to a spiritual salvation through his Christ’s death, appealing to a Gentile audience. As Eisenbaum notes, Paul didn’t abandon Judaism but adapted it for a new context (Paul Was Not a Christian, p. 10). However, this adaptation, as Wilson argues, created a rift with the Jesus Movement, leading to a Christianity that often overshadows Jesus’ original vision.

If Paul is a literary echo of Balaam, his gospel carries both a blessing and a shadow. He blessed the inclusion of Gentiles, expanding the reach of his God’s message, but his divergence from Jesus’ teachings left him distrusted by the Jerusalem community. For modern seekers, returning to the original message of Jesus means prioritizing his call to discipline the mind, to educate the belief, to remember love, justice, and covenantal living with the Hebrew Deity over Paul’s theological framework. This involves separating Hellenism from the Jesus character to embracing the covered up Hebrew philosophy within his teachings, which align more closely with the original Jesus Movement (Paul versus Jesus, p. 27).

Reclaiming the Historical Jesus

The question of whether Christianity is more Pauline than Jesus-like invites us to reexamine the New Testament’s competing voices. Paul’s gospel, while transformative, reshaped Jesus’ possibly original message into a universal religion that gained traction in the Roman world but drifted from its Hebrew roots.  Paul, like Balaam, spoke words that appeared to honor the people of God, but his doctrine redirected their path. It isn’t difficult to see how Paul's gospel, though influential and theologically sophisticated, transformed the original Jesus movement into a religion barely recognizable to its origin. For modern seekers of the historical Jesus, disentangling his message from Pauline overlay is not only a matter of academic curiosity, it is a necessary task of devotional restoration. Christianity may be Pauline in shape, but our devotional conversation need not rest on what ultimately departs from the intended growth and development promised from Genesis to Malachi.

References:

Eisenbaum, Pamela. (2009) Paul Was Not a Christian. HarperCollins.

Goguel, M. (1926). Jesus the Nazarene: Myth or History? (F. Stephens, Trans.). D. Appleton & Company.

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

Wells, G.A. (1999) The Jesus Myth. Open Court.

Wilson, Barrie. (2014) Paul versus Jesus. York University, Toronto

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.

The Historical Jesus vs. the Christ of Faith: Can They Be Separated?

The figure of Jesus stands at the heart of Christianity, yet his identity sparks endless debate: Is he the historical Hebrew minister who walked the dusty roads of first-century Palestine, or the cosmic Christ of Faith, exalted in the confessions of the Church? This tension; between a Jesus of history and a Christ of faith; has fueled centuries of scholarship, theological reflection, and spiritual inquiry. Can these two figures (for the sake of Christianity’s continuance and survival) be meaningfully separated, or are they inextricably intertwined? Drawing on some insights (Anderson, 2013; Collins, n.d.; Samuels, n.d.; Wright, 1996), this blog post explores this interesting question, inviting you to also ponder the historical, theological, and philosophical implications of the Jesus character’s dual identity.

The Historical Jesus

The quest for the historical Jesus seeks to uncover the possible man behind the myth—a figure grounded in the cultural, religious, and political realities of first-century Hellenistic Judaism. Scholars like E.P. Sanders and N.T. Wright emphasize Jesus as an eschatological prophet proclaiming the imminent arrival of God’s kingdom (Sanders, 1995, as cited in Samuels, n.d.; Wright, 1996). Far from a timeless moral teacher, Jesus was a Galilean Hebrew (Galilee is in the land of Naphtali) who challenged the Roman occupation and Jewish religious establishment with a message of radical renewal. The actions of his ministry—calling disciples, enlightening people and doctrinally challenging the Sanhedrin, and overturning tables in the Temple—marked him as a charismatic leader, a “sage” with social and political implications (Borg, as cited in Samuels, n.d.).

Adela Yarbro Collins highlights Jesus’ distinctiveness even among other prophets like John the Baptist. Unlike John’s ascetic rigor, Jesus embraced table fellowship, symbolizing his God’s inclusive love and joy (Collins, n.d.). His teachings, rooted in Hebrew Scripture, carried an unprecedented authority, leading some to see him as the Messiah during his lifetime. Yet, his crucifixion—a brutal Roman execution—challenged messianic expectations, forcing followers to reinterpret his death as part of a divine plan (Collins, n.d.).

This historical Jesus is vivid, human, and deeply Hebrew. But can he be isolated from the Greek theological figure who emerged in the wake of his death?

The Christ of Faith

The Christ of Faith is the exalted figure of Christian confession, celebrated in the Pauline epistles, Johannine theology, and church doctrine. This Christ is not scripted as being merely a historical preacher but the cosmic savior, the “second name for Jesus” in Paul’s writings, embodying salvation for the church (Kärkkäinen, as cited in Samuels, n.d.). The Gospel of John, with its high Christology, presents the Jesus character as the manifested Greek Logos, the Word (Greek Logos) made flesh, distinct from the Synoptic Gospels’ focus on his humanity (Anderson, 2013).

For theologians like Pannenberg, Christology is about grounding the church’s confession in the historical activity of Jesus, yet it transcends history (Pannenberg, as cited in Samuels, n.d.). The Christ of Faith is confessed as risen, exalted, and returning—a figure woven into the nature of Christian worship, theory, and belief. This theological construct, shaped by post-resurrection experiences and Hellenistic influences, elevates the Jesus character beyond his Hebrew or Jewish context into a universal savior.

