If Jesus Was Not Preaching Christianity, What Was He Actually Doing?

In the quiet hills of Galilee, a teacher of Hebrew religious philosophy gathers crowds by the sea, speaking of a kingdom not built by human hands but breaking forth like dawn within the human heart. He quotes the ancient prophets, restores vision to minds, and challenges the priesthood; not to overthrow the faith of his ancestors, but to awaken it from within.

What if the Jesus we think we understand was not founding a new religion called “Christianity,” but calling his people back to the deepest promise of their own covenant with their Deity?

The imagined historical Jesus was deeply embedded in the age’s Hellenistic Judaism, but what he taught diverged in fascinating ways from the dominant religious currents of his time (and from the Christianity that later falsely developed around his memory). When actually comprehending the character beyond and yet hidden within the Jesus character, one finds that he operated firmly within Hebrew covenantal and Torah frameworks, yet with a distinctive emphasis that prioritized inner transformation over ritualistic debates.

Thomas Kazen carefully traces how Jesus engaged the Torah (the sacred instruction of Israel) not as an unyielding legal code demanding endless refinement, but as living guidance that points toward mercy, justice, and inner rightness (Kazen, n.d.). In the Gospels, Jesus affirms the Torah’s enduring place while consistently elevating its “weightier matters” over ritual details. His disputes with religious leaders were not attempts to abolish the law, but prophetic calls to embody its true spirit in an age when legal interpretation was still fluid and open to renewal.

Tom Holmén sharpens this picture by turning our attention to the covenant itself (the foundational belief in the Hebrew God’s unique relationship with Israel that both unified and divided its communities in the first century) (Holmén, 2004). Across the diverse “Judaisms” of the time, people engaged in fervent “covenant path searching,” debating how best to remain faithful through observance and practice. Strikingly, Jesus stands apart from this anxious quest. He does not join the widespread effort to define covenant loyalty through competing halakic frameworks. Instead, Holmén suggests, Jesus embodies the eschatological vision of prophets like Jeremiah: a coming covenant in which his God’s will is written directly on the heart, making external striving unnecessary; an inner knowing that renders the search for the right path obsolete.

Here the insights of Kazen and Holmén begin to resonate as one voice: the imagined historical Jesus interprets the Torah prophetically and steps back from covenantal debates not out of indifference, but because he lives and teaches as though the promised renewal has already begun.

In my book, “The Dawn of Devotion,” I carry the harmony of Kazen and Holmén into bolder, philosophical territory (Jackson, 2024). I dissect the story of Jesus as the dramatic enactment of a devotional shift: the crucifixion not as a literal payment for sin, but as the symbolic death to an “old conversation” (a mindset chained to external ordinances and handwritten rules). In its place rises “Immanuel,” the philosophy of “God-with-us” as an inward reality, a wisdom that purges the conscience and liberates from the very strength of sin that external law unwittingly amplifies. This, I do argue and prove from the scriptures, fulfills the ancient promise of a law no longer imposed from without, but alive within the personal and the devotional spirit.

When observing the imagined historical Jesus from a purely philosophical point of view, a quiet yet meaningful dialogue emerges. Kazen shows us a Jesus who honors the Torah yet prioritizes its heart. Holmén reveals a teacher who bypasses the era’s covenantal anxieties because he trusts the prophetic future breaking into the present. I dare us to see the cross itself as the sacrifice of an outdated religious mindset, making way for direct, transformative communion with the living God.

The mindful revelation that emerges is both simple and revolutionary: the Jesus we imagine (but are falsely unaware of) was not preaching the birth of Christianity as a separate faith. He was renewing Hebrew religious philosophy from its deepest roots, proclaiming that the long-awaited “kingdom” arrives not through perfected observance or institutional reform, but through hearts transformed by God’s own presence. His message was not “leave the old behind,” but “enter the old more deeply, for its fulfillment is here.”

What if the real revolution was not starting a new religion, but awakening an ancient one to its own radical promise without religion? Maybe perhaps the truest inheritance “Jesus” left is not a new religion to defend, but an ancient invitation renewed: to let go of anxious religious striving and trust the quiet voice writing love, mercy, and justice on the soul of one’s devotional conscience.

References

Holmén, T. (2004). Jesus, Judaism and the covenant. Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus, 2(1), 3–27.

Jackson, L., Jr. (2024). The Dawn of Devotion: A Sacrifice for Devotional Evolution. Brilliant Publishing, LLC.

Kazen, T. (n.d.). Jesus’ interpretation of the Torah [Pre-publication English version]. Manuscript for Jesus Handbuch.

