CeleryKills

Theology’s Oldest Growth Industry

Theology has produced many great themes. There is The Constant Need for Money, which transforms the infinite Creator into the chief financial officer of a perpetually underfunded enterprise. There is Miracles for Me, Magic for Thee, where identical stories become either evidence or superstition depending on who tells them. There is Schrödinger’s Metaphor, in which sacred passages remain simultaneously literal and symbolic until an objection is raised. Yet standing above them all, ancient and durable, sits the foundation stone on which so many other doctrines are built:

I’m Right, You’re Wrong.

Unlike certain theological innovations, this theme required no divine revelation, no sacred text, and no councils of learned scholars. It appears to emerge spontaneously whenever two human beings possess differing opinions and sufficient confidence. Long before religions acquired cathedrals, denominations, seminaries, or publishing houses, people had already mastered the art of declaring themselves correct.

For a full list of the 17 Great Themes of Theology™, see the essay

The pattern is older than recorded history. Ancient civilizations worshipped different gods, practiced different rituals, and explained the cosmos through different stories. Rarely did these differences lead communities to conclude that everyone possessed partial insight into a larger mystery. Far more often, they concluded that their gods were real and everyone else’s gods were either mistaken, inferior, or demonic (Armstrong, A History of God, 1993). Certainty is comforting. Uncertainty requires maintenance.

As religions grew, certainty became institutionalized. Creeds emerged. Heresies emerged shortly afterward. One group’s orthodoxy became another group’s error. Councils met to determine correct belief, sometimes producing conclusions that were accepted as eternal truths and sometimes producing new disagreements that required additional councils (MacCulloch, A History of Christianity, 2009). Theological history often reads like an endless sequence of people insisting that unity is extremely important, immediately followed by a schism.

I remember discovering this theme not in ancient history but in ordinary conversations. One church taught that baptism was essential. Another insisted that salvation occurred before baptism. One congregation emphasized free will. Another emphasized predestination. Each group quoted scripture confidently. Each group claimed historical support. Each group seemed genuinely surprised that the others remained unconvinced. Even as a child, it struck me as odd that an omnipotent deity apparently communicated with such precision that thousands of denominations arrived at mutually exclusive conclusions.

The Protestant Reformation demonstrated the remarkable reproductive capacity of I’m Right, You’re Wrong. Reformers challenged the authority of Rome partly because they believed Rome was wrong. Other reformers soon challenged the reformers because they believed the reformers were wrong. The process repeated with such enthusiasm that Christianity today contains thousands of denominations and independent traditions worldwide (Pew Research Center, Global Christianity, 2011). The search for one correct interpretation produced an astonishing abundance of correct interpretations.

One cannot help admiring the efficiency of the system. If a disagreement occurs, the explanation is available immediately. Those who agree with me have discerned the truth. Those who disagree have failed to understand it. Evidence becomes optional. Self-reflection becomes unnecessary. The possibility that both sides might be mistaken remains hidden behind a thick layer of conviction.

The theme also possesses a unique evolutionary advantage. Whenever a prediction fails, The Moving Goalposts of Revelation arrives to help. Whenever evidence proves inconvenient, The Mysterious Ways Escape Hatch appears. Whenever competing faiths present similar miracle claims, Miracles for Me, Magic for Thee enters the discussion. Like recurring characters in a theological cinematic universe, the great themes support one another.

Stories reveal the mechanism more clearly than doctrines. Imagine two neighboring churches sharing the same town, the same Bible, the same holidays, and often the same families. Ask who has interpreted scripture correctly and both congregations will answer with impressive confidence. Ask why sincere believers reach different conclusions and the explanations become wonderfully creative. The Holy Spirit guides their church. Tradition validates their church. History supports their church. Scholarship favors their church. Somehow, after centuries of prayer, study, and revelation, the universe continues producing fresh reasons why their church remains the exception.

Christianity is hardly unique in this regard. Islam experienced its own cycles of certainty and fragmentation. The Sunni and Shia divide began as a dispute over authority but evolved into centuries of theological, legal, and political differentiation, with each side developing traditions that affirmed its own legitimacy and understanding of the faith (Halm, Shi’ism, 2004; Lewis, The Middle East, 1995). Within Sunni Islam alone, multiple legal schools emerged, often disagreeing on important points while sharing the same scripture and prophet. The pattern is instantly recognizable. A revelation intended to unite believers gradually generates factions, schools, and interpretations, each convinced that it has preserved the authentic path while competitors have drifted, however slightly, from the truth.

