The Truth About...the Truth? It Changes.
What is truth? Good question. Let's discuss.
Before you read this…
Warning: this is a longer article because it needs to be. So pour a coffee or a stiff drink (I don’t judge), and settle in when you’re ready.
This is about truth.
But not all truth.
If you grew up in—or converted into—Evangelical Christianity, this is the abbreviated history of the truth you were born into. To you and me, it felt timeless. But it wasn’t.
It evolved. A lot.
There are plenty of other ways to talk about truth—even within Christianity. I’m not writing a full history of human understanding. I’m tracing our version of truth—the one many of us were handed, shaped by, baptized into. From church nurseries to VBS, youth group to FCA, Young Life to Crusade to Navigators to Bible College… this is the water we swam in.
And that truth—that capital-T, unquestionable, divinely downloaded truth?
It started somewhere.
So let’s go back to the beginning…
1. Truth as Tribal Loyalty (and Geography)
(Ancient Religion)
Let’s start with a hard pill: the people who wrote the earliest parts of the Bible probably didn’t believe in just one god—at least not at first.
They believed in many gods. They just believed Yahweh was theirs.
And in the ancient world, gods were usually local. Spirituality was territorial—gods had geographic domains. Egypt had Egyptian gods. Babylon had Babylonian gods. You crossed a border, you crossed into someone else’s divine jurisdiction.
In this world, truth was tribal and regional.
It meant staying loyal to your god in your land.
But… Israel didn’t start with land.
They began as a nomadic people, with no borders, no temples—no clear geographical home.
Abraham’s story isn’t just the origin of a religion. It’s the origin of a nation-in-motion—a people walking into an unknown place, guided by a sometimes-visible, often-mysterious deity who seemed to move with them.
Their god wasn’t tied to a temple. He was tied to their story.
That’s why the tabernacle—essentially a tent for God—was so important during the wilderness years. It symbolized a god who travels. A divine presence that moves when the people move. Which made Yahweh radically different from the stone statues of neighboring nations.
Even centuries later, in the story of Jonah, we see how deeply this geographical theology runs. Jonah thinks he can escape Yahweh by sailing away—as if divine authority had limits.
(Spoiler: it doesn’t go well.)
The Hebrew Bible reflects this evolution. Early on, El, Elohim, and YHWH appear to be divine figures. Over time, they converge. Israel’s theology shifts—from tribal polytheism, to national henotheism, to emerging monotheism.
“You shall have no other gods before me”—Not a claim that other gods don’t exist. Just a declaration that this one comes first.
So in this first phase, truth isn’t a belief system or moral framework. It’s about loyalty to your god, fidelity to your tribe, and—eventually—faith in the journey.
And if you’re a tribe on the move, the ultimate dream is this:
To stop wandering.
To claim a land.
To build a home.
And to raise a temple where your god can finally reign.
Truth began as a path across a desert, with a tent at the center. But the hope was always to trade the tent for a temple.
2. Truth as Covenant Faithfulness
(The Prophets, Psalms, and Wisdom Tradition)
As Israel grew, so did its concept of truth. The prophets and poets reframed it—not as tribal victory, but as relational integrity.
The Hebrew word emet (אֶמֶת) gets translated as “truth,” but it carries the weight of words like faithfulness, steadfastness, trustworthiness.
Truth becomes a way of living rightly—with God, with your neighbor, and with yourself.
The Psalms talk about “walking in truth.” The Proverbs say the “truthful lip shall be established forever.” The prophets shout that the people have abandoned the truth—not because they’ve believed the wrong things, but because they’ve acted unjustly.
Truth is no longer just about worshipping the right god. It’s about living with integrity, justice, and mercy.
Truth is a path you walk, not a doctrine you recite.
3. Truth in Exile: When the Temple Falls
(Babylonian Captivity and the Crisis of Theology)
Then came Babylon.
The city was destroyed. The temple—the sacred space where Yahweh dwelled—was leveled. The people of God were taken into exile, ripped from the land they believed was promised forever.
And just like that, the old system collapsed.
What happens when your God’s house is gone? What does it mean when you’re no longer living in your God’s territory?
For a people whose truth had been rooted in geography, identity, and temple worship, exile forced a complete rethinking.
