Chapter 8. Is the Concept of Redemption Necessary?
- Andrew Mytaf
- Feb 16
- 38 min read
Updated: Mar 19
In the previous chapter, we established that God needed to manifest His compassion and identify with suffering humanity. Having dismissed myths about dying and reborn gods—which often depict private dramas irrelevant to mortal humans or dualistic conflicts—we find that the unique manifestation described at the end of the previous chapter exists only in the Bible. This reaffirms that we have chosen the most suitable "raw material" for constructing a rational concept of God.
Before delving further into interpretations of redemption, it is reasonable to address a fundamental prerequisite for redemption—a concept shared by all Christian traditions: the Bible's explicit assertion that death is the consequence of sin. For the sake of rational analysis, however, let us consider the possibility that this is not an arbitrary decree but rather a natural law—a cause-and-effect relationship devoid of contradiction.
To illustrate, imagine someone repeatedly cutting their own body, deriving an inexplicable sense of pleasure from the act. Inevitably, this "pleasure" will prove fleeting. Even if the process will be regenerative, it is ultimately destructive in nature, perpetuating a circular pattern and halting progression. (If you consider any modern practice that offers immediate gratification but lacks long-term benefits or progression, the parallel becomes clear.)
If God were not composed of a system of logical patterns—clearly distinguishing between order and chaos—then God would cease to exist as a personal, spatial infinity. Without such consistent patterns, the very concepts of space and reality would collapse, as we discussed earlier.
Another point of agreement among most Christian teachings is that Adam and Eve's choice to defy the laws of life established by God—laws that, in essence, reflect His nature—was expressed symbolically. This act was akin to raising an axe or crossing the Rubicon. On the other side of that Rubicon lay what humanity loves most: intrigue.
An inherent effect of free will is curiosity—an intentional striving toward the new and the unknowable. Instead of delving deeply into the infinite God, humans decided to test whether infinity could be grasped in its entirety all at once or whether its attributes could be inherited by eliminating their personalisation.
On one hand, living outside the personified Reality is the ultimate expression of free will. The perfect consciousness of the first humans experimented with this right, testing how far absolute goodness could go to preserve their freedom. If this interpretation surprises you—given the narrative is often reduced to a punishment for eating a piece of fruit—know that this is a typical straw man. Even ancient texts written for a primitive audience describe their desire not as hunger but as a longing to comprehend boundaries. Furthermore, these texts present their exile not as a punishment but as a compromise aimed at preserving their life.
Naturally, God understood that in their attempt to quickly reach the limits of possibility, humanity had no intention of seeking death. Instead, they desired the hypothetical ability to absorb infinite resources and become gods themselves. In essence, they sought autonomy from the personified infinity of information—a means to bypass the process of infinite understanding and fulfil their innate longing for goodness with one decisive act. However, this pursuit implied the literal death of God.
These motivations are evident in the allegorical dialogue between the "curious experimenters" and God. When confronted with the statement, "The consequence is death," the blame began to shift—from Adam to Eve, from Eve to the serpent (who initiated a philosophical discussion about existence while being legally present at the border of the Rubicon), and ultimately to the Creator Himself. After all, it was He who permitted Lucifer to fall by granting free will. Strangely enough, God agreed to die but declared that He would die gradually—within them.
This decision reflects a profound dilemma. Since God is life itself and encompasses all existence, how could He reconcile humanity's desire for autonomy with the essence of life? If we assume the transfer of God's infinite parameters and attributes into creation, logic dictates that this would result in the reconfiguration of individual consciousness to its former state as God without altering anything in God Himself. Individuals would think and perceive as God does, retaining eternal memory as part of the infinite structure they sought to inherit. Their previously dependent and limited perception would be relegated to the periphery of the infinite archival base, ultimately merging with the original unified infinity. The individual personality would simply cease to exist, absorbed by the principles and patterns (and consequently the consciousness) of the former God. Within the realm of abstract analysis, no alternative scenario appears logically conceivable.
Of course, some might argue that despite the impossibility of this option, it is still possible to imagine a scenario where the depersonalisation of infinite information can be achieved since it aligns with our current perceptions. However, this seems plausible only because we—contrary to empirical reality—assume the same concept of infinity, imbued with eternal and absolute laws that sustain existence. In essence, this is still God, merely depersonalised or an illusion designed to preserve functional free will. Yet if reality itself is viewed as an abstract concept, where laws and patterns are indistinguishable from personification, the disappearance of such patterns would result in the disappearance of reality—and with it, any semblance of order, including the will of the person pursuing such an outcome.
In this context, three logical options for God emerge:
1. Eliminate life and reality as phenomena.
2. Eliminate humanity.
3. Create the illusion of autonomy from God—allowing individuals to become "gods" without dissolving into God and losing their original self-perception and consciousness.
Faced with these options, God—like any rational being—would choose the third. Yet He does not merely preserve self-awareness through functional free will; He also grants humanity the opportunity to choose their own reality. If humanity instinctively gravitates toward the patterns of objective rather than subjective reality (within the realm of philosophical analysis, including inquiries into the origin of life and the derivation of principles through the hypostatisation of the ultimate outcome, which each defines as universal goodness—often accompanied by the pursuit of influence and control, and the manipulation of data to justify and reinforce superiority), Then who knows—perhaps, in the end, those who guessed correctly or resisted the pull of the masses may encounter the reality they preferred.
However, this illusory autonomy falls far short of the absolute freedom humans desire. If God were to honour their will entirely and withdraw His presence, life would cease to exist, as it cannot be sustained apart from its source. Conversely, imposing Himself would negate free will altogether.
The Bible introduces grace as the resolution to this paradox—a concept I will outline briefly but not explore in detail here. Grace is described as an undeserved gift of life, persisting even in the face of death. Physically, this is evident in processes like cellular regeneration, which prevent the body's immediate collapse.
In this sense, God did not lie when He declared that Adam and Eve would die upon their rebellion. They did begin to die—at the cellular level—partially severing their dependence on life's patterns. Yet this severance was mitigated by grace, enabling their systems to resist death temporarily, sustained by the energy of Life itself.
Grace, therefore, is an extraordinary act of generosity, especially when contrasted with the absurdity of humanity's desire for autonomy through the depersonalisation of life. It is plausible that Adam and Eve sought to test the limits of possibility. While they were aware of the risks of finding themselves in a scenario (as they ultimately did) where their calculations of absolute autonomy might prove flawed, they may have considered this potential outcome acceptable—after all, it still granted them the opportunity to experience the perception of autonomy.
