This blog post will be included in the next draft of The Coming of Son of Man book on Patreon. It began as an article assignment for a guest piece on another site for this summer.

1 Corinthians 15 isn’t a dusty theological relic; it’s been a live wire for my world, convulsing in overlapping crises. It’s an insistent, disruptive claim hurled into the face of political unrest, algorithmic alienation, and the slow-motion apocalypse of late-stage globalization. Far from a theological parlor trick, Paul’s visceral treatment of Christ’s victory over death speaks directly to our existential anxieties. Too often reduced to proof-texting verses about the afterlife, this chapter is, in reality, a subversive manifesto when aligned with the right contextual explosives.

By jamming Paul’s arguments back into the chaotic, polyglot, anxiety-ridden streets of first-century Corinth, while simultaneously injecting modern research in trauma psychology, neuroscience, and insights from the growing field of psychedelic studies, we can unearth a vision of resurrection that’s less about pearly gates and more about lighting a fire under the human veil. The empty tomb becomes not merely a historical claim but a living template for radical human transformation in an age of manufactured despair and global existential tension. As globalization erases borders and AI accelerates change, we face a paradox: the same digital networks that unite us also fragment our collective psyche. With digital “microcosms” fostering echo chambers, the challenge becomes to navigate this maze and harness its dynamism for profound personal and communal renewal. Amid historic existential uncertainty, an age-old challenge echoes louder: to face our darkness and walk in light.

Corinth’s Crossroads: Ancient Urban Anxiety & Cognitive Dissonance

Corinth, a vital port city, was a melting pot of ancient globalization. A Roman colony rebuilt by Julius Caesar in 44 BC, it served as a crucial commercial node connecting East and West, a “sin city” where Phoenician traders, Greek philosophers, Roman bureaucrats, and itinerant religious hustlers jostled for influence. Legend holds that Corinth was founded between 5000 and 3000 BC by Sisyphus, that poor soul doomed to roll a boulder uphill for eternity—a fitting metaphor for the endless striving and inherent futility of earthly ambition that Corinth epitomized.

“The city was full of people because of the Isthmian Games… and the crowd was not only from the Peloponnese but from all Greece, especially from Athens.”

– Strabo

Recent archaeological digs reveal a teeming metropolis where religious and secular syncretism flourished. The temple of Apollo is still visible today. Being a port city, Poseidon had a very large temple at a nearby village where the biennial Isthmian Games were held. Numerous other temples in Corinth include ones to Asclepius, Hermes, Venus-Fortuna, Isis, and one dedicated to “All The Gods” (Pantheon). Corinth was known for the Acrocorinth: a massive rock that dominates over Corinth and the surrounding area. At the peak of it was the Temple of Aphrodite, looking over Corinth and the breathtaking scenery. The imposing monuments of the Imperial Cult demanded allegiance to the divine Caesar. The Corinth Agora, a central public space in ancient Corinth, likely featured multiple altars dedicated to various deities, including the Roman Emperor. While specific altars are not always well-documented, it’s known that the Agora housed altars dedicated to gods like Zeus, Poseidon, and other deities. One prominent altar mentioned is the Altar of Zeus Agoraios

Corinth was also marked by stark social stratification. Archaeological evidence, such as the Erastus Inscription, points to a wealthy elite alongside widespread poverty and a large enslaved population. This disparity fueled social tensions within the early Corinthian church, as Paul’s letters reveal. Understanding these socio-economic dynamics is crucial for interpreting Paul’s emphasis on unity and equality in Christ, especially regarding the agape meals.

Paul’s original audience lived with the profound cognitive dissonance of Roman imperial theology promising pax romana (“Roman Peace”) and cultural diversity, rampant corruption, economic inequality, and social instability festered beneath the surface. As Roman historical documents show, this peace was always an illusion, built on the backs of people and maintained through propaganda, power, and control.

Paul’s resurrection discourse is, in many ways, a direct counter-offensive against both the cultural wars of that time and the Caesarean claim of eternal dominion through military might. His pointed use of the term parousia (meaning “presence” or “coming,” commonly used for imperial visits) to describe Christ’s return represents a rhetorical mic drop challenging the empire’s narrative of power with a radically different vision of hope (1 Corinthians 15:23). By appropriating imperial language and applying it to Christ, Paul declared war on Rome’s claim to ultimate authority, calling out the violence behind the false sense of “peace.”¹

The Temples, Sacred Way & Aphrodite’s Influence

To grasp the Corinthian context fully, we must understand its religious landscape, dominated by temples to gods like Apollo and, notably, Aphrodite–the ancient Greek goddess of love, beauty, fertility, and desire. The Temple of Aphrodite atop the Acrocorinth loomed over the city. While the exact nature of cultic prostitution remains debated, its presence undeniably shaped the city’s moral and sexual climate. The “Sacred Way” leading from the city’s gate to these temples constantly reminded citizens of the city’s embrace of sensual pleasures, starkly contrasting the ascetic tendencies within some philosophical schools.