In Babylon, the seeds of what we now call Judaism began to grow.
The scriptures were gathered, edited, and preserved.
Synagogues emerged as centers of learning and memory—not sacrifice.
Faith became portable—something you could carry in your heart, not just perform in a temple.
Truth shifted from land and lineage to text, ritual, identity, and moral vision.
And here’s a personal belief of mine—one shared by many biblical scholars:
If you’ve ever wondered why Genesis 1 reads so differently than Genesis 2–3, exile may be the answer.
While we don’t know the exact dates these texts were written, many scholars believe Genesis 2–3 is far older—an ancient mythic story about a walking, talking, changing-his-mind God who feels very tribal, very human, very local. It’s probably an edited version of early myths circulating in and around ancient Israel.
But Genesis 1? That one may have been written during exile. By priests. For a displaced people asking, “Where is our God now?”
And the answer they wrote was stunning:
Our God created the whole thing.
Our God speaks into the chaos and brings order.
Our God doesn’t live in a temple—our God lives in everything.
There’s even a poetic rhythm in Genesis 1 that mirrors temple dedication rituals from the ancient world. When a temple was completed, the work stopped, and the deity would “rest” there—meaning, the god took up residence.
So on the seventh day, God rests.
Not because God is tired.
But because the cosmos itself is God’s temple.
And now God dwells in it.
In exile, this was revolutionary.
Yahweh wasn’t just the god of Israel.
YHWH was the God of everything.
Even in Babylon.
Truth, in exile, became bigger.
It became resilient.
And—just as importantly—it became written down.
The shift from temple to text laid the foundation for something modern evangelicals would inherit without realizing it:
The idea that truth lives in a book.
4. Truth as The Correct Way
(Late Second Temple Judaism)
By the time of Jesus, things are complicated.
Judaism has splintered into competing sects: Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes, Zealots, Herodians, and others. Each group claims to have the correct interpretation of Torah. Truth is under debate again—but now it’s interpretive truth. Who’s reading the scriptures correctly? Who’s keeping the law most faithfully?
In this world, truth is a way of life—but now it’s more contested than ever.
Some saw it in temple purity.
Some in national revolution.
Some in legal obedience.
Some in mystical withdrawal.
People began aligning with what they thought was the correct way to see truth.
Jesus steps into this moment—and starts doing something disruptive.
5. Jesus and the Truth He Lived
(Mystic, Rabbi, Disruptor)
Jesus doesn’t come with a textbook. He doesn’t give a TED Talk on epistemology. He tells stories.
He flips the script with phrases like, “You’ve heard it said… but I say to you…” He reframes old teachings—not to abolish them, but to deepen them.
He treats truth less like a club you join and more like a kingdom you step into.
In the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), Jesus doesn’t go around claiming “I am the truth.” Instead, he points people toward it. Invites them into it. He lives it out loud.
He tells parables like the sower and the seeds, showing that truth isn’t absorbed by force—it’s received by those who are ready. He trains his followers in Luke 10 not to argue people into faith, but to bless those who are open—and move on from those who aren’t. And he keeps repeating this mysterious phrase:
“Let anyone with ears to hear, listen.”
In this view, truth isn’t a system to convert to—it’s a mystery that awakens you.
But within just a generation or two, something starts to shift.
By the time John’s Gospel is written—30 to 50 years after Mark—the emphasis moves. Jesus doesn’t just point to the truth anymore.
In the latest gospel, Jesus is truth.
“I am the way, the truth, and the life.” —John 14:6
This is part of a natural theological evolution. I’m not saying it’s good or bad—it’s just what happened.
The Jesus of Mark teaches us how to walk the path. The Jesus of John is the path itself.
And while it’s less likely that the historical Jesus actually said these exact words, what we start to see is something just as important:
From here on out, what matters most isn’t what Jesus said or did.
It’s what his later followers believed he said and did.
And—just as crucially—what meaning they attached to it.
That belief shaped the story.
The story shaped the movement.
And the movement shaped the theology.
This is also where the story starts to become dangerous.
Because the things Jesus said—about power, about love, about peacemaking and forgiveness—weren’t just spiritual advice. They were political resistance.
