Why Jesus?

An Internet philosopher once challenged me with a question that cuts to the heart of what we do on The Path: “If you’re going to cherry-pick wisdom from ancient teachers, why not choose someone less problematic? Marcus Aurelius never claimed to be divine. The Buddha didn’t threaten eternal punishment. Confucius didn’t contradict himself across multiple accounts. So why Jesus?”

It’s a fair question, one that deserves an honest answer. And that honesty begins with an admission: yes, we are absolutely cherry-picking. We’re being selective about which teachings we preserve and which we leave behind. Anyone who suggests otherwise isn’t being truthful with you or themselves.

The real question isn’t whether we’re being selective. The question is whether we’re being honest about our selectivity and whether our reasons make sense.

Let me show you exactly what we mean. When scholars examine the teachings attributed to Jesus, they generally fall into several distinct categories. Understanding what The Path embraces, reinterprets, and completely rejects helps clarify why we make the choices we do.

The moral and ethical teachings are what draw us most strongly. Love your enemies. Care for the marginalized. Practice forgiveness instead of revenge. Treat others as you wish to be treated. Show mercy to those who’ve wronged you. These insights about human flourishing remain as relevant today as they were two thousand years ago. Research in psychology and neuroscience confirms what these teachings suggested: that forgiveness heals the forgiver, that compassion creates stronger communities, that seeing enemies as human beings opens possibilities for resolution that hatred closes off.

The parables and symbolic stories offer profound wisdom when interpreted naturalistically. The Good Samaritan becomes a lesson about crossing tribal boundaries to help others, not a supernatural tale but a psychological truth about how prejudice blinds us to opportunities for connection. The Prodigal Son illuminates the human dynamics of forgiveness and reconciliation, showing how families can heal from deep wounds. These stories work because they capture something true about human nature, not because they’re divinely inspired.

We reinterpret the Kingdom of God teachings as instructions for building ethical communities rather than promises of supernatural realms. When Jesus describes the characteristics of this “kingdom,” he’s outlining what happens when people actually live according to these principles. The meek inheriting the earth becomes a recognition that gentleness ultimately proves more powerful than force. The poor in spirit being blessed reflects the wisdom that comes from acknowledging our limitations rather than pretending to have all the answers.

But here’s where we draw clear lines. We completely reject the supernatural and miraculous elements. No virgin birth, no walking on water, no resurrection from the dead. These claims contradict everything we’ve learned through scientific inquiry, and they’re not necessary for the ethical insights to remain valuable.

We reject the theological and Christological claims about Jesus’s supposed divine nature, his unique authority to forgive sins, or his special role in cosmic salvation. These were likely later additions by communities trying to elevate their teacher to divine status, a common pattern in ancient religions.

We reject the eschatological teachings about supernatural judgment, second comings, and eternal rewards and punishments. These fear-based motivations for ethical behavior actually undermine genuine moral development, which should be driven by understanding and compassion rather than terror of cosmic consequences.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. If we’re rejecting so much and these ethical principles existed long before Jesus, why not just reference the Stoics or Buddhist teachers or contemporary research on human wellbeing?

That philosopher who challenged me made exactly this point. “Marcus Aurelius wrote, ‘When you wake up in the morning, tell yourself: The people I deal with today will be meddling, ungrateful, arrogant, dishonest, jealous, and surly. But I have seen the beauty of good, and the ugliness of evil, and have recognized that the wrongdoer has a nature related to my own.’ That’s essentially love your enemies, and he said it without claiming to be the son of God.”

He’s right. The Stoics, Buddhist teachers, and many other traditions explored these concepts with remarkable insight. So why do we keep coming back to Jesus?

Part of the answer is practical. In our cultural context, many people are familiar with these particular formulations of ethical wisdom, even if they’ve rejected Christianity. When we talk about loving enemies or caring for outcasts, people immediately understand the reference. It provides a common starting point for conversations about ethics and community, even among those who’ve walked away from traditional religion.