“The temple of Venus at Corinth was so rich, that it had more than a thousand women consecrated to the service of the goddess, courtesans, whom both men and women had dedicated as offerings to the goddess. The city was frequented and enriched by the multitudes who resorted thither on account of these women.”

– Strabo

Temples of Aphrodite centered on love, desire, and fertility through offerings like flowers, doves, incense, and wine. Public festivals such as the Aphrodisia involved processions, music, and ritual bathing of her statue. Some sites, especially in Cyprus and Corinth, were linked to sacred prostitution or symbolic sexual rites, though some scholars see these as misinterpreted fertility rituals. Mystery elements may have included erotic symbolism, rites of passage for young women, and reenactments of divine union, reflecting Aphrodite’s deeper role as a cosmic force of connection and creation. And she was but one of the gods here.

Paul’s message wasn’t delivered in a vacuum but against a backdrop of vibrant, often sexually charged religious and politically-laden practices. Understanding Aphrodite’s pervasive influence is crucial for interpreting Paul’s remarks about marriage, sexuality, and women’s roles in the Corinthian church. In the end, everyone has a seat at the table.

Philosophical Currents & Bodily Skepticism

1 Corinthians makes clear that this nascent Christian community was grappling with pervasive Greco-Roman cultural and philosophical assumptions. Middle Platonism’s inherent dualism, which privileged the ethereal soul over the corruptible body, manifested in two equally problematic extremes: libertine disregard for physical actions (“everything is permissible,” as some Corinthians claimed) and ascetic rejection of material reality (“it is good for a man not to touch a woman,” addressed in 1 Corinthians 7).

This dualistic worldview permeated Corinthian society, shaping attitudes toward the body, sexuality, and the afterlife. Paul’s insistence on bodily resurrection (sōma pneumatikon, a “spiritual body”) constituted a radical third way. He wasn’t just offering comfort about an afterlife, but challenged the foundations of worldviews that bifurcated the spiritual and material realms from human experiences. Northeast of Corinth, Epicureans and Stoics divided over dualism. When Paul mentioned resurrection, many couldn’t accept it, assuming the body wasn’t involved (Acts 17:32-34). Scripture makes clear we aren’t dualistic but called to be whole (holy). There is no divide between physical and spiritual for the Christian–”whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God” (1 Corinthians 10:31).

The concept of sōma pneumatikon challenges the dualistic views prevalent in Corinthian society. Paul’s argument isn’t merely about a future resurrection but about transforming our understanding of the body’s role in spiritual life. The Greek term suggests a body animated and empowered by the pneuma (spirit), transcending current physical limitations. This aligns with Paul’s broader vision of Christ’s parousia as not just a future event but a present reality transforming our understanding of existence.

When Paul debates resurrection, he engages not with seasoned Bible scholars but with Corinthians who already had concepts about it. What they lacked were our modern tools—microscopes, psychology, and contemporary knowledge. Paul argues for Jesus’ resurrection while acknowledging the mystery and difference in His resurrected body compared to our current forms. He says our bodies will change as Christ’s did. His eschatological direction moves Christ’s work through the world and death’s power, until Jesus unifies everything with God. He addresses their disagreements about early Christian resurrection teachings from his eighteen months with them.

These Greeks would have been familiar with gods who underwent death and resurrection. Being near Athens, they were more accustomed to debating Plato and Pythagoras than engaging with a new Jewish-sectarian cult.

After Alexander the Great conquered Egypt, Egyptian influence spread throughout the Mediterranean. Their extensive work on resurrection and afterlife, developed over centuries through practices like mummification and documented in texts like the Pyramid Texts, represented sophisticated theological and technological approaches to the body’s afterlife destiny. Alexandria became a rival to Athens as a center for scholarship and religion.

The Corinthians weren’t strangers to “resurrection,” but understood it as a nuanced concept with various methods and assumptions, not unlike our modern society’s diverse body struggles. Paul’s resurrection debate addresses all these perspectives while making his case for why Jesus’ Resurrection matters. It concerns our view of life, death, and meaning—how we see the world, ourselves, and others—encompassing both the cosmic and personal, embodying the essence of the Gospel message.

The question of Jesus’ bodily resurrection elicits varied responses—many cite evidence for his resurrection, while others offer counterarguments. Beyond academic or theological debate lies a profound truth once held as a paleo-Christian “secret” but now visible: Resurrection means our lives matter and everything ultimately works out well, allowing us to live in that Reality Here and Now. It requires not living based on the Ego. While the debate about the soul’s existence or immortality predates Plato and is still ongoing, the key to the Resurrection’s transformative personal implications is that our lives participate in something greater that’s still unfolding—and joining this movement helps us flourish. We don’t have to run from our shame or fear of death any longer.

Assumptions create confusion when we approach 1 Corinthians 15 with preconceptions about the Bible’s meaning. True faith isn’t vertical agreement with concepts but living out values and principles in our narratives and relationships—addressing small things with a larger perspective through a horizontal faith guiding our internal narratives. This concerns the subjective person walking by faith. While “doctrines” and “teachings” exist with room for “correction,” our interpretive framework matters before we can improve our understanding.