In addressing whether this implies that creation was intellectually imperfect, I refer back to the previous chapter (The Dilemma of Natural Evil), where I explored the "mystery of lawlessness." I understand that believers may feel a burning discomfort at this point—but it’s not the only mystery I’ve unearthed in the Bible. (Do try to approach the word mystery in these references not as a prohibition against pondering it but rather as an acknowledgement of our inability to fully grasp the depth of the problem. That should help as we move forward.)
The Bible also speaks of the "mystery of godliness," or as it is sometimes called, the "mystery of redemption." This mystery encompasses humanity's salvation: the incarnation, earthly life, crucifixion, and resurrection of the Deity. As described in 1 Timothy 3:16:
"Great is the mystery of godliness: God was manifested in the flesh, justified in the Spirit, seen by angels, preached among the Gentiles, believed on in the world, received up in glory."
In the intricate sequence of mysterious divine processes, sceptics question every stage. Even if one accepts the incarnation, life, and resurrection as rational when viewed through the lens of omnipotence—serving as illustrative representations of humanity's journey to God—the concept of redemption through the shedding of blood resists logical explanation. This is especially true in the context of omnipotence, where alternatives seem limitless. Sceptics repeatedly return to a single, piercing question: why not simply forgive? Forgiveness, after all, is an act of will. Why invoke the principle that "without the shedding of blood there is no remission," necessitating death at all?
Christian apologists typically invoke two main lines of argument to address this enigma of divine justice.
1. The Juridical Argument: Justice, they claim, is an unyielding pillar of divine perfection—one that cannot be bypassed or compromised. Simultaneously, love and the capacity to forgive are presented as equally intrinsic to divine nature. This creates an apparent dichotomy: how can a perfect being reconcile just judgment of sin with merciful treatment of the sinner? The resolution is found, apologists argue, in the concept of substitutionary atonement, where an innocent sacrifice satisfies justice while expressing mercy.
However, not only sceptics but also some denominations question the notion of punishing the innocent in place of the guilty. Perhaps for similar reasons, they have interpreted hints in the Bible as references to purgatory—a concept resembling the modern approach to rehabilitating criminals, where individuals must serve a term of restricted life to reconsider their attitudes toward the law. In this case, however, these terms are accompanied by varying degrees of physical suffering and pain.
Of course, such methods of correcting lawbreakers have occurred to mortal minds as well, but we tend to call those who implement them, dictators and tyrants. Moreover, why, then, the death of the innocent? If it is meant as a separate payment for replacing capital punishment with hard labour followed by eventual release, then the very establishment of capital punishment itself appears excessive and unjust.
After all, it would have been possible to forgo the execution of the innocent entirely and simply revoke the decree of universal capital punishment. A justice system resembling purgatory—though still disproportionate and excessive—would have been more humane and rational than perpetuating the same structure but with the unnecessary sacrifice of the righteous.
The second block of arguments is sacramental: it asserts that the shedding of blood supernaturally transforms individuals and eradicates sins that have been repented. On a transcendental level, something occurs—something beyond human comprehension. However, what lies beyond comprehension does not satisfy the sceptic's questions and cannot be fully rationalised.
Of course, in the concept we are deriving, we do not aim to diminish the unfathomable nature of the infinite God; to do so would render Him finite, constrained by the limits of human understanding. Yet, we endeavour to push beyond the boundaries that religious dogma often places on rational inquiry.
Let us begin with a Christian postulate often invoked by apologists: "The lawbreaker must face death for breaking the law, or the lawgiver must bear it himself." By the responsibility of the lawgiver, Christians—unlike atheists—do not mean "placing blame on the one who established unfulfillable laws," Rather, they assert that only God can satisfy the principle of justice, as He is the lawgiver, and sin is understood as a violation of His principles, which reflect His holiness and character.
But this also implies that He holds the authority to determine what punishment is just, whether substitution is permissible, or even whether cancellation is an option. A reasonable preference might be the latter, provided we could be certain that such a position would leave no room for doubt regarding the fairness of God.
It is widely held that God, in His omniscience, considers precisely this. Christians argue that this is why He chooses such an extraordinary resolution instead of simple forgiveness—His aim is to preserve the just nature of His essence.
This reasoning leads to the central Christian claim of substitutionary atonement: the death of the lawgiver in place of the lawbreaker. However, even if we accept this premise, it still falls short of aligning fully with what it claims to represent. According to Christian doctrine, the lawgiver—God—does not die entirely. After all, Christianity asserts the existence of one God in three hypostases: three persons sharing one essence, collectively called God.
Consequently, if the lawgiver is God, He must embody this role in His fullness and unity. The law itself reflects God's internal principles—His character. Thus, for the claim of the lawgiver's death to be coherent, it would require the entirety of the lawgiver to experience death. Yet Christian doctrine does not suggest this. The question is not whether the death of one hypostasis could suffice—perhaps even an infinitely small fraction of the whole might theoretically be enough. Rather, the issue lies in whether this aligns with the central Christian thesis. Contrary to the claim, it appears the lawgiver did not die—or at least, not entirely.
Even if God did not die completely, we cannot assert that He remained entirely untouched by death. Perhaps the death of Christ signifies not the annihilation of God's being but what might be described as a disruption of His integrity. In this hypothesis, Christ's death represents a kind of divine fracture—a moment when God's wholeness was disrupted. A fractured, defective God may no longer be entirely God as He ceases to embody the perfection by which He is defined. Who knows? Perhaps, in this sense, we might speak of the death of God—not as the end of His existence but as the disruption of His defining essence.
The question is whether God can cease to exist at all. On the one hand, if He cannot, then He is a limited God—conditioned and lacking control over His own existence. In such a case, He would lack the very quality for which He endures human suffering: namely, the volitional decision to live rather than existing as if programmatically bound. On the other hand, if God can cease to "be," He would be unable to return Himself to existence, for non-existence precludes action. Yet, if He can restore Himself to being, then He has not truly ceased to "be," which once again points to His inability to "not be."
Christ's claim that He has the power to take His life back suggests that the Divine nature remained operative even in death—or, at the very least, retained its potential to function. "I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it again" (John 10:17–18.).
If this statement refers to a "right," then one who no longer exists cannot possess rights to either accept or refuse. Naturally, no one would prefer to interpret it as referring to privilege rather than power. This leaves us with no choice but to conclude that it is the death of the image, not of God Himself within the mission. For proponents of the literal death of one of God's hypostases, the remaining argument is that Christ was speaking on behalf of the Triune God, operating outside the limitations of the role of one hypostasis—a notion that raises further questions about the consistency of illustrating the path of humanity.