Crucifixion wasn’t just capital punishment—it was how Rome made an example out of you.
Jesus was killed by the empire. And his earliest followers? Many of them were persecuted too—for refusing to say Caesar is Lord.
Jesus didn’t just offer a new way to see truth. He offered a new allegiance. One that would cost people everything.
Because centuries before Jesus is declared God by the empire... He was killed by it.
6. Paul and the Birth of Christian Truth
(From Mystical Experience to Organized Faith)
If Jesus gave the world a new way to see truth, Paul gave the world Christianity.
Paul never met Jesus during his lifetime. He wasn’t there for the teachings or the miracles. He wasn’t part of the early community.
In fact, he persecuted it.
And then, according to his own testimony, something mysterious happened:
“I was violently persecuting the church of God and was trying to destroy it. But when God... was pleased to reveal his Son to me, so that I might proclaim him among the Gentiles, I did not confer with any human being…” —Galatians 1:13–16
Paul had a mystical experience of the risen Jesus. And almost overnight, the fiercest enemy of the Jesus movement became its most prolific preacher.
He took what had been a small, persecuted Jewish sect—and began organizing it.
Writing letters. Establishing theology. Traveling the Roman world. Preaching not just to Jews, but to Gentiles—non-Jews—who had no connection to Torah or Temple.
This was a huge shift.
Jesus mostly preached to his own people.
Paul globalized the message—what he saw as the truth.
Jesus spoke in parables and invitations. Paul wrote in arguments and conclusions.
Paul rarely quotes Jesus. Instead, he claims his authority comes from divine revelation:
“The gospel that was proclaimed by me is not of human origin; for I did not receive it from a human source, nor was I taught it, but I received it through a revelation of Jesus Christ.” —Galatians 1:11–12
He’s rarely quoting the historical Jesus.
He’s primarily interpreting the personal Jesus he experienced mystically—first for himself, and eventually, for the rest of us.
And in doing so, he begins to codify the faith in his own image. Jesus becomes the Christ. Atonement becomes a theory. Grace becomes a system. Church becomes a structure.
Again, I am not saying this is good or bad—just that this is the way it appeared to happen.
Paul’s influence is hard to overstate.
Jesus revealed a new way of being. Paul built a new framework for believing. And whether he meant to or not, Paul set the trajectory for what Christianity would become.
Two final things are worth remembering as you think about Paul’s authority:
First, Paul doesn’t claim authority based on eyewitness memory. He wasn’t there. He didn’t interview witnesses. Instead, he roots everything in his own mystical experience—combined with his impressive credentials as a trained Pharisee.
Second, from a historical perspective, Paul is unique in the New Testament. While the authorship of the Gospels is uncertain—we don’t actually know who wrote Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John—we do have strong evidence that Paul actually wrote most (but not all) of the letters attributed to him.
And that means, ironically, the most historically traceable voice in the New Testament isn’t Jesus.
It’s Paul.
7. Truth Goes Greek
(Philosophy, Abstraction, and the Gospel According to Plato)
One of the unique things about Christianity is how quickly it left its birthplace.
It began as a splinter of first-century Judaism—centered around a Jewish rabbi named Jesus and his Jewish followers. Jesus spoke Aramaic, read the Torah, and engaged in rabbinic debate like many others in his time.
He was rebellious, sure. But he was clearly Jewish.
So was Paul.
But within just a few decades, the message had jumped cultural tracks.
It was being preached to people who knew nothing of the laws of Moses, the traditions of the temple, or even the name Yahweh.
The story and teachings of Jesus were no longer simply being translated into Greek. They were being rebuilt in Greek and Roman culture—and into a religion.
The earliest surviving writings about Jesus—including all four Gospels and Paul’s letters—are in Greek, not Aramaic. Nothing about Jesus was written in the language he actually spoke. And as the message moved westward, it wasn’t just the language that changed.
It was the framework of truth itself.
Most early converts outside Judea were steeped in Greek philosophy—Plato, Aristotle, Stoicism. To them, truth wasn’t relational or covenantal—it was abstract, eternal, ideal.
And so the message adapted.
Paul started using rhetorical arguments. He quoted Greek poets. The book of Acts claims that he debated philosophers in Athens about the “unknown god.”
