The Bible a novel
Mark 16:7
“By sending them back to Galilee, Jesus is essentially restarting the mission. He is not abandoning the disciples to their failure; He is re-commissioning them. This implies that failure does not disqualify someone from being used by God; rather, grace restores and re-sends.”
I still can’t understand why the masses don’t see that the Bible is structured like a novel — because that’s what it is. At no point is it built as a historical account.
Better still: it is constructed against historical narrative as we usually understand it. History seeks to establish facts; the novel seeks to transform its reader. Structurally, the Bible wants you to be Peter when you read “and to Peter.” It draws you into its movement of restoration.
That’s why readings that exhaust themselves defending literal historicity often miss the narrative power entirely — miss the esotericism.
As if everything built afterward, under the name of Christian religion, were nothing but a misunderstanding — the externalization of a faith. Something fundamentally political, co-opted by politicians.
Someone who perceives a novelistic structure suddenly realizes: he is Peter. The text does not describe a past event — it creates a present one.
A religion that institutionalizes itself must fix meaning, draw the boundaries of belonging, date its origins. It needs objectifiable facts to ground its authority. But the text itself functions as a machine of inclusion, not exclusion.
It became a tribal affair, nothing more. In fact, those who embraced this movement began calling themselves “Christians” — even though it was originally an adjective — because it was, first and foremost, a narrative.
This thing turned into something you stagnate in, somewhere in the limbo of the psyche — when the resurrection narrative is precisely the opposite: the way out, upward. That is, the psyche returned to its original function: an instrument of the body.
That’s why I always say religions are just sects — people enchanting themselves.