Another passage appears to describe a return to the Father after the death of the "image" associated with "bodily nature":
"And when Jesus had cried with a loud voice, he said, Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit: and having said thus, he gave up the ghost" (Luke 23:46.).
This, however, complicates both interpretations, as Christ, after His resurrection, explicitly tells Mary outside the tomb that He has not yet ascended to the Father (John 20:17.). Still, both perspectives may converge to interpret this plea as an appeal for the Father to accept the sacrifice of a dying spirit or consciousness. Yet no matter how elaborately this episode is analysed, all sides agree that God illustrates—even at this moment—the stages every human being is destined to traverse.
Patience, dear reader; we are almost done weighing the concepts of sacrifice and are nearing a more objective perspective on atonement—a perspective that rationalises its meaning and pushes the boundaries of a paradigm where God must somehow both die and remain alive simultaneously. In any case, the cited texts clearly speak to something beyond the simplistic dichotomy of lawbreaker and lawgiver.
Another principle, explicitly articulated in Scripture, raises further questions: "Without shedding of blood is no remission" (Hebrews 9:22.).
It is evident that it is not literally God's blood that redeems. If God Himself has blood, then His life must depend on it, making Him subject to physical conditions—a notion fundamentally at odds with divine transcendence. Yet the Bible asserts that God has neither flesh nor blood. Instead, the blood belongs to the "image" of humanity into which God incarnated. Here, we must acknowledge that God's ability to incarnate must necessarily be an essential aspect of omnipotence. Far from diminishing God, this capacity enhances His majesty by demonstrating personal involvement—a priority for any conceptual framework of an ideal God.
Thus, the shed blood is the blood of the image. This is not to suggest that the shedding of blood was merely symbolic. However, we must recognise that this blood was shed within the confines of the incarnate image. From this follows: if the blood of the image suffices for redemption, then surely the death of the image suffices as substitution.
Given that Christ was both fully God and fully man, this raises a further question: was it truly necessary for God Himself to die within this image?
Such a conclusion may indeed diminish the perceived scale of divine sacrifice, but it elegantly resolves the issue of the "dead but not dead" God. Moreover, God's omniscience—that He would resurrect part of Himself (namely, one hypostasis)—removes the anguish of uncertainty from this sacrifice. This awareness, shared by Christ in His diminished hypostasis (as is evident from His assurances to His disciples and critics alike), makes His death a short-term event whose dramatic weight is comparable to Juliet's staged death in Romeo and Juliet. Juliet's apparent demise left an indelible effect on Romeo, but only because he was unaware that she would soon "resurrect."
Of course, a sacrifice is a sacrifice, no matter how brief or calculated. Yet our task is to derive the most compelling paradigm of God's identification with humanity and His redemptive act—one that human consciousness can fully grasp while maximising its emotional and intellectual impact.
Moreover, neither the concept of sacrificial death nor its theological alternatives sufficiently addresses the fundamental question: why crucifixion instead of straightforward forgiveness? After all, we as humans are capable of forgiving wrongdoers without demanding that they wring the neck of a parrot, thank us profusely for our mercy, and ceremonially burn the evidence of their crime. Surely, we do not need to conclude the process by wringing our own necks in front of them to prove that justice has been served.
Once again, to construct a rational mechanism for forgiving the guilty—one that avoids both indulgence and injustice—we need only reframe the traditional Christian interpretation. This entails understanding forgiveness not as a mystical absolution or a legalistic demand but as a transformative process rooted in the rational reshaping of mindsets and reinforced through illustrative means.
First, it is essential to acknowledge that human consciousness—our way of thinking and behaviour—is largely shaped by external information. This information has the power to form, reform, and evolve internal thought processes. History has demonstrated that the dissemination of knowledge can fundamentally alter societal norms, behaviours, and worldviews. The spread of education, for example, has drastically influenced collective patterns of thinking. Pedagogical practice further confirms that the most effective method of conveying information is practical, visual, and illustrative—an approach that aligns with the inherent nature of the human brain.
This characteristic of human consciousness becomes particularly significant if God is immaterial and communicates with creation solely through information conveyed in images. In this view, all of God's creative acts could be understood as expressions of His infinite complexity, offering glimpses into the vast and multifaceted information contained within Him. Such a God's revelations would logically manifest as infinitely intricate, multidimensional, and layered images—far surpassing the complexity of the micro and macro worlds we currently perceive.
Yet, it is entirely possible that our limited cognitive capacity prevents us from grasping the full depth of these divine images. What we perceive may represent only the introduction—a prologue to the infinite revelation of God in images.
In this framework, our entire reality becomes an image—a vast tapestry of allegories and references. Accordingly, even God's interactions with humanity through the images of Christ, the Holy Spirit, and the Father must be understood as allegorical, designed to reveal to creation, made in God, who He truly is.
The first striking feature of this allegory is the differentiation into three persons, roles, or even properties of one God. These hypotheses will be explored in the context of logic in a separate chapter. However, what remains consistent across all interpretations is that each role reflects fundamental attributes of God, where:
• Christ exemplifies God's love, condescension, and the desire to elevate humanity to His likeness. This is demonstrated through His willingness to give Himself completely—or rather, to give endlessly throughout eternity.
• The Holy Spirit, though understood differently across denominations, consistently represents the omnipresence of God. He embodies immateriality, boundlessness, omniscience, incomprehensibility, and the desire to shape those who are willing to be transformed.
• The Father personifies perfection, holiness, and intolerance for His antithesis—death—and the painful process leading to it, which the Bible designates as sin (hamartia, Greek for "to miss the mark"). Most significantly, the Father symbolises unity, holding the three hypostases as inseparable facets of one indivisible God, precluding any notion of multiple deities or distinct entities.
In summary, it can be concluded that any manifestation of God serves the purpose of conveying information with a specific intent. Within the context of our discussion, this intent relates to the transformation of human consciousness—from a state of rebellion to one of alignment, as expressed through theological imagery.
Now, closer to the topic of redemption, which, like all of physical reality, is inevitably an image in action, conveying information or expressing what God experiences as a whole. What might God—who identifies Himself as "I am," the very essence of being—experience when life coexists with death within Him? Presumably, God experiences it fully. Not His literal non-existence, for there is no suffering in non-being, just as death itself is not suffering for humans. Instead, God experiences the slow corrosion of creation, the splitting of structures by entropy. This suffering is not abstract but acutely felt, both by humanity and by God, who intimately bears the pain of all that unfolds within Him.
