study, and spiritual discipline, like Jewish mystical texts and esoteric Buddhist teachings, for those engaged in spiritual quest.
Although it’s difficult to generalize about such diverse “other revelations,” many do differ markedly from John’s also in the way they envision the relationship between humankind and God. Most Jews, Christians, and Muslims avoid characterizing their relationship with God as do the initiates in Allogenes and the “Discourse,” who seek to discover themselves within the divine. Orthodox adherents of monotheistic traditions draw clear boundaries between themselves and God. The Jewish theologian Martin Buber could speak to God as “I
and
Thou,” as a relationship between creature and creator, but he could
not
have said, “I
am
Thou,” as a devout Hindu might say, “Thou art
that,
” collapsing the boundaries that separate human from divine.
Yet as we’ve seen, many of the sources found at Nag Hammadi do encourage spiritual seekers to seek union with God, or to identify with Christ in ways that fourth-century “orthodox” Christians would censor. In the Gospel of Mary Magdalene, for example, Mary encourages her fearful fellow disciples by saying, “The Son of Man is within you; follow him!” The author of
The Teachings of Silvanus,
alluding to images of Christ as “the way” and “the door,” suggests that one may find access to God through one’s own spiritual self:
Knock upon
yourself
as upon a door, and walk upon
yourself
as on a straight road. For if you walk on the road, you cannot get lost. … Open the door for yourself, that you may know the One who is. … What you open for yourself, you will open. 68
The Gospel of Philip, too, urges believers to become “no longer a Christian, but a Christ!” 69 And since such writings are directed toward people willing to devote themselves to spiritual practice and seek direct contact with God, they tend to bypass any need for “clergy.”
During the fourth century, bishops who followed Irenaeus, intent on establishing “orthodoxy,” would work hard to suppress writings like these. Although such bishops did not deny that Jesus was human, they tended to place Jesus on the divine side of the equation—not only divine but, in the words of the Nicene Creed,which they would soon endorse, “God from God …
essentially the same as God
.” 70 Orthodox theologians insisted that the rest of humankind, apart from him, are only transitory creatures, lost in sin—a view that would support what would become their dominant teaching about salvation, offered only through Christ, and, in particular, through the church they claimed to represent.
In the meantime, there was trouble. From the late second century, Christian leaders, who saw their close groups torn apart internally as Roman magistrates arrested and executed their most outspoken members, felt that John’s Book of Revelation spoke directly to these crises—and so they championed John of Patmos’ book above all others and defended it, as we shall see, against its critics, both pagan and Christian.
CHAPTER FIVE
Conclusion
T he Book of Revelation reads as if John had wrapped up all our worst fears—fears of violence, plague, wild animals, unimaginable horrors emerging from the abyss below the earth, lightning, thunder, hail, earthquakes, erupting volcanoes, and the atrocities of torture and war—into one gigantic nightmare. Yet instead of ending in total destruction, his visions finally open to the new Jerusalem—a glorious city filled with light. John’s visions of dragons, monsters, mothers, and whores speak less to our head than to our heart: like nightmares and dreams, they speak to what we fear, and what we hope.
Christian leaders have understood the uses of fear and hope from the time that Justin “the philosopher” threatened Roman emperors with hellfire and courageously defied the judge who ordered him beheaded by declaring that God would raise him