Paul assures his Corinthian church that the practices and essence he taught for eighteen months matter. The resurrection matters even amid doubt, forcing us to weigh our life perspective and consider what follows death. One can doubt Jesus’ bodily resurrection while having faith in its implications and lessons about living in God’s Kingdom. If faith can’t accommodate doubt, it was never faith—doubt is where faith forms, tests, discovers, and spreads.

Psychedelics, the First Century & Corinthian Love Feasts

As detailed in The Immortality Key by Brian Muraresku, psychoactive substances were widespread in ancient religious rituals (see an overview here). Early churches may have engaged in worship forms we don’t fully comprehend today. From the Eleusinian Mysteries to ancient India’s use of Soma, altered consciousness states were sought for divine connection, spiritual insight, and healing. These practices weren’t marginal but often central to religious and cultural life. Muraresku’s research, though controversial, merits consideration.

Given Corinth’s position as long history as a major cultural crossroads and proximity to Eleusis (42 miles away), knowledge of psychoactive substances and their ritual use likely existed there. Demeter worship, whose Eleusinian Mysteries involved the psychoactive Kykeon potion, was prevalent in Corinth, creating fertile ground for exploring psychedelics’ potential influence on early Christian practices.

While definitive proof remains elusive, several factors strengthen the case for considering psychedelics in Corinthian love feasts and Christian spiritual practices:

• Documented Prevalence in the Ancient World: As detailed in The Immortality Key, psychoactive substances played significant roles in many ancient religions and cultures, suggesting such practices were integrated into daily life.
• Corinth’s Cosmopolitan Character: As a major port city, Corinth blended diverse religious and cultural influences, increasing the likelihood that psychedelic knowledge existed there. The constant influx of ideas from across the ancient world created an environment where experimentation and syncretism thrived.
• The Nature of Love Feasts: These communal meals involved shared food and drink, creating an environment conducive to psychoactive substance use. Their intimate nature would have fostered connection and shared experience, potentially enhancing psychoactive effects.
• Paul’s Concerns about Disorder: His repeated warnings about improper behavior during love feasts (1 Corinthians 11:17-34) could potentially address mind-altering substance use issues. While his primary concern may have been social inequality and disrespect for the meal’s sacredness, his admonitions might also have addressed potential psychoactive substance abuse.
• The Potential for Mystical Experience: Early Christians, like followers of other mystery religions, likely sought direct, transformative divine experiences. Psychedelics, inducing altered consciousness states and transcendence feelings, could have been tools for achieving such experiences, possibly explaining why early Christianity’s roots are difficult to separate from other mystery cults.

The point isn’t to definitively prove psychedelics’ use in Corinthian love feasts but to present a reasonable case for considering their potential influence and availability. Modern neuroscience, meditation, and psychedelic research can provide insights into paleo-Christian experiences. If these love feasts featured practices as Paul described within the Corinthian cultural context, were these ancient “cocktail” ingredients available? There is ample evidence that prayer, meditation, mindfulness, acceptance, service, reflection, community, relationships, and worship alone can radically transform participants and are clearly instructed in Scripture. However, if any early Christian churches also used psychedelics in ceremonies to recreate and teach Christian stories, this would have produced significant effects. They would experience the Gospels through Communion.

Studies from institutions like Johns Hopkins Center for Psychedelic Research demonstrate how altered consciousness states, often induced by psilocybin, can dissolve rigid mind-body dualism prevalent in Western culture. This doesn’t suggest Paul advocated recreational drug use, but rather that his holistic anthropology—humans as integrated beings of body, mind, and spirit—might validate these findings.

Paul does warn against pharmakeia (Gal 5:20, Rev 9:21, 18:23), which appears to caution against overuse and dependence on such methods, and it’s similar to his warnings about wine (which may have contained psychoactive ingredients). The “spiritual body” emerges not as some ethereal Platonic form but as a dynamic, integrated nexus including neural pathways rewired through transformative experiences—an ancient intuition supported by modern neuroplasticity studies.

1 Corinthians 14: Unlikely Greco-Roman Revolutionaries

The Corinthian church’s struggles with ritual practices, particularly the Lord’s Supper, reveal a community navigating the tension between Greco-Roman mystery traditions and early Christian theology. Paul’s admonitions in 1 Corinthians 11:30—where he links improper communion to physical weakness, illness, and death (“many sleep”)—take on profound significance when examined through the lens of ancient sacramental practices, psychedelic rituals, and participatory eschatology.

In The Immortality Key, Muraresku explores profound connections between ancient Greek mystery religions and early Christianity, particularly in the context of the Corinthian church. Before proceeding to examine 1 Corinthians 14, it’s essential to understand the cultural and religious environment that informed Paul’s writings to this community.