John’s Gospel, written later, begins with Greek philosophy.
“In the beginning was the Logos…” —John 1:1
That word Logos—Greek for word, reason, logic, meaning—was a loaded philosophical term. It didn’t just mean “word” the way we use it. It meant the ordering principle of the universe.
When John calls Jesus the Logos, he’s placing him at the metaphysical center of everything—not just spiritually, but philosophically and cosmically. It’s a bold (very Greek) opening—and a very different tone than the (very Jewish) raw urgency of Mark, written a generation or two before.
For whoever wrote John, Jesus isn’t just a teacher.
He’s the blueprint of everything.
He was the truth the Greek philosophers spoke of—only truth as a person instead of an idea.
This move helped early Christianity spread across the Greco-Roman world.
But it also subtly transformed truth into something more intellectual.
More systematic.
More abstract.
The Jewish sect had gone global in two generations.
And it never looked back.
8. Truth Gets Persecuted—and Then Crowned
(From Resistance to Imperial Religion)
In its early days, Christianity was perceived as a threat to the Roman Empire. Christians’ refusal to worship the emperor or participate in state-sanctioned religious practices marked them as subversive. Their allegiance to a higher authority challenged the empire’s demand for unity and conformity.
This defiance led to various regional periods of persecution, where Christians were targeted for their beliefs. However, the resilience and commitment of these early followers seemed only to strengthen the movement.
A significant shift occurred in the early 4th century when Emperor Constantine issued the Edict of Milan in 313 AD, legalizing Christianity and ending its persecution. By 380 AD, under Emperor Theodosius I, Christianity became the state religion of the Roman Empire.
This transformation—from a persecuted sect to an imperial religion—altered the nature of Christian truth forever. Truth became intertwined with political power and authority. It was no longer solely about personal conviction or spiritual insight but also about aligning with imperial doctrine and orthodoxy.
The fusion of church and state meant that truth was now enforced by imperial decree, leading to the establishment of official doctrines and the suppression of divergent beliefs. This period marked the beginning of Christianity’s evolution into a structured institution, where truth was defined not just by faith but also by political expediency.
9. Truth Becomes Institutionalized
(How Empire Shaped the Faith)
As Christianity transitioned from a persecuted movement to the official religion of the Roman Empire, the nature of truth within the faith underwent significant transformation.
The empire’s influence molded Christianity into a structured institution, aligning it with imperial systems and priorities.
Church Structure: The organizational hierarchy of the Church began to mirror that of the Roman Empire. Bishops took on roles akin to provincial governors, and the Bishop of Rome—later known as the Pope—assumed a position comparable to that of the emperor, centralizing authority and establishing a clear chain of command.
Canon Formation and Orthodoxy: Determining which texts were deemed sacred became a pressing concern. Councils convened to establish the biblical canon, a process influenced by theological debates, political considerations, and the desire for doctrinal unity. This wasn’t a purely spiritual endeavor; it involved complex negotiations and, at times, the exclusion of texts that didn’t align with prevailing orthodoxy. As the Church aligned with Empire, abstract theological ideas were systematized into official doctrine. The Trinity—God as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—wasn’t formally defined until the Council of Nicaea (325 CE) and later refined at Constantinople (381 CE). These ideas weren’t brand new, but they weren’t clearly in the Bible either. They were debated, voted on, and enforced. Disagreement became heresy. Orthodoxy became law. Truth now had a creed—and consequences.
Church Calendar and Holidays: Christianity adopted and adapted existing pagan festivals, aligning them with Christian narratives. Celebrations like Easter and Christmas were positioned to coincide with earlier Roman holidays, facilitating the integration of Christian practices into the broader cultural framework of the empire.
Sacraments: The Church formalized rituals—such as baptism and the Eucharist—as sacraments, essential rites believed to confer divine grace. These practices became standardized across the empire, reinforcing a uniform expression of faith and delineating clear boundaries of religious participation.
Use of Force: The alliance between Church and state led to the use of imperial power to enforce religious conformity. Crusades were launched to reclaim or defend Christian territories, and heresies were suppressed through inquisitions and, at times, executions. This fusion of faith and force aimed to maintain unity but also introduced coercion into the propagation of religious truth.