If God is infinite, omnipresent, and the foundation of all existence, then nothing can exist apart from Him. Reality, with all its contradictions—life and death, order and chaos—is not external to God but exists within Him. To separate God from reality is to diminish His infinity, for a God bound by such limits is neither omnipresent nor all-encompassing. Therefore, the suffering, decay, and death of creation are not distant phenomena for God but processes He endures directly because all creation is both in Him and sustained by Him.
This reality reveals a profound paradox: within the infinite God, who is the essence of life, death occurs—not as His own annihilation but as a rupture within the creation He holds. God suffers as the absolute perfection, goodness, and life confronting their antithesis. This suffering is not theoretical but deeply real, for God feels everything His creation feels, down to the smallest ripple of entropy. He is pierced, as if the cosmos were punctured by black holes, symbolically devouring what He brought into being. On multiple levels, God "dies":
• As absolute perfection: He dies when allowing human will and autonomy to exist, at the moment creation chose an alternative—an eternal, dormant possibility within omniscience, presented as conditional background information necessary for the activation of free will, reflecting God-like self-awareness. This choice, and the subsequent activation of antagonistic information, fractured the immutable reality within God, unravelling creation through suffering and death.
• For His principles: He dies through the necessity of direct intervention, accelerating entropy and destruction in situations that demand mitigating greater harm. In doing so, He sacrifices the principles of personal non-involvement with evil and unbroken perfection for the sake of the greater good.
• As a creator: He dies because not all of His creation recognises Him, bearing the weight of creation's judgment. Some blame Him for this suffering, while others attribute it to His great masterpiece. God may have underscored this humiliation as part of His suffering at the moment of atonement.
• As the Inviolable Perception: He dies as the omniscient and all-feeling being, one who had never encountered suffering and evil in their actualised, manifested form—a perception that, by logical necessity, must differ from His eternal knowledge of these phenomena as mere potential within omniscient information. In the moment of actualisation, He bore the totality of suffering from all sentient beings capable of pain, fully embodying the depth of human experience—every moment of anguish, every choice that led to it, and every distortion of creation's order.
These distortions manifest through humanity's thoughts and actions, ranging from fleeting impulses to darker, calculated desires: indulging in excess, harbouring envy for a neighbour, justifying deceit for personal gain, nurturing revenge for an offence, seeking domination, supporting wars out of national pride, or endorsing violence under the guise of greatness. Each act contributes to the gradual disintegration of life's intended harmony, undermining the fundamental laws of happiness and existence.
In this way, God's sacrifice is not confined to a singular historical event. It is an ongoing reality—a continual act of self-giving, where God bears the weight of creation's corruption, entropy, and suffering. It is not about punishment or fear of losing the status of absolute perfection due to deviation from eternal parameters, but a cosmic revelation of divine love and redemption. This reveals a God so intimately bound to creation that He feels its every fracture.
To insist on remaining purely undistorted and resistant to any internal change (that is, within His own perception), God paradoxically risks distorting the very concept of perfection. Such a God would be incapable of creating an autonomous, self-aware consciousness that could make independent choices beyond His control. Even if He attempted it, He would immediately destroy what He had created, unable to endure the pain of distortion and death within Himself. This inability to bear imperfection would prevent Him from allowing the necessary time for the genuine, independent decision to emerge—a decision to think like God, consciously desiring perfection. A God incapable of imperfection—is imperfect.
The concept of the "death of God" is the only framework through which philosophical thought can conceive of a truly perfect God within the context of existing reality. A dying God—one who endures imperfection, refuses to eradicate suffering outright, and bears all things with unfathomable patience—reveals the most profound facet of perfection: an unrelenting desire to multiply those who experience goodness, combined with a love so profound that it transcends and defies itself.
In a sense, by replicating His nature of image and likeness within Himself, God endures the pain inherent in the natural deviations of autonomy. Yet, He allows all created beings to experience the essence of God—to be independent, self-aware entities. For those who choose to complete this process of inheriting the qualities of God, there is also the opportunity to learn to desire the logical order of absolute happiness, preventing their disintegration into antinomic chaos and non-being.
This love, expressed in God's gift, reflects His absolute nature. He remains the source of all life, the foundation of being, yet willingly suffers alongside creation. He transforms its brokenness not through force but through a self-giving that transcends all human understanding.
At first glance, it might seem that a more "reasonable" course of action would have been to eliminate imperfection at the outset, sparing Himself and future generations of creation the agonies of suffering. Alternatively, He could have chosen not to create self-aware beings at all, settling instead for pre-programmed life forms—living "scripts" in bio-shells, declaring themselves happy yet feeling neither truth nor falsehood, neither doubt nor joy in this claim. For happiness requires awareness of the process; awareness entails analysis, and analysis arises from comparison.
However, the creation of only a variety of animals driven by programmed instincts would suggest that such a God is limited—incapable of producing the most perfect creation, one that mirrors Himself as closely as possible. This likeness, of course, would inevitably be constrained by the dependence of finite being within the infinite. Yet an ideal God, as we noted earlier, would not merely seek to create the greatest possible likeness but would also desire to give Himself without reserve—an act that inherently entails giving Himself infinitely.
In response to the argument that "if God cannot create free will and personality without free will and personal qualities, then He is not an omnipotent God," I would point out that omnipotence is tempered by reason, without which God would cease to exist. Adhering to the laws of His own character is not a limitation but a deliberate choice—God's decision to exist meaningfully and to exercise omnipotence within the framework of rational perfection.
However, if the allowance of suffering as an episodic imperfection for the sake of love for creation makes God perfect, it turns out that on the scales of attributes of perfection, there is not only the painful destruction of creation but also the suffering of God Himself. It seems that, within such a concept, God could not transcend the attributes of perfection—specifically, suffering for the sake of His perfection—which appears somewhat inappropriate and even contradictory.
However, we must consider that suffering is finite, while goodness is infinite. Perfection did not require the fall of creation, but after the fall, perfection necessitates patience with fallen creation.
From common human experience, we see parallels to this principle. People routinely accept temporary pain for the sake of long-term good, from gruelling workouts at the gym to the excruciating pains of childbirth. Moreover, society often compels individuals to endure short-term discomfort to secure their long-term well-being, even against their immediate desires. For instance, children are forced to attend school, with noncompliance penalised by fines or even the loss of parental rights. Similarly, adherence to social norms is demanded, often to the benefit of the individual and society alike.
However, this analogy falters when we consider that not everyone will receive eternal bliss as a reward for enduring life's suffering. This raises the troubling question: is it justifiable for God to create those who are destined to face eternal separation or destruction? And yet, according to various surveys, the vast majority of people—when asked—express a preference for existence over non-existence. Most would choose to live their lives again, despite the pain and suffering they have endured. This suggests that the very act of self-awareness—the ability to reflect on one's existence—is itself a profound and irreplaceable experience.