The Danger of Unworthy Participation: Sleep, Death, and Psychedelic Overload

Paul’s warning that “many are weak and sick, and some have fallen asleep” (1 Corinthians 11:30) reflects both the physical and spiritual consequences of mishandling the Eucharist. In antiquity, wine was rarely consumed undiluted; it was typically mixed with water, herbs, or resins to mitigate its potency and toxicity. The Greek symposion tradition mandated diluting wine with water (often in a 1:3 ratio), as undiluted wine was associated with barbarism and excess. Historical accounts, such as the death of Alexander the Great’s soldiers from consuming unmixed wine, underscore the literal dangers of overindulgence. For the Corinthians, whose communion practices had devolved into drunkenness and disregard for communal unity (1 Corinthians 11:21), Paul’s reference to “sleep” (κοιμάω) likely denotes physical death, a divine discipline for profaning the sacrament.

This intersects with Brian’s exploration of psychedelic sacraments. The Eleusinian Mysteries’ kykeon—a psychoactive brew—induced visions interpreted as “dying before death,” a ritual ego dissolution mirroring practices in meditation, mindfulness, and psychedelic research, which prepared initiates for the afterlife. Similarly, Paul’s theology of baptism “into Christ’s death” (Romans 6:3–5) and the Eucharist as participation in Christ’s body, death, and resurrection (1 Corinthians 10:16–17) suggests a transformative, almost initiatory experience. The Corinthians’ “sleep” may also parallel the incapacitation or trance states induced by overconsumption of entheogenic substances, a hazard in mystery cults where dosage regulation was critical. Psychedelics like psilocybin and ayahuasca are known to simulate near-death experiences (NDEs), dissolving ego boundaries and evoking a sense of cosmic unity—a phenomenon that mirrors Paul’s call to “discern the body” (1 Corinthians 11:29) as a communal, mystical reality.

Refrigeria and the Eucharist as Participatory Memorial

Muraresku’s thesis positions early Christian rituals within the broader context of Roman refrigeria—funerary meals honoring the dead. These rites, often conducted at tombs, involved sharing food and wine to commune with the deceased, a practice Paul redefines in 1 Corinthians 11:26: “For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.” Unlike passive remembrance, the Eucharist is an anamnesis, a participatory re-enactment that collapses temporal boundaries, allowing believers to “die with Christ” and be “raised in newness of life” (Romans 6:4–5). This aligns with Greco-Roman mystery traditions, where initiates underwent symbolic deaths (e.g., the katabasis of Demeter’s devotees at Eleusis) to achieve spiritual rebirth. Paul’s writing here, even predating the Gospels, records Jesus’ Eucharist as a “in memory of him.” As explored further in the Gospels, specifically John, this remembrance was more than a mental exercise, but a spiritual, bodily participation in Christ’s death and resurrection, with the goal of dying to the ego and being raised to new life.

Paul’s emphasis on proclamation (καταγγέλλετε) in 1 Corinthians 11:26 suggests a performative, almost theatrical dimension to the Eucharist. This concept echoes the enthusiasmos (divine possession) of Dionysian rites, where participants embodied the god through ecstatic union. For Paul, the Eucharist was not merely a memorial but a locus of transformative encounter—a ritual death and resurrection mirroring Jesus’ own journey.

Pauline Corrective: From Bacchanalia to Ecclesial Unity

The Corinthians’ misuse of the Lord’s Supper—marked by factionalism and excess—mirrored the libertine excesses of Bacchanalian feasts, where wine-fueled revelry often led to moral and physical dissolution. Paul’s insistence on “discerning the body” (1 Corinthians 11:29) critiques their failure to recognize the church as Christ’s unified body, a theme central to his ecclesiology (1 Corinthians 12:12–27). By invoking the Israelites’ wilderness judgments (1 Corinthians 10:1–13), Paul frames their “sleep” as both a disciplinary act and a call to awaken to their corporate identity.

In this light, the Eucharist becomes a subversive alternative to pagan mystery cults. Where Bacchanalia promised liberation through intoxication, Paul offers liberation through kenotic participation in Christ’s death. The “cup of demons” (1 Corinthians 10:21) allusion underscores this dichotomy: the Corinthians’ prior engagement with pagan rites (possibly involving psychoactive libations) is contrasted with the “cup of blessing” that unites them to Christ’s sacrificial body.

Initiation, Death, and New Life

Paul’s Corinthian correspondence reimagines the mystery religions’ existential framework through a Christological lens. The “sleep” of 1 Corinthians 11:30 serves as both a literal warning and a metaphor for spiritual complacency. By integrating the Eucharist into the refrigeria tradition—transforming it from a memorial meal into a participatory initiation—Paul invites believers to undergo ego dissolution (“dying to self”) and emerge resurrected in communal unity. This theology, rooted in the transformative rituals of the ancient world, invites ongoing exploration through neuroscience, meditation, and entheogens.

Women and The Early Church

To fully appreciate the complexities surrounding women’s participation and spiritual gifts in early Christian gatherings, we must examine 1 Corinthians 14, which offers a crucial window into the social and spiritual landscape of the Corinthian church.