These developments solidified Christianity’s position within the empire but also transformed its essence. Truth became institutionalized, defined by councils and enforced by imperial decree. While this structure provided stability, it also set the stage for future challenges and calls for reform.
10. Truth Is Reformed (Partially)
(From Schism to Scripture, Still Entwined with Power)
By the 11th century, Christianity had already experienced a significant division: the Great Schism of 1054. This split between the Eastern Orthodox and Western Catholic churches stemmed from disputes over theology, liturgy, and ecclesiastical authority. While both branches maintained similar structures, their interpretations of truth and authority began to diverge.
Centuries later, the Western Church faced internal challenges that would further reshape its understanding of truth.
Martin Luther, a German monk, became disillusioned with certain Church practices, notably the sale of indulgences. In 1517, he penned his 95 Theses, challenging the Church’s teachings and sparking the Protestant Reformation.
Luther emphasized that truth was found in Scripture alone (sola scriptura) and that salvation came by faith alone (sola fide). He translated the Bible into German, making it accessible to the general populace and diminishing the clergy’s exclusive interpretative authority.
John Calvin, another reformer, further developed these ideas, introducing doctrines like predestination and emphasizing God’s sovereignty. His teachings laid the foundation for Reformed theology and influenced various Protestant denominations.
While the Reformation aimed to return to early Christian truths, it also led to the fragmentation of the Church. Different interpretations of Scripture resulted in the formation of numerous denominations, each claiming a unique understanding of truth.
Importantly, the Reformation did not dismantle the close relationship between church and state. Instead, it often reinforced it. Luther’s movement gained momentum and protection largely due to the support of political authorities, such as Frederick the Wise, Elector of Saxony, who shielded Luther from imperial and papal reprisals. This alliance between emerging Protestant churches and secular rulers meant that religious reforms were frequently enacted through state mechanisms, and adherence to new doctrines was sometimes enforced by law.
Thus, while the Reformation redefined certain theological truths, it continued the tradition of intertwining religious authority with political power—a dynamic that would shape the trajectory of Christianity in the centuries to follow.
11. Truth Gets Enlightened
(From Communal Stories to Individual Certainty)
The Enlightenment ushered in a new era where reason and individual thought became paramount. René Descartes encapsulated this shift with his declaration: “I think, therefore I am” (Cogito, ergo sum). This statement emphasized personal reasoning as the foundation of knowledge, moving away from truths grounded in communal narratives and traditions.
Previously, truth was often experienced collectively—through shared stories, rituals, and communal beliefs. But as the Enlightenment progressed, truth became something to be dissected, analyzed, and proven through individual inquiry. The mysterious and the communal gave way to the empirical and the personal.
This transformation didn’t just alter philosophical discourse; it reshaped religious understanding as well. Faith, once intertwined with communal practices and shared mysteries, began to be viewed through the lens of personal conviction and individual interpretation.
Truth shifted from collective experience to personal enlightenment.
In this context, evangelicalism emerged, emphasizing personal conversion, individual relationship with the divine, and the authority of Scripture interpreted by the individual. While it retained elements of communal worship, the core of truth became centered on personal experience and understanding, particularly understanding of the Bible.
Thus, the Enlightenment didn’t just change how we seek truth; it redefined what truth is—transitioning from a shared, communal tapestry to a personal, reasoned, text-centered journey.
12. Truth as Manifest Destiny
(Revivalism, Frontier Faith, and the Birth of Evangelical Individualism)
I know not all of my readers are from the USA, but the vast majority are. So this is important to discuss for those of us who grew up in the American chruch.
In 1741, a Puritan preacher named Jonathan Edwards delivered what would become one of the most famous sermons in American history: “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.” If you grew up evangelical, you probably heard it quoted in youth group. If you’re a Hamilton fan, here’s your trivia nugget: Jonathan Edwards was Aaron Burr’s grandfather.
The sermon wasn’t theological. It was theatrical. Edwards described God holding humanity over the fires of hell like a person might dangle a spider over a flame. People reportedly wailed, collapsed, begged for mercy.
Truth, in that moment, was no longer just inherited or recited.