Admittedly, this widespread preference for life could be attributed to phenomena such as the Pollyanna effect—a psychological tendency to focus on positive aspects or reframe negative experiences optimistically. It could also stem from social pressures to present one's life in a favourable light, even if, privately, one feels otherwise. However, the prevalence of suicide—the ultimate rejection of life—is relatively low compared to the billions who continue living. Even when it does occur, it often arises not from a rejection of existence itself but from an overwhelming loss of perceived meaning or unbearable pain that eclipses life's value at that moment.
Let us consider the possibility that God, in His infinite wisdom, perceives that all individuals will experience an overarching benefit from life—a cumulative good that, in their totality, far outweigh the perception of suffering. These benefits include the profound joys of self-awareness, moments of love, delight, awe, and wonder. In essence, humanity, however fleetingly or distantly, experiences a state akin to God's own, even if briefly. Their complaints, paradoxically, arise from an unconscious yearning for undistorted perfection—a deep-seated intuition they ironically reject, instead reshaping their desires around the destructive norms they have come to accept.
Now let us assume further that God foresees specific scenarios for those least able to navigate the moral complexities of life: children under the age of 12–15 and individuals with significant mental impairments. God ensures that they, too, taste the goodness of self-awareness, and their ultimate choices about eternity may come later—perhaps during the millennial kingdom and the final uprising described in the Bible. If this is the case, then the collective balance of good experienced by all creation exceeds, both individually and collectively, the suffering endured. This would justify the creation of free beings despite the inherent risks and consequences that accompany free will.
Only now, having acknowledged that God's sufferings are immeasurably greater than the collective agonies of all humanity and that the allowance of suffering does not diminish the inherent goodness of life and the gift of self-awareness granted to creation, can we approach the question of how God seeks to rescue as many souls as possible from the seductive abyss of entropy and the reckless pursuit of absolute autonomy—an ambition so extreme it would make even the Marquis de Sade blush.
We might hypothesise that the Almighty has one singular yet profound task: to draw as many people as possible toward the laws of life, which are, in essence, toward Himself. This task cannot involve coercion, for compulsion would destroy the fragile good experienced by free beings, replacing it with mental and spiritual torment. Such force would amplify suffering to its maximum, rendering existence a living hell. Instead, God's aim must be to persuade—to encourage individuals to voluntarily accept the eternal good He offers.
To achieve this transformation, human consciousness must be changed—but not through supernatural intervention, as this would destroy individuality. Instead, the change must occur through enlightenment: by revealing God's boundless love for creation and the natural consequences of humanity's pursuit of antinomy or autonomy from the laws of life. These violations, which inevitably result in pain and death, are not orchestrated by God as punishment but are intrinsic outcomes of the only logical reality in which life can exist—a pattern argued earlier.
This brings us to the crucifixion, a profound image of God's suffering. While the agony of crucifixion is harrowing, it cannot fully convey the depth of what God experiences within Himself. History records instances of even more prolonged and brutal suffering: one gladiator from Spartacus's rebellion reportedly survived three days on the cross, and medieval sources describe tortures lasting up to 79 hours. In modern times, ritual crucifixions commemorating Christ's death occur annually in the Philippines. Moreover, death itself is far from unique to Christ—countless warriors throughout history have faced it willingly for far lesser ideals.
God's suffering on the cross in this context is not symbolic, yet it is merely a drop in the vast ocean of His immeasurable suffering. Yet even this single drop—the image of the Creator choosing to die for humanity—has the power to awaken the consciousness of those who dare to confront its implications as a probable reality. People are not required to grasp the full enormity of God's sacrifice or scale it to the incomprehensible death of consciousness within one of infinity's hypostases. And yet, by the principle of maximum effectiveness, we are compelled to accept a more dramatic version of the redemptive sacrifice: a God mutilated not only by distortions within His universe but also by undertaking the ultimate sacrifice, meant to move rational beings with the scene of the dissection of His infinite being into parts. This act demonstrates the pain He is willing to endure out of love for them and reveals the terrifying consequences of rejecting the laws of life.
I certainly don't wish for any readers to experience a heart attack like the one reportedly suffered during a screening of Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ. This incident highlights how deeply people are affected by depictions of suffering. The realisation that such suffering was endured on your behalf can provoke an unhealthy sense of guilt. Yet, for those with psychological stability, it can lead to something far more constructive: a transformation of consciousness and a profound shift in thinking.
My earlier sarcasm about unhealthy guilt serves a purpose, as the biblical concept recognises that achieving perfection is beyond human ability. Humanity cannot simply stop "crucifying God" through sin. The biblical God, as presented in scripture, does not demand the impossible. Instead, He asks for faith—a simple act of acceptance. This is not blind belief but rational agreement with a set of principles: an alignment with what God defines as good and bad, right and wrong, or, if you prefer, good and evil. These are not arbitrary moral decrees but the fundamental laws of life that reflect God's very character.
Why is such faith sufficient to change one's consciousness and secure entry into the infinite spectacle of eternal knowledge? Perhaps it is because thought is primary, and action is always secondary. Even when action cannot manifest due to lack of opportunity or strength—such as in the case of the thief on the cross—the inner desire or agreement that something is true, right, and good holds immense value. This inner alignment becomes the foundation for eternity, turning it into a source of joy and fulfilment, where unrealised potential finds its ultimate expression.
Conversely, the absence of such agreement results in the most harrowing form of torment: mental anguish. It is not external punishment but the eternal dissonance of rejecting the laws of life—a state incompatible with joy or peace. A loving God, in the rational framework we have considered, would not impose this fate arbitrarily.
Previously, I addressed the apparent tension between the concept of sacrifice, which illustrates God's immense suffering and seems to suggest imperfection, and the Bible's assertion that God is the "Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows" (James 1:17.). This tension can be resolved by considering the nature of God's compromises—a willingness to tolerate temporary distortions in creation while remaining unchanged in His essence.
God, as depicted in scripture, has made significant concessions to His nature and character, allowing evil to exist not as an endorsement but as a means to prevent even greater harm. In certain contexts, it becomes the only available tool to uphold the greater good. This necessity compelled God to establish clear rules and a moral hierarchy to minimise the worst outcomes. Such principles extend to moral dilemmas akin to the "trolley problem," where lesser harm is permitted to prevent greater suffering—or even the extinction of humanity.