Paul’s letters depict women actively involved in ministry. He greets numerous women in Romans 16, acknowledging them as synergoi (fellow workers) and diakonoi (deacons or servants). Junia, whom some scholars interpret as “outstanding among the apostles” (Romans 16:7), challenges simplistic assumptions about women’s roles. Priscilla, mentioned repeatedly, is described as a synergos who instructed the eloquent Apollos (Acts 18:26). Women were also the first people to experience the resurrected Christ (and a woman first to recognize Jesus as the Messiah). They sat at the feet of Jesus and were involved. These examples challenge cultural narratives confining women to domestic and non-fluential spheres. They are the heroes behind the scenes, making everything possible and taking risks of their own.

1 Corinthians 14 reveals a more nuanced picture. While regulating spiritual gifts like prophecy and tongues (glossolalia is, by the way, a reported effect of psychedelics), it presupposes women’s active participation. Paul’s guidance in 1 Corinthians 11:5 addresses how women should pray or prophesy, not whether they should, indicating these activities were already part of communal life—significant given Greco-Roman restrictions on women’s public speech. Brian also makes the case that women traditionally were the people who were typically familiar with and trained in such herbs, preparation methods, and sacred communal rites–and women had also recently been pushed out of the Greco-Roman religious systems. Romans burned their own “witches.“²

The agape feasts provided crucial context for understanding these gifts. These communal meals, often held in members’ oikos (households), were central to early Christian identity—not merely social events but sacred gatherings where food, fellowship, and spiritual gifts were shared. While fostering unity, these gatherings navigated cultural expectations of order and decorum. Greco-Roman meals, especially in the triclinium (U-shaped formal dining room), followed established customs with expectations regarding seating, serving, and conversation.

Paul’s emphasis on taxis (order) and euschēmonōs (decently and in order) must be understood within this context. He appeals to shared understanding of appropriate communal behavior, seeking to guide Corinthians toward oikodomē (edification) while avoiding disorder. Prophecy sharing likely occurred during these meals with women actively participating. Paul balanced spiritual expression freedom with communal harmony needs, ensuring these gifts built up Christ’s body.

This complex interplay between women’s active participation, the structured context of the agape meal, and Paul’s concern for order raises a crucial question: What other practices might have existed in these gatherings but remain absent from Paul’s explicit regulation?

These plants, from mushrooms to bark, predate written records: they are not new to humanity. If psychedelics were known and available, where are the instructions against them? There isn’t even a warning against pharmakeia in 1 Corinthians. This silence suggests at least the possibility that it was assumed. Paul addressed numerous topics across letters to several Greco-Roman cities known for diverse cults—if psychedelics and psychoactive substances were commonly available (like being incorporated in their wine to “spice” it up), where is their prohibition? We have only a few references in the entirety of the New Testament (the aforementioned pharmakiea), which better fit warnings against addiction and pharmaceutical dependence than our modern concept of “witchcraft.”

If people, not just women, from various backgrounds joined growing paleo-Christian love feasts, is it surprising that diverse “recipes” might occur? So, where is the warning? Alternatively, if Paul used these plants and taught followers how to approach them through the Eucharist, given common symbolism of ancient plants and gods now showing evidence of psychedelic connection (Demeter with ergot, Dionysus with wine), then the issue isn’t “should or should not” but if, how, why, and when.

They’re not magical solutions: mysticism works through meditation, mindfulness, worship, discipline, and prayer—these are enough. These substances can cause damage, just as gluttony, sex, or alcohol. Instead, psychedelics may have been permitted—perhaps explaining in part tongues-speaking, prophecy, and visions shared in orderly services and liturgies—and distinguishing Christian practice from problematic Greco-Roman usage.

Paul’s Argument in 1 Corinthians 15: A Line-by-Line Exploration

Let’s examine 1 Corinthians 15 step by step, connecting it to cultural context and potential altered consciousness influences:

Verses 1-4: Paul opens 1 Corinthians 15 with a creed—Greek παρέδωκα… παρέλαβον (“I delivered… I received”)—that he likely received within a few years of Jesus’ death. Scholars suggest that Paul obtained this tradition during his visit to Jerusalem around AD 35–36, where he spent time with Peter and James (Galatians 1:18–19). This creed, emphasizing Christ’s death, burial, resurrection, and appearances, reflects early Christian beliefs rooted in the Jerusalem church’s teachings.

When Paul wrote 1 Corinthians around AD 53–54, he addressed a community he had previously spent 18 months with (Acts 18:11). The Corinthian church, like many early Christian communities, met in private homes and celebrated the Lord’s Supper as part of communal meals. These gatherings, known as ἀγάπη feasts, combined elements of Jewish Passover traditions with Greco-Roman banquet customs. Participants shared bread and wine, symbolizing unity and remembrance of Jesus’ sacrifice.

While wine was the standard element in these rituals, variations existed based on local customs and resources. Beneath that creed lies a liturgical kaleidoscope. In Paul’s era, gatherings in οἶκος (households) blended Jewish sacrificial memory with vernacular κοινωνία—breaking bread, passing the cup, proclaiming Christ’s death until he comes. These weren’t stage-lit performances or later, codified Masses. They were raw, embodied acts of memory and belonging. The cup and the bread—whatever form they took locally—carried the weight of presence and promise.