But there’s something deeper at work. The specific way these teachings are formulated in the Jesus tradition captures something unique about the human condition. Take the teaching about loving enemies. While Stoics advocated for emotional detachment from those who wrong us, and Buddhist traditions emphasize compassion for all beings, the Jesus formulation specifically addresses the very human desire for revenge and retaliation. It meets people where they actually are, feeling angry and hurt, and offers a path forward that doesn’t require them to first achieve philosophical detachment or enlightened consciousness.

Consider how the parable of the Good Samaritan functions differently from abstract philosophical discussions about universal benevolence. It doesn’t just say “be kind to everyone.” It specifically addresses the tribal prejudices that prevent us from seeing certain people as deserving of help. It takes the listener’s existing biases and confronts them directly. That’s psychologically sophisticated in a way that more general teachings about compassion sometimes aren’t.

The Prodigal Son parable offers insights into family dynamics and forgiveness that feel immediately relevant to anyone who’s experienced complicated relationships with parents or children. It doesn’t just advocate for forgiveness in general, it shows how forgiveness actually works in the messy context of family life, where love and resentment often exist simultaneously.

I remember a conversation in an Assembly where David, whose father had abandoned the family when David was twelve, was struggling with whether to attend his father’s funeral. Someone mentioned the Prodigal Son parable, not as a religious teaching but as a story about how relationships can heal even after deep wounds. “The father in that story doesn’t pretend the son never left,” David observed. “But he also doesn’t make the son grovel for forgiveness. There’s dignity in how the reconciliation happens.”

That conversation helped David find a way to honor his complicated feelings about his father without being consumed by bitterness. The specific way the parable navigated those emotional complexities proved more helpful than general principles about forgiveness might have been.

This doesn’t mean these insights are unique to Jesus or that other traditions don’t offer equally valuable wisdom. The Path draws from many sources. But it does suggest that the particular formulations attributed to Jesus have proven remarkably durable and applicable across different cultural contexts.

There’s also something important about preservation. When people reject Christianity entirely, they often lose access to ethical insights that remain valuable. By showing that these teachings can be appreciated without supernatural belief, we’re helping preserve wisdom that might otherwise be discarded along with divine claims.

Think of it like renovating an old building. You might tear down walls that no longer serve their purpose and remove fixtures that are outdated or dangerous. But you preserve the architectural elements that remain beautiful and functional. The foundation might be worth saving even if you completely redesign everything built on top of it.

I won’t pretend this approach doesn’t create complications. When someone points out that the same texts contain harsh teachings about judgment and exclusion, or that Jesus supposedly endorsed Old Testament laws that we find morally problematic, they’re raising legitimate concerns about intellectual consistency.

Our response is straightforward: we apply the same ethical filter to everything. If a teaching promotes human flourishing, reduces unnecessary suffering, and strengthens communities, we consider it valuable regardless of its source. If it promotes cruelty, discrimination, or dehumanization, we reject it regardless of who supposedly said it.

This means we reject Jesus’s alleged statements about bringing a sword rather than peace, about slaves obeying masters, about eternal punishment for finite transgressions. These teachings contradict the core insights about compassion and human dignity, and they’re probably later additions by communities trying to address specific social or theological concerns.

Yes, this is selective. Yes, it’s subjective. But so is every ethical system. Even people who claim to follow Jesus completely are making choices about which teachings to emphasize and how to interpret contradictory passages. At least we’re being honest about our process.

The difference is that we’re not claiming divine authority for our choices. We’re making ethical judgments based on their practical effects on human wellbeing, and we’re open to changing those judgments as our understanding grows.

Some people find this approach intellectually unsatisfying. They want consistency of source, clear authority, or systematic theology. That’s understandable, and other approaches may serve them better. The Path isn’t trying to be all things to all people.

But for those who’ve found themselves drawn to the ethical insights attributed to Jesus while unable to accept supernatural claims about his divine nature, this approach offers a way forward. It allows them to preserve what they find valuable while being honest about what they can actually believe.