These compromises manifest in various aspects of human existence, including allowances for polygamy, conquest, killing, animal consumption, and slavery (a topic explored in greater depth in a subsequent chapter). Yet, despite these concessions, God's fundamental nature remains unchanged. His thoughts, desires, and attitudes toward distortion and evil have not shifted. This constancy forms the basis of the biblical assertion that "in God there is no shadow of change." It underscores that while God may permit evil, He neither creates, initiates, nor desires it.
I acknowledge that this distinction may seem like linguistic gymnastics, but the metaphorical language and cultural context of ancient Israel must be taken into account when interpreting such passages. What might appear as inconsistency in God's actions is, in fact, an accommodation for human fallibility without altering His eternal character.
By a mutilated and dying God to Himself, we must understand His profound feelings and experiences. Through the image of resurrection, God conveys a return to the original, undistorted state of absolute harmony—where sin is both condemned and eradicated in the transformed consciousness of all creation. This transformation ultimately ensures the final victory over the processes of death.
Christ's mission on the cross can thus be understood as the redemption of humanity through the transformation of its consciousness. The depth of this mission lies in the extraordinary love it demonstrates—a love so selfless that it willingly endures suffering for the sake of creation. This transformative love is vividly illustrated in the sacrifice of the cross, where God's complete involvement as Creator is most powerfully reflected, making this interpretation the most compelling for our concept.
The image of sacrificial love holds extraordinary power to transform human behaviour and motives, as profound emotional experiences often serve as catalysts for meaningful change. This love, deeply penetrating human consciousness through an awareness of higher values, activates natural psychological processes that reshape perceptions of reality and attitudes toward it.
In this context, the means of redemption are offered, but the choice rests entirely with humanity. Each individual must decide whether to align themselves with this intuitive morality—whether they feel a personal response to the image of Christ's character and life, the allegorical framework of the laws of life, or whether they reject these as alien, immoral, or unacceptable. Crucially, this invitation to transformation through love cannot be coerced; it must remain a free and voluntary decision.
This approach represents perhaps the most effective pedagogical strategy for altering human consciousness and attitudes. Love that leads to internal transformation is redemption itself. Yet, while this explanation offers insight into the process, it does not entirely demystify the concept of redemption. The mystery endures, for it involves an incomprehensible element: a boundless infinity, self-limited and diminished, undertaking this act by embodying sacrificial love and self-denial to its utmost limit.
Forgiveness, as understood at the human level, involves a change in attitude toward the guilty party. However, this concept holds no meaning when applied to God, who is perfect love and has never harboured negative feelings toward His creation. Biblical passages that appear to suggest otherwise—depicting divine anger or the rejection of sinners—should be understood as psychological tools or anthropomorphic language. Such expressions accommodate the natural limitations of human abstraction, particularly when interpreting personal and moral consequences.
For example, when explaining the dangers of a crocodile to an aboriginal tribe, one might describe the creature as "bad"rather than addressing the complexity of its behaviour and instincts. In a similar way, biblical language simplifies divine concepts, presenting them in terms accessible to human perception and experience.
Barbaric Animal Sacrifice
The phrase "barbaric animal sacrifice" may seem overly harsh to some, particularly when viewed in the context of ancient pastoral societies. In those times, the killing of animals for food was a routine aspect of daily life, and sacrificial rituals were an extension of this practicality. However, these rituals often stemmed from the ignorance of the masses. They functioned less as genuine acts of devotion and more as a transactional system—a kind of tax for the gods. While ostensibly benefiting the tribes, the sacrifices frequently served the interests of the creative elites who devised them, ensuring their privileged access to the sacrificial offerings and their proximity to the meat cauldrons.
Abrahamic religions practiced similar sacrificial rites but assigned them distinct symbolic meanings. In Christianity, for instance, animal sacrifices were interpreted as precursors to Christ's atoning sacrifice—a temporary substitute or "advance payment" foreshadowing the ultimate price to be paid. Forgiveness was granted to the sinner, but only if they understood the symbolic significance of the ritual. At its core, the message was clear: sin leads to death, a principle established as early as Eden. The sacrifice acted as a proxy, with the life of another being taken in place of the sinner. While not all Christian denominations attribute the role of the sacrificial substitute directly to God, the underlying symbolism of sin's consequences remains central.
In many cases, the sacrificial act was performed by the sinners themselves, forcing them to confront the reality of taking a life. This act served as a visceral reminder of the suffering caused by sin and left a lasting impression on the individual's consciousness.
That said, one might question whether the destruction of life through animal sacrifice was truly the most impactful method of illustrating the gravity of sin. In an era where the killing of animals—and even people—was disturbingly common, the emotional weight of such acts may have been dulled by familiarity. This desensitisation highlights why more abstract or less visceral symbols, such as the burning of aromatic herbs or the crushing of tomatoes underfoot, would likely fail to evoke the same emotional resonance.
One might argue that the most emotionally compelling spectacle would be a direct observation of God's suffering. However, to achieve this, God's inconceivable emotions would need to be visualised through some form of imagery. Even if presented as a projection visible to all, this would impose continuous psychological pressure on humanity. God's suffering would appear as concentrated manifestations of all human suffering, transforming such a revelation into a relentless hologram of horrors. This would reduce life to perpetual torment, a reality entirely at odds with what an ideal God would desire for humanity.
If we were to narrow the depiction of God's suffering to a limited set of images—focused specifically on the direct consequences of an individual's violation of the natural order—it might reduce the emotional weight. However, even this approach would infringe on individual autonomy, denying people the ability to live without the oppressive awareness of divine intervention. Such a scenario would strip them of their sense of independence, making it impossible to perceive themselves as the architects of their own destiny.
It is reasonable to consider a form of awareness that respects personal boundaries—manifesting not as supernatural projections but as internal feelings. These might emerge through negative emotions or concerns triggered by violations of established life norms. This approach avoids overt coercion, instead pointing to an internal moral compass whose origins remain open to interpretation. For many, this inner sense of alignment—or dissonance—with God's suffering might suffice to determine whether it is close to them or not.
To increase the probability of moral alignment and create the necessary balance for an "alternative" choice, God provided humanity with more tangible images—narratives that symbolically depicted the suffering of the Laws of Life. These references, however, were deliberately crafted as indirect, leaving enough ambiguity to preserve human freedom. By avoiding an overwhelming revelation of reality—something that might prove mentally unbearable for some—this approach ensures that individuals are not coerced into belief but are instead free to reason and self-reflect. Each person must navigate this spectrum of moral worldviews, determining for themselves what they consider good and right.
The closer a person aligns with the global, objective good—through conscious desire—the more likely they are to avoid suffering in eternity.