Hinduism offers a different but equally revealing variation on the theme. Rather than producing a single orthodox structure, it generated a vast collection of philosophical systems, devotional movements, regional traditions, and competing understandings of the divine (Flood, An Introduction to Hinduism, 1996; Klostermaier, A Survey of Hinduism, 2007). Shaivites emphasized Shiva, Vaishnavites elevated Vishnu, Advaita philosophers defended nondualism, while others rejected their conclusions entirely. Despite dramatic differences, participants often employed the same scriptures, myths, and cultural heritage. The result resembles an enormous theological family reunion in which everyone agrees that the ultimate truth exists, but each branch of the family quietly suspects it occupies their particular corner of the seating chart. What changed from religion to religion was not the existence of certainty. What changed was the local accent.

Judaism presents a particularly old and well-developed version of I’m Right, You’re Wrong. The Second Temple period alone featured Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes, and other movements arguing over law, authority, divine action, and proper interpretation (Levine, Let’s Talk About Sects; Josephus, Jewish Antiquities). Rabbinic Judaism eventually emerged as the dominant heir to these debates, but the arguments never truly disappeared. Medieval rabbis disputed other rabbis. Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, Reconstructionist, and countless smaller movements continue to disagree on theology, scripture, and practice. What makes Judaism distinctive is that it often transformed disagreement into an enduring cultural institution. Few traditions have invested so much intellectual energy into arguing about who is right while simultaneously preserving the arguments for future generations. It is as if theology became a team sport, with the score carefully recorded for several thousand years.

Buddhism is often imagined as an exception, a tranquil refuge from doctrinal conflict where everyone quietly meditates beneath trees and nods in agreement. The historical record is less obliging. Following the Buddha’s death, disagreements over teachings, practice, discipline, and scripture contributed to the formation of multiple schools and traditions (Britannica, Buddhism: The Major Systems and Their Literature, 2026). Today, Theravada, Mahayana, and Vajrayana traditions share core teachings while differing on important questions regarding doctrine, enlightenment, authority, and practice (Lopez, Buddhism; Britannica, 2026). The disputes are often more polite than their counterparts elsewhere, but the underlying pattern remains familiar. Every tradition praises humility while somehow managing to preserve a detailed explanation of why its understanding of humility is the correct one. The saffron robe, it turns out, is just a different uniform in the same ancient competition.

The truly remarkable feature of I’m Right, You’re Wrong is that it provides psychological rewards regardless of outcome. If one’s beliefs are challenged and survive scrutiny, confidence increases. If the challenge succeeds, persecution narratives become available. If agreement is widespread, truth has prevailed. If agreement is scarce, faithfulness has prevailed. Every road leads back to validation.

Of course, believers are rarely informed about the deeper cosmic necessity of this arrangement. Maintaining a universe is difficult enough. Maintaining billions of people who all believe they possess exclusive access to ultimate truth is a genuine miracle. Somewhere beyond the observable cosmos, celestial referees must be working overtime. Angels undoubtedly process endless paperwork determining which denomination currently holds the correct understanding of predestination, baptism, communion, eschatology, and whether contemporary worship music counts as praise or noise pollution.

One imagines vast heavenly warehouses filled with superseded certainties. Entire shelves groan beneath discontinued doctrines that were once defended as unquestionable truth. Nearby sit crates of abandoned prophecies, retired interpretations, and emergency shipments of theological certainty awaiting redistribution to future generations. The inventory must be staggering. Yet somehow the supply never runs out. The one resource theology appears able to produce in unlimited quantities is confidence.

This is the curious feature of I’m Right, You’re Wrong. Followers are often encouraged to seek truth, but the practical reward frequently becomes certainty. Truth demands investigation. Certainty merely demands commitment. Truth tolerates questions. Certainty regards them as administrative errors. Truth can survive ambiguity. Certainty requires enemies.

And enemies are much easier to identify than answers.

References

• Armstrong, Karen. A History of God. Ballantine Books, 1993.
• MacCulloch, Diarmaid. A History of Christianity: The First Three Thousand Years. Viking, 2009.
• Pew Research Center. Global Christianity: A Report on the Size and Distribution of the World’s Christian Population. 2011.
• Flood, Gavin. An Introduction to Hinduism. Cambridge University Press, 1996.
• Halm, Heinz. Shi’ism. Edinburgh University Press, 2004.
• Klostermaier, Klaus K. A Survey of Hinduism. State University of New York Press, 2007.
• Lewis, Bernard. The Middle East: A Brief History of the Last 2,000 Years. Scribner,1995.
• Josephus. Jewish Antiquities.
• Levine, Lee I. “Let’s Talk About Sects.” My Jewish Learning. [myjewishlearning.com]
• Lopez, Donald S. Jr. Buddhism and Science: A Guide for the Perplexed. University of Chicago Press, 2008.
• Encyclopaedia Britannica. “Buddhism: The Major Systems and Their Literature.” 2026.