While some later writers (like Justin Martyr and Hippolytus) described wine mixed with water—as normative in the Eucharist by the mid-second century, earlier practice was likely less uniform. Paul’s communities used bread and wine, but what that “wine” looked like could vary with economy, culture, or ascetic leanings. The Gospel of Philip hints at water-only rites for purity’s sake, and some North African communities in the third century permitted water in place of wine. But Paul’s own language, especially in 1 Corinthians 11, implies that wine was the expected norm, enough so that some abused it to the point of “sleep.”

Over the next hundred years, Christian ritual would evolve—both organically and polemically. Celsus (c. AD 170–180) mocked Christian μυστήρια (“mysteries”) as secret and superstitious, likely fueled by the tight-knit and closed nature of these feasts. Origen, in his Contra Celsum (c. AD 248), defended them not as secretive indulgences but as sacred transformations: eucharist as participation, not performance.

This century-long gap between Paul’s original creed and these later formalizations matters. It shows how fluid early Christian life was—how it moved, stretched, and sometimes fractured as communities grew, leaders changed, and local tensions emerged. Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 15:1–4 aren’t a distant theological summary. They’re a tether. A return to the raw center: Christ died… was buried… was raised… and house churches replicated it in memory of Him.

Verses 5-11: Paul provides resurrection witnesses, strategically appealing to his era’s values. In the ancient world, eyewitness accounts carried significant weight in legal and social contexts. A claim’s reliability often depended on witnesses’ number and credibility. Paul leverages this cultural understanding by listing diverse witnesses—prominent figures like Cephas (Peter) and James, plus large groups like “more than five hundred brothers at once.“

Modern skepticism often questions such accounts’ veracity, raising concerns about bias or embellishment. However, in first-century Corinth, Paul’s approach would have resonated with those valuing empirical evidence and communal validation. The witnesses’ number, if accurate, challenges dismissal of the resurrection as fabrication or hallucination.

Paul’s self-inclusion as a witness, despite initially persecuting Christians, adds complexity. His Damascus Road conversion experience, whether interpreted literally or metaphorically, underscores the resurrection message’s transformative power, even for initial opponents.

This eyewitness emphasis is crucial to Paul’s argument. He presents not just a philosophical abstraction but a historical event attested by numerous credible sources. The Greek word for “witness” here is μάρτυς, the origin of our word “martyr.” Paul claims these individuals staked their lives on Christ’s resurrection truth.

Verses 12-19: Paul addresses his central concern: some Corinthians denying the dead’s resurrection. He argues that without resurrection, Christ hasn’t been raised. If Christ hasn’t risen, Paul’s preaching is pointless, the Corinthians’ faith is futile, the apostles are false witnesses, Christians remain in sin, those who died in Christ have perished, and Christians deserve more pity than anyone. Paul demonstrates that resurrection isn’t optional for Christian belief but its very foundation. If Christ hasn’t conquered death, death has the final word, rendering Christian hope ultimately futile.

Verses 20-28: Paul’s firstfruits (aparchē) metaphor carries layered significance, grounded in ancient agrarian imagination. In Jewish practice, the first sheaf offered to God wasn’t merely symbolic—it was anticipatory, a pledge that the rest of the harvest would follow. For Paul, Christ’s resurrection is that firstfruit—not just the guarantee of individual resurrection, but the initiation of cosmic renewal. His rising is the early yield that secures the future ingathering: the resurrection of all who belong to him.

But Paul isn’t only offering chronology. He’s mapping a trajectory. There’s movement here—a telos, a gravitational pull toward divine fulfillment. Christ’s resurrection initiates a directional process, a kind of teleological attractor—the resurrection being not an isolated miracle, but the event that draws history forward into its intended wholeness. Then comes the end (τό τέλος)—not an end as cessation, but as consummation: creation returned, reordered, reconciled.

Christ’s reign, as described here, is subversive and eschatological. It is a reign that deconstructs false dominions and delegitimizes death-dealing powers. These are not merely spiritual abstractions—they include Rome, hierarchy, injustice, and every force that enslaves. In reigning, Christ undermines these dominions not with violence but with resurrection. Death, the last enemy, is dismantled—not bypassed, but unmade from within. This is the embodied victory of the Son of Man, who came not to escape death but to go through it, swallowing it into life.

And once all enemies are under his feet—including death itself—then the Son will hand over the kingdom to the Father. Christ’s submission is not resignation; it’s restoration. This is the culminating gesture of redemptive love: not Christ losing something, but all things being gathered into God. This is the telos. This is union. So that “God may be all in all“—not in domination, but in intimate fullness.

So the coming of the Son of Man is not confined to a distant apocalypse. It is already underway. It began in the garden tomb. It continues wherever death is undone, wherever power is turned upside-down, wherever resurrection confronts the empire of decay. Christ’s resurrection is not just a hope for later—it is the teleological attractor of a renewed cosmos, pulling the whole of creation toward participation in divine life.