However, there was a time when God entrusted a particular group of individuals—perhaps the only ones willing to serve as conduits for preserving this informational balance. Given the high stakes of their mission, divine intervention during this period took on more decisive and unequivocal forms. Explicit physical manifestations, such as miracles and tangible representations of suffering, were permitted to prevent humanity's desire to follow God from fading into obscurity. In the case of Abraham, the progenitor of this tribe, even more radical methods were employed to convey the same truths.
Naturally, the use of the most vivid images of human sacrifice to convey the same information was omitted, as such an approach would contradict God's intention to transform human consciousness without annihilating their personalities. The exception was a singular, vivid image of God's suffering, embodied in the crucifixion—a moment so impactful that it transformed the consciousness of those who witnessed it directly, as well as countless generations that followed. This event altered the trajectory of human history, giving rise to the values and moral frameworks that underpin our civilisation—one founded on the inherent worth of human life, a principle for which God not only died but continues to die.
The Enclosed Principle of the Infinite Observer.
In developing a concept of a perfect Deity that remains rational even in the presence of natural evil, we arrive at the following principles:
1. The Allowance of Evil: Evil is a necessary condition for preserving the individuality and self-awareness of sentient beings. This is achieved by ensuring the autonomy of thought and creating an environment in which subjective desires can be realised.
2. Maximum Compassion: The Deity exhibits boundless compassion, which mentally alleviates the suffering of individuals. This process is intricately tied to a multi-level illustrative system that shapes human consciousness through emotional responses and moral growth.
While these principles form the foundation of our understanding, intellectual honesty demands that we also explore all logically possible hypotheses concerning God's maximum sacrifice. Such an approach serves three purposes:
• To test the boundaries of this conceptual framework.
• To identify potential contradictions or overlooked dimensions.
• To deepen understanding of the relationship between divine perfection and the existence of evil.
One such ultimate sacrifice of God could, quite fittingly, be proposed by antinatalists (surely, if they're serious about absolute success, their efforts should be directed at convincing God Himself). However, earlier in our study, we dismissed this most radical idea. First and foremost, we acknowledged that the value of self-awareness and existence far outweighs the negative aspects of sporadic suffering.
The same holds true for humanity, where the subjective perception of suffering can vary significantly depending on an individual's worldview. Moreover, faith, even if God is merely a hypothesis, offers practical benefits by reducing suffering. Most importantly, there remains the prospect of eternal bliss for those who manage to abandon self-destructive personal and collective ideas. And who knows? Antinatalists might be in for a shock, with grateful tears in their eyes, when they discover just how many latent supporters they've had all along.
There is another possible interpretation of the necessarily maximum sacrifice, rooted in the principle of the infinite observer:
It is generally understood that if, within the space-time continuum, we substitute the abstract "observer"—not as a simple abstract recorder, but as a consciousness capable of existing outside of time—this consciousness, by definition, becomes the very essence of non-spatial infinity. As a result, every emerging event not only does not escape its notice but also literally occurs within this infinity, existing in a static, timeless state relative to it.
To visualise this, imagine parallel screens, each displaying a single frame of a three-dimensional film. Every change in the positions of material particles is eternally present before the gaze of this timeless observer. While, within space and time, events have beginnings and ends, to infinity, they are eternal—static yet integral components of infinity itself.
These formulations present critical issues. If every event becomes eternal and unchangeable within this infinity, the observer and the events must either merge or exist in perpetual interaction. This dynamic would effectively elevate the events themselves to the status of a deity—an infinite, static source of all suffering and the suffering itself. Such a conception of a deity, inherently bound to imperfection, negates the very concept of divine perfection. The imperfection of this hypothetical deity disqualifies it from the framework of an ideal God.
Yet, this discrepancy does not invalidate the logical structure of the theory under consideration.
The central question remains: do the initial assumptions of the infinite observer principle contain inherent flaws? If left unchallenged, these assumptions could lead to a paradoxical conclusion: that if God exists, He must necessarily be limited. Such a conclusion would undermine the very definition of God—placing metaphorical nails in the coffin of the ideal model of God we are striving to construct.
Such a premise overlooks a fundamental distinction: information, when considered within the framework of past and future, cannot possess the same material quality as matter in the present moment. Just as the illusion of a burning star is merely the remnant photon stream from an extinguished sun, past and future events exist as inactive, non-material constructs. Even in the most abstract models, a timeless observer records events as information, where past and future are non-actualised states. These events belong to an infinite set of possibilities, existing on the same conceptual plane as countless alternate scenarios of past and future events—each with atoms shifted in arbitrary sequences. Within this framework, these multiple informational possibilities remain finite when compared to the concept of true infinity.
Even if these datasets vastly exceed Graham's number (which, if written in decimal form using font size 5, would occupy all the space in the observable Universe), mathematicians must resort to special notations, such as 3↑↑↑↑3, to describe such colossal magnitudes. Yet, even these staggering quantities pale in comparison to true infinity (∞). In the realm of true infinity, such immense datasets are but an imperceptible speck in an immeasurable ocean of information. Consequently, past and future events within infinity are localised and static—a mere collection of non-actualised informational states encompassing every conceivable and inconceivable scenario.
A helpful analogy can be drawn from human memory. Our memories are physical, energetic representations stored on tangible media, such as neural pathways in the brain. They do not replay simultaneously but are activated selectively in response to interactions with reality, where consciousness merely recombines data from reality in a semi-autonomous mode. Similarly, in the context of infinite information, it is the will of the observer that determines which data is activated. Here, activation refers not simply to awareness but to the manifestation of selected information within the space-time continuum.
As previously discussed, we are dealing with abstract concepts, and our inquiry operates within the realm of logical reasoning rather than empirical evidence. This focus allows us to examine the internal consistency and implications of the ideas under consideration without being bound by physical proof.
A critical distinction emerges from this approach: God does not suffer mental anguish from knowing all information or every possible combination of evil. Rather, His suffering arises only when individuals directly experience suffering. Information about the past and future, as part of the overarching backdrop of data, does not "suffer" itself.
The conclusion follows: God has not suffered and will not suffer eternally; His current sufferings are a local episode, endured entirely for the sake of others, without any regard for His own interest.
Moving beyond logical deductions, let us explore how an infinite observer might perceive events by drawing on a relatable analogy: human consciousness. For the sake of this exercise, imagine infinity compressed into a finite span of time—let's say a few seconds. Within this interval, your consciousness cannot operate in isolation from either the past or the future.
Consider the experience of listening to music. The pleasure derived from a melody does not come from hearing each note in isolation but from the interplay of past notes remembered and future notes anticipated. Without the ability to recall previous sounds or anticipate forthcoming ones, the melody would disintegrate into meaningless noise.
