The Acta Pilati in Context: the Communist Doctrine of Early Christianity

[Secret Alias]

Another perspective to consider: if the Acta were typically associated with the deeds of kings, and Jesus is presented as the King, then by recognizing Jesus as King, Pilate, in effect, becomes His first governor. Pilate’s acknowledgment of Jesus’ kingship in the Acta Pilati subtly repositions the Roman hierarchy: Pilate, as a Roman official, is now subordinating himself to a higher, divine authority. Similarly, in the Acta Pilati, when Tiberius is said to accept the authority of Jesus, he is in fact acknowledging a power that supersedes even the emperor. Tiberius, the head of the Roman world, effectively accepts his role as a subordinate "demiurge," recognizing that there is an authority higher than Caesar himself.

This shift in hierarchy, however, would have been deeply problematic for the Roman Imperial government. The concept of Caesar as the kosmokrator (ruler of the world) is turned on its head. If Jesus, as King, represents a new model for kingship—one based on mercy, humility, and sacrifice—then Christianity is, by implication, advocating for the end of traditional kingship. This revolutionary idea suggests that kings, including Caesar, are no longer the ultimate authorities; instead, they are called to emulate Jesus by surrendering their power and wealth.

Clement of Alexandria’s words reinforce this broader theological shift. When he says:

"And the confession made through speech is not universal but partial. The universal confession, however, is what he now speaks of, which is found in deeds and actions that are consistent with the faith in Him,"

Clement is arguing that true confession of faith is not just verbal but must be demonstrated through actions that align with Christ’s teachings. While Clement downplays the necessity of martyrdom, tracing this logic back to its roots reveals a more profound implication: Jesus was not merely a merciful king but a completely new kind of king—one who relinquishes authority, judgment, and wealth in favor of mercy and generosity.

This ties into the Carpocratian interpretation of Mark 10:17-31, as discussed in Quis Dives Salvatur ("give away all your possessions"/become naked). The Carpocratians took this teaching as a radical call to complete renunciation, and Clement, in his opposition, must have grappled with the dangerous political implications of such an interpretation. The debate is not only about personal asceticism; it’s about the political ramifications of Jesus’ kingship.

It’s not that Clement is necessarily against the idea of "becoming naked" in the figurative sense of renunciation. Rather, the broader implication of this teaching is staggering: if Jesus is the ultimate King above Caesar, then the emperor himself must become a martyr, the emperor must die to his worldly power and riches, the emperor must give up his wealth to the poor. The entire Roman hierarchy is threatened by this logic.

In this way, Christianity inevitably becomes a call for the overturning of the social order. If Jesus is the new model for kingship, then Caesar’s rule is undermined. The revolutionary potential of this idea could hardly have been lost on the early Christian thinkers and the Roman authorities alike.

[Secret Alias]

I think we have to get away from this "common man" approach to the gospel narrative. The "rich man" who comes up and asks Jesus how do I inherit eternal life isn't supposed to be "us." We're not rich. The vast majority of Christians weren't rich.

The rich man in the Gospels isn’t just a stand-in for the everyday believer. Rather, he represents the wealthy elite of Jesus' time—the very people who held economic and social power over the rest of society. The story can be seen as a radical critique of the wealthy class, with Jesus essentially telling the rich man to "give it all up" in order to enter the kingdom of God. This isn’t just about personal salvation but also about dismantling the structures of wealth and privilege.

The story of the rich man, in this context, is a symbolic call for the redistribution of wealth and a challenge to the economic disparities of the time. The command to sell everything and give to the poor isn’t just about individual piety but can be read as a radical social mandate—a critique of the concentration of wealth and a call for a new kind of justice.

If we take this interpretation further, the narrative seems to advocate something akin to a duty for the rich to give up their wealth and privilege, almost as if they owe it to the poor. This "eat the rich" motif becomes clearer when we consider the political climate of the time and the tension between the early Christian movement and the wealthy ruling classes.

In this light, the rich man isn’t "us" (as modern Christians often interpret it), because most Christians were, and are, not rich. Instead, the story can be seen as a broader critique of the social order and a call for radical transformation—one that extends beyond individual morality and into the realm of economic justice and social change.