The World's Oldest Anti-Christian Meme
I first came across the Alexamenos graffito back in Bible college in the early 2000s. It was one of those “fun facts” that gets dropped into a church history lecture and sticks with you — the ancient Roman equivalent of someone spray-painting an insult on a wall. I filed it away, thought it was fascinating, and largely forgot about it for two decades.
Then, recently, I discovered something about it I had never known. There’s a response to it. Scratched in a different room, in a different hand.
So I started digging into this more to verify the information and discovered more historical curiosities surrounding the graffiti than I ever knew existed which contextualises the image so much more than it just being a random insult using a donkey.
A Crude Drawing on a Wall
Sometime around the late second to early third century AD, someone scratched a picture into the plaster wall of a building on the Palatine Hill in Rome — part of what had once been a paedagogium, a kind of boarding school for imperial page boys. The building was eventually sealed off when the street was walled up to support extensions above it, which is why the graffiti survived at all. It wasn’t rediscovered until 1857.
The image is rough, almost childlike. To the left, a young man — clearly a Roman soldier or guard — raises one hand in a gesture of worship. Before him is a cross. And on that cross is a crucified figure with the head of a donkey.
Below it, written in Greek: Alexamenos worships his god.
It is, in the most literal sense, a mocking cartoon. Someone who knew a Christian named Alexamenos decided to ridicule him for his faith. The message is clear enough: your god is an animal, a criminal, a joke. You’re worshipping a crucified fool.
But here’s the thing I discovered: the donkey head wasn’t as random as I always thought it was. It wasn’t some strange personal insult conjured from nowhere. Without knowing the background, it looks bizarre, and possibly random. Why a donkey? Once you understand the cultural context, though, it makes complete sense. The person who drew it was reaching for a well-worn, widely recognised slur — the ancient equivalent of an internet meme that any Roman would have immediately understood.
Where the Donkey Slur Came From
The story starts not with Christians but with Jews. A first-century Egyptian-Greek writer named Apion (who was no friend of Judaism) spread the claim that inside the Jerusalem Temple, Jews kept a golden donkey’s head as a sacred object of worship which was apparently discovered when Antiochus Epiphanes destroyed the temple in 167 BC. It was a fabrication, and a fairly outrageous one, but it circulated widely enough that the Jewish historian Josephus felt compelled to write an entire refutation of it. His work Against Apion systematically dismantles Apion’s claims, calling the donkey story a shameless invention. But mud sticks, and in the Roman world, where anti-Jewish sentiment was common currency, the slur took on a life of its own.
When Christianity began to spread — seen by most Romans as simply a strange Jewish offshoot — the same accusation got recycled and redirected. By the second and third centuries, it was Christians specifically who were being accused of donkey-worship, and the charge had made its way into popular culture.
Tertullian, writing around 197–200 AD in his Ad Nationes, Book I.14 and Apology, describes a caricature being paraded around the streets of Carthage: a figure dressed in a toga, one foot holding a book, with donkey’s ears and hooves. It was labelled Onokoitēs by the pagans: “the donkey-begotten” (or literally “he who lies in an ass’s manger” as an insult to Christ). Tertullian writes about it with weary exasperation, sarcasm, and the tone of someone tired of having to address the same ridiculous smear again and again.
So the Alexamenos graffito wasn’t an original insult. It was someone deploying a culturally loaded shorthand that the entire Roman world already recognised. Which, if anything, makes it more historically significant — it shows us that these slurs weren’t confined to philosophical treatises or literary debate. They had filtered all the way down to bored workers scratching things onto walls.
“But Maybe It’s Just an Egyptian God?”
I should mention, because it comes up sometimes, that some people argue the donkey-headed figure could simply be a depiction of the Egyptian jackal-headed god Anubis, and therefore proves nothing about Christianity at all. A few 19th century scholars floated this idea, noting the visual similarity.
Not very donkey-like, if you ask me!
It doesn’t really hold up, for one simple reason: the inscription. Alexamenos worships his god is written right underneath the image, mocking a named individual. You can debate what the figure looks like in isolation, but the moment you read the caption, the Anubis interpretation collapses. This isn’t anonymous religious imagery — it’s a personalised taunt aimed at a specific person. And it sits within a broader documented culture of exactly this kind of anti-Christian mockery, in exactly this period, using exactly this imagery.