But does this elevation erase the historical Jesus, or does it depend on him?

The Tension: Can History and Faith Be Divided?

The debate over separating the Jesus of history from the Christ of Faith is not ultimately academic—it’s a philosophical and spiritual crossroads. Individuals like David Friedrich Strauss argued for a stark divide, dismissing miracles as mythological expressions of messianic belief rather than historical events (Collins, n.d.). Strauss’ naturalistic approach sought to strip away theology to reveal a purely human Jesus, a view echoed by John Dominic Crossan, who portrays Jesus as a non-apocalyptic sage akin to a Cynic philosopher (Wright, 1996).

Yet, this dichotomy is problematic. Paul N. Anderson challenges Strauss’ rigid separation, arguing that history and theology are “inextricably entwined” (Anderson, 2013, p. 81). The Gospel of John (despite its manuscript being heavily re-written by various authors), often dismissed as purely theological, contains more mundane and archaeologically verified details (not about the Jesus character) than the Synoptics, suggesting a historical core beneath its theological veneer (Anderson, 2013). Similarly, N.T. Wright rejects the divide, proposing that Jesus’ historical actions—his Temple critique, table fellowship, and self-understanding as a messianic figure—form the foundation for early Christian theology (Wright, 1996). For Wright, linking the resurrection to the Jesus character is the pivotal event: without it, Jesus’ movement would have fizzled like other failed messianic campaigns (Wright, 1996).

The Synoptic Gospels, too, blur the line. While they seek to emphasize Jesus’ humanity, their portrayal of him as a prophet and miracle-worker carries theological weight (Samuels, n.d.). Even the historical Jesus’ apocalyptic worldview, which modern academics downplay, was inherently theological, expressing hope in his God’s intervention (Collins, n.d.). As Anderson notes, “insignificant historicity is a contradiction of terms” (Anderson, 2013, p. 77). Events are remembered because they matter, and their significance is inherently subjective.

The Interplay of Memory and Meaning

Philosophically, the question of separating the Jesus of history from the Christ of Faith touches on the nature of memory, truth, and identity. History is not a sterile collection of facts but a narrative shaped by those who remember, and also by those that have the power to manipulate what others should remember. The early Christians’ belief in Jesus’ resurrection transformed their memory of him, not by erasing his historical reality but by infusing it with cosmic significance (Wright, 1996). As Borg suggests, the Gospels use metaphorical language to convey the Jesus character’s meaning, not just his actions (Samuels, n.d.).

This challenges us to consider: Can we know Jesus without faith, or does faith illuminate his history? For individuals like Vermes and Fredriksen, Jesus’ Jewishness is the key to his historical identity, grounding him in a specific cultural context (Samuels, n.d.). Yet, the Christ of Faith transcends this context, speaking to universal human longings for redemption and justice. The two are not mutually exclusive but dialectical, each informing the other.

Why It Matters

The debate over the historical Jesus and the Christ of Faith is more than an academic exercise—it’s a question of how we encounter “Jesus” today. For believers, the Christ of Faith offers a living presence, rooted in an embellishment of the historical Jesus’ life and death (there was no resurrection). For skeptics, the historical Jesus provides a tangible figure, free from dogmatic overlays. Both perspectives enrich our understanding, but neither fully captures the mystery of both the invented historical and mythological identity of the Jesus character identity.

As Wright argues, the historical Jesus’ radical vocation redefines our concept of “God” itself (Wright, 1996). This challenges comfortable orthodoxies and secular assumptions alike. Similarly, Collins’ call to interpret Jesus’ apocalyptic language metaphorically invites us to see his message as addressing timeless human desires for freedom and justice (Collins, n.d.). This was not a dying and rising demigod, but an individual that understood the Hebrew Scriptures in a way where his intellect was becoming counterintuitive to the Sanhedrin’s agenda.

An Inseparable Unity?

SO, can the historical Jesus and the cosmic Christ of Faith, for the sake of Christian theory’s survival, be separated? The evidence suggests not. The historical Jesus, a Hebrew prophet educating on the incoming presence of the “kingdom of God” (Rome) and the inward movement of the kingdom of God (a dispensation of understanding), is the foundation for the mythological Christ of Faith, whose cosmic significance Christian theologians have transformed over the centuries. While individuals like Strauss and Crossan seek to peel away theology, and others like Anderson and Wright insist on their unity, the truth lies in the tension. This is all for the sake of Christian theory, which needs an apparently concrete figure to make their belief appear credible. But seeing as how the historical minister was not a Christian walking around calling himself “Christ” or “Son of Man,” the man himself would not actually need his Greek myth to get his point across. Surely all of this encourages us to continue to wrestle with the paradox of history and faith.

References

Anderson, P. N. (2013). The Jesus of history, the Christ of faith, and the Gospel of John. In The Gospels: History and Christology: The Search of Joseph Ratzinger—Benedict XVI (Vol. 2, pp. 63–81). Libreria Editrice Vaticana.

Collins, A. Y. (n.d.). The historical Jesus: Then and now.

Samuels, P.-P. (n.d.). A critical analysis of the Jesus of history vs. the Christ of faith debate.

Wright, N. T. (1996). The historical Jesus and Christian theology. Sewanee Theological Review, 39.