Verses 35-49: Spiritual Body: Paul’s discussion of the soma pneumatikon (“spiritual body“) represents one of 1 Corinthians’ most debated passages. He uses natural world analogies—seeds, flesh types, celestial and terrestrial bodies—to illustrate resurrection’s transformative nature.

We must avoid simplistic readings pitting “spiritual” against “physical” dualistically. Paul doesn’t suggest disembodied existence but transformed embodiment suited for new creation. This concept resonates with contemporary transhumanism and posthumanism discussions exploring enhanced or transcended human limitations through technology. However, Paul’s vision grounds itself in a theological framework emphasizing God’s creative power and identity continuity.

The soma pneumatikon metaphorically represents ultimate human potential liberation from ego, mortality, conditions, and current physical dependencies. It indicates a future where embodied existence fully integrates with the spiritual realm, reflecting God’s present fullness.

Paul’s “spiritual body” concept isn’t merely a post-mortem existence description but a radical statement about transformed embodiment: personal, subjective, and global. In a world facing crises and advancements blurring human-machine boundaries, Paul’s emphasis on renewed, transformed bodies offers a powerful counter-narrative, pointing toward human flourishing transcending current physical and social limitations while remaining embodied and spiritually integrated.

Deconstructing Death: The Sting of Sin as Systemic Brokenness

Paul’s linkage of death with sin (1 Cor. 15:56) gains new dimensions through complex systems theory. The “sting” (kentron) is how mortality can be an underlying existential motivator, something our Ego must run from and avoid. When a person gets over the fear of death, it changes things. Addicts, by the way, use substances to run, in essence, from this underlying dread. Facing our death, and doing so in a spiritually intentional way, decimates personal dysfunctions and twisted perceptions, while helping a person navigate forgiveness and shame.

Yet, the “sting” represents more than individual mortality—it’s the interlocking, death-dealing architecture of empire, exploitation, and ecological extraction; the insidious way power systems perpetuate suffering and diminish human potential. Powers exploit human frailty and anxiety about mortality to control people. We still struggle with this in families and daily life, convinced that life centers on status, wealth, power, control, glory, or imposing our view of God on others. The love feasts demonstrated Jesus’ upside-down kingdom—people experiencing community together and living it between gatherings rather than making them venues for ego domination and dysfunction.

Contemporary theorist Byung-Chul Han argues modern society functions as a “burnout machine” fueled by neoliberal productivity demands—a systemic sin structure Paul would recognize. Resurrection hope becomes resistance against what anthropologist David Graeber termed “bullshit jobs”—soul-crushing, pointless occupations draining human vitality while contributing nothing valuable. Christ’s “victory” (nikos) (1 Cor. 15:54-55) isn’t merely afterlife insurance but present-tense emancipation from dehumanizing systems—a call to reclaim our time, bodies, and creative energy from commodifying and controlling forces.

Seed, Soil & Social Transformation

Paul’s seed, death, and new life metaphor (1 Cor. 15:35-44) gains renewed urgency in our climate crisis era. The seed’s apparent “death” mirrors regenerative agriculture principles, where decay and decomposition nourish new growth. Soil scientist Dr. Elaine Ingham’s work reveals microbial networks’ astonishing complexity and healthy ecosystems’ dependence on intricate death-life cycles (free nerd tidbit).

This provides a profound natural parallel to Paul’s resurrection theology. This ecological reading challenges both planet-abandoning rapture eschatology and the hubristic denial of creaturely limits in some transhumanism strains. The resurrection body becomes a model for sustainable human systems working with Earth’s rhythms rather than against them—a call to cultivate “resurrection ecology” where waste becomes food, death becomes compost, and brokenness becomes regeneration opportunity.

Neuroscience & New Creation: Rewiring the Resurrection Imagination

Recent functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) advancements reveal fascinating correlations between mystical experiences and decreased default mode network (DMN) activity. The DMN represents our egoic self-narrative neural basis—the internal monologue constructing our “I” sense. Paul’s seemingly radical call to “die daily” (1 Cor. 15:31) finds unexpected validation in these findings: ego dissolution (kenosis) creates space for Christ-consciousness emergence (the “mind of Christ” in 1 Cor. 2:16). The gospel transforms our minds, too.

Contemplative neuroscience demonstrates how sustained spiritual practices like meditation and prayer physically reshape the DMN, rewiring the brain and actualizing Paul’s transformation promise “from glory to glory” (2 Cor. 3:18). Resurrection life isn’t merely future hope to await passively but present reality progressively embodied through neurobiological change.

Mirror Neurons & the Body of Christ

Mirror neurons—brain cells firing both when performing actions and observing others perform them—offer a compelling neurological framework for understanding Paul’s corporate resurrection vision. As believers “bear the heavenly man’s image” (1 Cor. 15:49), their neural empathy capacity expands, creating a biological substrate for koinonia, the deep, embodied communion characterizing the early church.