It was felt. It was feared. It was personal.
This became the template for the Great Awakenings—waves of revival that swept across the colonies and, later, the young United States. Massive crowds gathered in fields and tents. Salvation became a singular, emotional moment. Preachers didn’t need credentials—they just needed charisma and a Bible.
As Christianity moved westward, it adapted to the spirit of the frontier.
Tent revivals replaced temples. Itinerant evangelists replaced bishops.
And the core of truth became this:
You must have a personal experience with Jesus.
Everything else was secondary.
Then came Manifest Destiny—the belief that America was divinely ordained to expand across the continent. And with it, the gospel hitched a ride on the wagon train. The Bible became both a roadmap for personal salvation and a permission slip for national conquest.
And that wasn’t the only place the Bible was co-opted.
As slavery became embedded in the American economy, many Christian leaders—especially in the South—turned to Scripture to defend it. Passages were quoted to justify owning other human beings. Entire denominations split over the issue. Truth, once again, wasn’t shaped by love or justice—it was shaped by power.
Christianity in America didn’t just grow alongside injustice. It often participated in it.
The blending of Christianity, individualism, and nationalism became inseparable.
New denominations exploded—Methodists, Baptists, Pentecostals, Restorationists, Charismatics. Truth decentralized. Authority was no longer held by tradition or hierarchy, but by anyone with a pulpit—or a tent.
This was the soil.
Modern evangelicalism was the fruit.
13. Truth as Brand and Identity
(The World You Were Born Into: American Evangelicalism, 1970s–Present)
Politics: Truth as Power and Platform
In the late 1970s, a new alliance emerged: white evangelical Christianity and the Republican Party. It didn’t happen overnight—and it wasn’t typically about theology. It was about power.
Many evangelicals were persuaded to enter the political arena through appeals to “moral issues.” But behind the curtain, strategists saw an opportunity. One infamous example? Abortion.
Contrary to what many believe, abortion wasn’t originally a primary concern for evangelicals. Desegregation and tax-exempt status for religious schools were bigger drivers. But abortion had emotional power. It became the rallying cry. And it worked.
Truth was now aligned with party platforms. Crosses shared space with American flags at church. The Bible became a prop for political speeches. Truth became partisan. And at VBS, kids stood to say three pledges—one to the American flag, one to the Christian flag, and one to the Bible.
Somehow, God didn’t make the list.
Consumerism: Truth for Sale
Around the same time, churches started growing by acting like businesses.
Enter the seeker-sensitive movement that I personally helped foster: give people what they want. Make church comfortable. Market Jesus. Free coffee. Turn sermons into comedy routines. Swap out pulpits for stages and choirs for worship bands. Spiritual formation turned into spiritual branding.
Pastors became CEOs. Congregants became customers.
And truth? It became content.
Mega-churches exploded. Christian bookstores sold “Bibleman” DVDs and Testamints (you’d need that good breath in case you wanted to sin and kiss your date goodnight). Worship music became an industry.
Truth was no longer just something you believed. It was more of a membership you bought into. An identity.
Literalism: Truth Without Mystery
In this new landscape, truth had to be clear, simple, and non-negotiable. The Bible was flattened into a rulebook. Mystery became a threat.
The idea that Genesis could be a poetic origin story? Dangerous.
The notion that Jesus might’ve meant some things metaphorically? Slippery slope.
Truth became about certainty. The kind that fits on a bumper sticker. The kind that draws a line between us and them.
Neo-Puritanism: Truth as Moral Policing
Evangelical truth also became deeply personal—but in a different way.
Your morality became your proof of belief. Your virginity. Your political alignment. Your church attendance. Your ability to avoid swearing, smoking, or voting for a Democrat.
Purity culture exploded in the 1990s and early 2000s. “True love waits.” Purity rings. Modesty checklists. Conversion therapy. Girls told to cover their shoulders or the boys would sin. Boys told to guard their eyes.
Sin became sexual. Forgiveness became conditional. Grace became confusing.
Exceptionalism: America as God’s Chosen Nation
Wrapped in all this was a deep belief that America was special—chosen. That God had a unique plan for the USA.
This wasn’t just nationalism. It was providential.