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.

Logos and Legend: How Faith Rewrote Jesus

When we speak of “Jesus,” are we invoking a man of first-century Judea or a cosmic figure constructed by centuries of faith? From dusty Galilean roads to the transcendent halls of Hellenistic philosophy, the Jesus character has been written and rewritten by faith traditions seeking to reconcile ancient mythos with new messianic hope.

In this blog post, we’ll peel back the layers of logos and legend, following how the faith of early Christian communities; guided by mystery cult motifs, Platonic metaphysics, and prophetic reinterpretation; recast a certain figure from rebel preacher to incarnate Word (Logos).

The Birth of a Mythical Messiah

The historian Maurice Goguel (1926) argued that the first-century Jesus, if he existed historically, was quickly enmeshed within a web of nonhistorical embellishments. Early Christian eschatology, desperate for a vindicated messiah figure after Rome crushed Jewish uprisings, likely spiritualized Jesus' death and imagined his resurrection. The resurrection belief, according to Goguel, "arose as the fulfilment of prophecy discovered after the fact" (p. 290), transforming a failed movement into a mythic faith.

This pattern wasn’t new. Hellenistic cultures were familiar with dying-and-rising gods, mystery cults offering symbolic death and rebirth through ritual. Christian theory, in this reading, borrowed these narrative forms to give cosmic significance to their messiah. The faith communities weren’t so much preserving history as crafting a sacred legend to meet spiritual and political needs.

Enter the Logos

No thinker better captures the philosophical atmosphere surrounding early Christianity than Philo of Alexandria, a Hellenistic Jew whose writing predates the New Testament. Philo envisioned a cosmic mediator figure, the Logos, as "the eldest of the powers of God" (Philo, On the Confusion of Tongues, sec. 28), an immaterial agent through whom the divine interacted with the material world.

The parallels to the Gospel of John are striking. In John's prologue, "In the beginning was the Word (Logos), and the Word was with God, and the Word was God" (John 1:1), we see Hellenistic metaphysics grafted onto Jewish messianism. Philo’s Logos concept provided early Christians a ready-made philosophical framework to elevate the Jesus character from an executed Galilean preacher to a cosmic, preexistent Logos incarnate.

This philosophical evolution wasn’t incidental. It reflected a broader tendency in Second Temple Judaism to allegorize and universalize national traditions within the Greco-Roman world’s philosophical idioms; a process Goguel identified as “prophetic exegesis reinterpreting facts as symbols” (1926, p. 203).

Faith Before Fact: The Case for a Legendary Jesus

George Albert Wells (1999) takes the argument further, contending that the earliest Christian texts — particularly Paul’s epistles — lack biographical details of Jesus. Instead, Paul speaks of a celestial figure revealed through scripture and personal visions. Wells argues this points to a mythical, not historical, origin: "The gospels’ Jesus is the result of a layered history of imaginative embellishments" (p. xviii).

According to Wells, the first believers experienced the Christ figure within the symbolic landscape of their scriptures and cosmology, not as a contemporary flesh-and-blood teacher. Only later did the legend localize Jesus in Galilee and Jerusalem to ground the myth in an historical frame, much as Romulus and Remus or Osiris once were.

From Myth to History…and Back Again

What, then, was "rewritten"? Early faith communities reinterpreted the memory of Jesus in light of Hellenistic philosophy, Jewish messianic expectation, and communal trauma. The historical person, if he existed, was submerged beneath layers of cosmic symbolism, prophetic fulfillment, and mystical allegory.

As Philo blurred the line between myth and metaphysics with his Logos, early Christians did the same with Jesus. Goguel (1926) concludes, "Faith created the Christ of the gospels" (p. 305) — not the other way around.

Today, debates about the historical Jesus miss the absolute point: religious traditions often rewrite their founders to meet new needs; fusing logos and legend into enduring myth to create Jesus is nothing new. Ignoring the fact that the Jesus character founded no church or religion himself, this fact, concerning Christian theory, remains in-tact.

Final Thought?

The making of Jesus as Logos wasn’t an accident of history but a strategy of meaning. In a fragmented empire teeming with mystery religions, wisdom cults, and apocalyptic movements, Christianity’s genius lay in reworking faith’s raw material — myth, philosophy, prophecy — into a compelling narrative of cosmic redemption.

And in doing so, faith didn’t just record history; it rewrote it.

References

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

Philo of Alexandria. (n.d.). The Complete Works of Philo: Complete and Unabridged (C. D. Yonge, Trans.).

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