This biological basis for “one body” theology provides powerful scientific grounding for Christian social ethics in our hyper-individualism and digital disconnection age. It suggests resurrection isn’t just about individual salvation but collective human consciousness transformation.

Revelation 20-21 and the Hope for Today

What does this mean as we celebrate Easter amid increasing chaos and uncertainty? How does this affect our daily concerns—bills, family, work, politics—and our capacity for gratitude?

It’s everything. If Jesus literally rose from the dead, every human must wrestle with this, supported by evidence like Paul’s cited eyewitnesses. However, I take a nuanced stance: Faith in Christ’s resurrection isn’t primarily about whether a Jewish Rabbi literally rose—that’s academic knowledge agreement. It concerns the worldview and perception taught and modeled by this rabbi. It means experiencing Resurrection by taking up our cross, dying to self, addressing personal sins, and living better narratives than those currently dominating our thoughts.

It means seeing God’s unfolding nature in Reality, recognizing our limitations, releasing conditioned expectations and forced egos, accepting things as they are, embracing authenticity, and genuinely loving neighbors. Jesus’ message was radically simple because it was fundamentally True. It would work until Death’s ultimate defeat, allowing not just Jesus and Church unity but all humanity’s reconciliation with God, restoring Creation’s relationship with us and our relationships with each other. Ego and its Shadow run deep. Jesus’ work has accomplished much across 2000 years of human history.

Like a hybrid of Post and Amillennialism, Revelation 20-21, Paul’s visions of Christ submitting to God, and Jesus’ “coming of the son of man” teaching represent a logical, natural unfolding of Reality we’re both part of and have long avoided. Each generation experiences its end alongside its institutions and assumptions. This is Creation’s functioning, which we participate in. Christians and non-Christians in 2025 have fewer excuses for arbitrary boundaries—we all understand ego, tribalism, groupthink, cognitive bias, and projection.

Revelation shows the Resurrection unfolding as the Church marries Christ in chapter 19. The prepared Bride meets the Groom, arriving on a white horse. After defeating worldly powers, Jesus “seized the dragon, that ancient serpent, who is the devil and Satan, and bound him for a thousand years.“

This initiates Christ’s thousand-year reign: “The rest of the dead did not come to life until the thousand years ended. This is the first resurrection” (20:5). John spoke allegorically throughout Revelation before forecasting the teleological eschatology he learned from Jesus. Death and persecution for just causes always advance them, as martyrs’ blood outlasts dictators and egomaniacs. Jesus’ willingness to die without victimhood while praying for his executioners’ forgiveness exposed mankind’s ego-based mindset flaws. The Gospels deconstructed every major religious and nationalist assumption of their day in ways that would continue working until humanity overcame its fundamental problems. This represents Jesus’ Resurrection and Gospel living until Christ’s work in history’s development is completed.

The thousand-year reign is allegorical, as Revelation is, but with its full theological weight. We might be in this millennial reign now or, encouraging further theological development, approaching its end. After this reign, another battle occurs where Satan is defeated by Heavenly power, not human effort. It concludes with a great white throne judgment. Death and Hades are thrown into the lake of fire—the second death.

Revelation 21:1-4 continues: “Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.‘”

This represents not just literal future events but a teleological vision of hope—God’s ultimate triumph over evil, creating a new heaven and earth. It envisions a world without death, mourning, crying, or pain, where God dwells with humanity, wiping away every tear.

This inspires the continued pursuit of justice, peace-building, and hope amid seeming hopelessness. The Resurrection isn’t merely a past event but a present reality—a transformative force already reshaping our world and lives.

*Footnote

1. The Pax Romana, while often portrayed as a period of unprecedented peace and prosperity (described as a “gospel“), was maintained through constant military campaigns and the suppression of dissent. Tacitus, a Roman historian, offered a cynical assessment of Roman imperialism, stating, “They make a desert and call it peace” (Agricola, 30). This underscores the violent underpinnings of the Pax Romana and highlights the subversive nature of Paul’s message.
   
   N.T. Wright’s Paul and the Faithfulness of God provides an extensive analysis of Paul’s theological vision within its historical context, highlighting the ways in which Paul challenged the Roman imperial narrative and offered an alternative vision of hope and justice rooted in the resurrection of Jesus Christ.
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2. In ancient Rome, “magi” or “goetes” practiced various forms of magic, including divination, spellcasting, and invoking supernatural entities. There were laws against harmful magic, and people could be prosecuted and punished for witchcraft. Some individuals, particularly women, were accused of using harmful magic and faced punishment, sometimes including execution. For example, in 331 BC, a deadly epidemic led to the execution of at least 170 women for causing it through “veneficium“. In ancient Rome, “veneficium” encompassed both poisoning and using magic to cause harm. While there were laws against harmful magic, the perception of witchcraft evolved with the rise of Christianity, and the association of witchcraft with paganism intensified during the Renaissance. Later, women in America would also find such plants and alternatives to the Protestant Christianity they were raised. Also, this was not exclusive to women, but men often got off easier.
   
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