Flags in sanctuaries. Anthems in worship. Sermons about founding fathers. Jesus was the Savior, but America was the context.
And so, to question the nation’s moral authority—or its alignment with the Kingdom of God—became heresy.
Truth was now cultural, economic, political, sexual, and national.
And if you were born into it, it just felt like… Christianity.
13. Truth Becomes Relative (Slowly)
(Modernity, Postmodernity, and the Generational Shift)
Truth didn’t become relative overnight. For centuries, the modern world thrived on the belief that objective truth could be found—that reason and evidence would eventually explain everything.
Modernism said: If we just study hard enough, think clearly enough, and eliminate bias, the truth will emerge. And for a while, that idea worked. Science advanced. Technology exploded. Progress felt inevitable.
But beneath the surface, a new question started to rise:
What if truth isn’t just discovered… but constructed?
In philosophy, literature, and the arts, the postmodern shift began. In the academy, postmodernism questioned the objectivity of everything: science, language, religion, even history.
It asked: Who gets to decide what’s true? Whose story are we telling? What power structures are being upheld by calling one version of events “reality” and dismissing the rest?
For decades, postmodernism lived mostly in universities and underground art movements. But eventually, it seeped into pop culture. Into politics. Into pulpits.
And now it’s in all of us.
Not everyone’s affected equally, of course. Boomers—generally—were the last generation shaped almost entirely by modern assumptions. Truth was something you could know. It had a capital T.
But Gen X? We were born with skepticism and distrust in our veins. So yeah, we got a little curious about some “timeless truths.”
Millennials? Raised in a world of competing truths.
Gen Z? They barely remember a time when “truth” wasn’t subjective.
This is why so many of us are deconstructing—not just our faith, but everything. Because we inherited a modernist version of truth from institutions built in the 20th century… while living in a postmodern world that sees through it all.
And the result?
Tension. Internal contradiction. Cognitive dissonance.
We were taught that truth was singular. Absolute. Eternal.
But we live in a world that’s fragmented, evolving, and skeptical of anyone claiming to have all the answers.
This doesn’t mean truth doesn’t exist. It means truth is harder to pin down—and maybe always was.
It’s not that we’re lost. It’s that we were sold a map that only had one road on it.
We were taught that we were rejecting the truth that people had held onto since Jesus—since Abraham!
14. The Truth Shall Set You Free
(Why We Took This Long Journey)
If you made it this far, thank you. Truly.
This wasn’t a short article. And it wasn’t easy ground to cover.
But if you’ve been questioning your faith, your story, your sense of truth—then you know that short answers don’t cut it anymore.
You didn’t read this because you’re cynical. You read this because you care.
And that’s worth honoring.
We’ve walked a long road—from tribal loyalty to political platforms, from oral tradition to doctrinal orthodoxy, from empire to branding, from certainty to questions.
And through it all, one thing has stayed the same:
People have always tried to turn truth into a weapon. Into a system. Into a source of power.
Empire isn’t going away. Religious hate isn’t going away. People using “truth” to gain control over others isn’t going away.
It’s all been here the whole time—just in different outfits.
But here’s the good news:
You don’t have to play that game.
Also, you don’t have to believe what I believe. I’m not trying to convert anyone to my understanding of truth.
I just want you to find your truth.
(How postmodern of me, I know.)
But seriously—truth has never been a static object. It’s a living journey. It evolves. And we’re living in a time where keeping up with it is harder than ever.
The world is complex. So your questions are valid. Your doubts are honest. Your journey is sacred.
And as for me?
Knowing this whole story—seeing how truth has always shifted, stretched, and survived—it doesn’t make me bitter.
It sets me free.
Like Jesus once said:
“You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”
Or maybe, Jesus didn’t actually say it. Who knows?
Doesn’t make it less true.
So here’s to the freedom that comes with accepting nuance and ambiguity.
Here’s to the peace that doesn’t always pass understanding, but makes nice with it.
And here’s to choosing truth, whatever we think it might be, over empire.
You’re not alone.
Truthfully.
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Preordering my book, De-vangelical, coming out this summer (below)
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Brilliant. Concise for a history of Christianity. Clear. Challenging. Helpful.
That was impressive. 👏