This principle becomes even more apparent in physical activities. Take brushing your teeth: each motion is informed by past experience and directed by an expectation of the next movement. Even reflexive actions depend on this principle. The brain subconsciously integrates past actions and future goals to coordinate every motion, while the reflex itself is triggered in pursuit of a purpose—a projection of the future informed by the past.
The human brain simply cannot function within the momentary "here and now" alone. While the "here and now" represents our physical reality, consciousness consistently extends beyond it, engaging with and transcending immediate reality. Could this interplay between physical presence and transcendent awareness represent a microcosm of infinity within human existence?
And yet, even as our consciousness continuously interacts with past and future, we remain acutely aware of the distinction between stored representations of reality—our memories and projections—and reality itself. This duality underscores the profound complexity inherent in how we perceive and process existence.
If we entertain the possibility of a boundless mind—an omnipotent consciousness—it seems plausible that such a mind would leave behind traces of its nature. In this context, the mechanism of human consciousness may itself serve as a clue, a compressed and allegorical representation of infinity.
The Limited Scope of Imparted Information
A reasonable question might arise when discussing the transformation of consciousness and behaviour through divine images of redemption: Why did scientific information change the world faster than knowledge imparted by God? If God foresaw that scientific knowledge would drive civilisation forward and reshape human behaviour, why not provide humanity with comprehensive encyclopaedias detailing natural laws and their practical applications from the outset?
Such reasoning, while intriguing, is fundamentally naive. Imagine encountering an isolated tribe with little exposure to the outside world. Would your first action be to explain—using their limited vocabulary and understanding—how to make gunpowder so they could finally have matches instead of sparks, or perhaps warn them of the catastrophic dangers of rejecting egalitarianism centuries later—and, naturally, address their troubling lack of awareness about toxic masculinity? Even if they regarded you as a deity and were willing to follow your instructions, such an approach would almost certainly lead to disastrous outcomes: internecine conflict, societal upheaval, or annihilation by rival tribes unable to comprehend or accept such radical shifts.
A far more effective approach in such situations would begin with understanding the psychological characteristics, cultural traditions, and established customs of the people in question. Change must be incremental, grounded in their current reality. Your first task would be to earn their trust by demonstrating that your intentions align with their well-being and prosperity. By showing that your guidance leads to tangible improvements in their lives, you lay a foundation for further influence. Without this foundation, even the most advanced instructions would either be rendered meaningless or actively resisted.
Imagine further that you have provided numerous assurances and warnings about the consequences of their extinction. Naturally, your first steps would focus on addressing the immediate threats to their survival. You would teach them basic principles of hygiene, warn them about potential dangers, and help them mitigate harmful practices.
Now, consider an even more critical scenario: on another planet, where all predictions indicate that the tribes are doomed to extinction and where their survival depends entirely on your guidance. If this tribe is the only one willing to engage with you after failed attempts with others, your approach must be both protective and strategic.
In such a scenario, you would likely take measures to physically shield this tribe from hostile tribes, ensuring they are not annihilated or overwhelmed by rival ideologies. This protective approach would be justified only if you could clearly foresee that this tribe had the potential to become a beacon of change, spreading your values and moral principles to others. Over time, their influence could reshape the mindsets of neighbouring tribes, steering them away from self-destructive tendencies and toward a deeper understanding of reality—a path that leads to the progress of civilisation.
Jumping ahead prematurely, introducing advanced concepts without first addressing the obstacles to survival and communication, would be not only ineffective but disastrously short-sighted.
Summarising these arguments, it becomes clear that no approach to influencing human consciousness could be more effective than the use of an emotional image—one so profound in scale that it transcends any possible analogy.
Despite the limited awareness of ancient peoples and the harsh realities of survival in their time, emotional perception has always been universal. Take, for example, the paradoxical case of slavery. Across epochs, nations, and levels of civilisation, slavery has consistently evoked a visceral reaction of indignation and moral discomfort, much like how we perceive it today.
The difference lies not in the emotions themselves but in the strategies used to suppress them. Throughout history, societies justified slavery by attributing to the enslaved a potential threat to the survival of the civilised world or by artificially erasing any sense of shared humanity. They divided people into castes or categories, declaring some to be descendants of gods and others as mindless beings born of dirt—convincing themselves that these individuals were destined for subjugation, incapable of enlightenment, or devoid of higher aspirations.
More radical methods of erasing common identity manifested through depersonalisation—the denial of the fundamental unity of human nature. This is evident in theories that posited separate evolutionary branches or attributed cultural and economic differences to divergent evolutionary processes. Such narratives provided a pseudo-scientific rationale for inequality, casting the success and dominance of certain groups as natural and inevitable.
However, when someone previously considered an equal became enslaved, this was perceived not as natural but as a curse or punishment. It evoked emotions similar to those we feel today when witnessing a lawbreaker being imprisoned: a sense of justice tempered by discomfort. Yet, when the grounds for enslavement were illegitimate or unjust, the reaction was far more radical than modern responses. Such injustices often sparked rebellion or even war—a testament to the deep emotional resonance of perceived equality and its violation. (The causes and justifications of slavery will be explored in greater depth in the next chapter.)
In conclusion, within a rational model of redemption—one that even a sceptic might comprehend—God's sacrifice begins the moment He creates autonomous consciousness. More precisely, in allowing these beings to think independently, God accepts the inevitable possibility of deviation and willingly endures the suffering brought about by the existence of a reality foreign to His nature— yet necessary to sustain free will, which became prone to deviation from life-giving principles.
This suffering, however, simultaneously serves as a corrective tool—a demonstration that begins to realign deviation with life's eternal order. Yet perhaps the unveiling of God's suffering, 'since the creation of the world,' is not the most exalted model of sacrificial Absoluteness.
It is conceivable that the ultimate sacrifice of one of the hypostases provides a maximally effective corrective force, appealing to the universal human capacity for emotional perception. By employing this costly pedagogical instrument, God achieves the most profound transformation of human consciousness.
In manifesting a love of such magnitude—one that fundamentally transforms the perception of reality—God provokes a deep desire for the principles of life and happiness while simultaneously revealing the cost and consequences of a misalignment of independent consciousness. This, in turn, instils a visceral revulsion toward distortions of life-giving principles.
Such a concept of redemption through God's suffering, as presented in the Bible, contrasts with interpretations that are solely juridical or sacramental in nature. It offers a more rational and transformative framework—one that guides conscious beings non-coercively toward volitional alignment with the life-giving principles embodied in God.
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