Rebecca, a former Methodist minister who now facilitates an Assembly, puts it this way: “I spent twenty years preaching about Jesus’s love and compassion while privately struggling with resurrection stories and divine wrath. The Path lets me focus on what drew me to ministry in the first place, the revolutionary idea that we should treat every person as beloved, without having to defend supernatural claims that undermine my intellectual integrity.”

Marcus, a philosophy professor who left academic life to build intentional community, offers a different perspective: “I can teach Stoic principles all day, and students appreciate the logic. But when I share the story of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet, something shifts in the room. There’s something about the specific image of a teacher serving his students that cuts through intellectual defenses in a way that abstract principles don’t.”

Neither Rebecca nor Marcus needs Jesus to be divine for these teachings to matter. They’ve found in these particular formulations of ancient wisdom something that speaks to contemporary challenges in ways that feel immediately relevant and actionable.

This is why The Path continues to reference Jesus despite the complications it creates. Not because we think he was uniquely divine or historically perfect, but because these particular expressions of ethical wisdom have proven remarkably effective at inspiring people to see more clearly, love more deeply, and act more compassionately.

We could absolutely build ethical communities around Stoic principles or Buddhist insights or contemporary research on human flourishing. And sometimes we do reference all of these sources. But we’ve found that the specific teachings attributed to Jesus, when stripped of supernatural elements and interpreted through the lens of human psychology and community dynamics, offer tools for ethical living that many people find uniquely compelling.

The question isn’t whether Jesus was the only teacher to offer these insights. He wasn’t. The question isn’t whether every word attributed to him was historically accurate or morally sound. It wasn’t. The question is whether these particular formulations of ethical wisdom, preserved through centuries of transmission and interpretation, continue to offer value for people trying to build meaningful lives and supportive communities.

The Path suggests they do. Not as divine commandments that must be followed without question, but as human insights that have been tested across time and cultures and found to enhance rather than diminish our capacity for connection, understanding, and constructive action.

We reference Jesus for the same reason we might preserve a poem that moves us, even if we discover the poet had serious personal flaws. For the same reason we might value a scientific insight even if its discoverer held other beliefs we find questionable. For the same reason we might appreciate a piece of music even if we know nothing about the composer’s life.

The wisdom stands on its own merit. It doesn’t need divine authority to be valuable or perfect consistency to be useful. It needs only to prove itself through application, to demonstrate its worth through the kinds of communities and relationships it helps create.

And that, ultimately, is the test we apply. Not whether Jesus actually said these things or whether he lived up to them perfectly, but whether living according to these principles creates the kinds of lives and communities we want to inhabit. Whether choosing forgiveness over revenge, compassion over cruelty, inclusion over exclusion, actually makes us more fully human.

So far, the evidence suggests it does. And until we find better tools for ethical living, we’ll continue to preserve and apply this particular collection of insights, regardless of their complicated historical origins.

The Path offers no apologies for being selective about wisdom sources. In a world overflowing with competing moral claims, selectivity is both necessary and inevitable. What we offer instead is transparency about our process, honesty about our limitations, and commitment to evaluating all teachings, including these, by their practical effects on human flourishing.

That seems to us a more honest approach than claiming divine authority for human interpretations, a more practical approach than rejecting all wisdom that comes with historical complications, and a more hopeful approach than building ethical systems on fear rather than understanding.

Whether it works for you depends on what you’re looking for. If you need theological consistency or historical certainty, other paths may serve you better. But if you’re looking for practical wisdom that enhances your capacity for ethical living and meaningful community, you might find these particular insights worth preserving, whatever their complicated origins.

In the end, The Path references Jesus for the same reason we reference any teacher whose insights have proven valuable: not because they were perfect, but because they saw something true about the human condition and found ways to express it that continue to inspire growth, healing, and connection across vastly different contexts and communities.

That’s reason enough for us.