There’s a pattern worth recognising here. The argument “it could mean something else, therefore nothing can be proved” gets applied to a lot of early Christian evidence. Sometimes it’s genuine scholarly caution. But it can also become a way of perpetually moving the goalposts (especially by those who don’t want to accept the obvious conclusions). When you have the image, and the inscription, and the documented cultural context across multiple ancient sources, and the counter-inscription in the next room — at some point the evidence stacks up and is simply overwhelming. Individual pieces of evidence can be questioned. The whole collection of evidence is a different matter entirely.
And the centrepiece of all that mockery? The cross.
Paul Already Knew
Here’s what strikes me every time I look at this image: Paul could have described it himself, word for word, decades before it was drawn.
Writing to Corinth, he doesn’t dress it up: “For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing” (1 Corinthians 1:18). The Greek word is mōria — absurdity, stupidity, the kind of thing educated people laugh at. To the Greeks, a crucified saviour was intellectually embarrassing. To the Jews, it was a skandalon — literally the trigger of an animal trap, the thing that causes you to stumble and fall (1 Corinthians 1:23). It wasn’t just offensive, it was faith-wrecking. Deuteronomy 21:23 declared that anyone hung on a tree was under God’s curse, which meant a crucified Messiah didn’t merely seem unlikely; by the Law’s own terms, he appeared theologically disqualified. Paul addresses this head-on in Galatians 3:13, arguing that Christ became the curse on our behalf. He doesn’t sidestep the stumbling block; he walks straight into it and reframes everything. It’s worth noting too that our English word “scandal” traces directly back through Latin and Old French to skandalon — so every time someone calls something scandalous, they’re unknowingly reaching back to a Greek word for a snare and stumbling block, and beyond that, to the offence of the cross itself. Messiahs don’t get crucified. Gods don’t hang on crosses like common criminals.
The Alexamenos graffito isn’t just a historical curiosity, it’s basically
a visual illustration of exactly what Paul was describing. The person who scratched that image into the plaster was saying precisely what the philosophers of Corinth were saying: this is foolishness. This is offensive. You should be embarrassed.
And yet Paul doubles down. Not in spite of the offence, but because of it: “For the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than human strength” (1 Corinthians 1:25). The cross isn’t an unfortunate PR problem to be managed. It is, Paul insists, the very power of God. The thing that looks like weakness is the hinge of all of history.
That’s a scandalous claim. It was scandalous then, and still is even today for many people.
The Bit I Didn’t Know
Here’s where it gets really interesting. In another room of the same building, someone else by a different hand, a different ‘pen’, scratched their own inscription. In a mixture of Greek and Latin, it reads:
ΑΛΕΞΑΜΕΝΟϹ FIDELIS
Alexamenos is faithful. Or: Alexamenos the faithful.
Nobody knows for certain who wrote it. It may have been Alexamenos himself, pushing back against the mockery. It may have been a friend, or a fellow believer who saw the original and refused to leave it unanswered.
I only found out about this counter-inscription recently, despite knowing about the graffito for over twenty years. It reminded me of something strangely mundane and so very strange: the walls of British pub toilets.
You know the experience (or similar in school bathrooms etc if you’re not from Britain!). Someone writes something provocative in marker pen. Then someone else comes along with a different pen, maybe a week or so later and adds a retort underneath. A third person weighs in. A small, grimy, anonymous argument unfolds across a toilet wall, completely detached from the people who started it.
That’s essentially what we’re looking at here. Someone mocked Alexamenos. Someone else came along and in a different room, in a different hand, possibly at a different time, came back with: No. He’s faithful.
It’s so wonderfully human. And also quietly defiant.
What It Means for Us
There’s something deeply encouraging about this whole story, and I think it’s this: opposition to Christian faith has never been new, and neither has the faithfulness that meets it.
Alexamenos was being publicly humiliated for believing in a crucified God. He lived in a world where that belief marked you out as credulous, weak, socially embarrassing. The intellectual class sneered. The popular culture mocked. And somewhere on a wall in Rome, an image designed to shame him has survived nearly two thousand years.
But so has the response.
We don’t know who wrote “Alexamenos is faithful”. We don’t know his name, whether he was a soldier or a slave or a page boy who’d heard the Gospel and believed it. But he picked up something to write with and answered the mockery with a confession in a different room. Without fanfare.
That is, I think, exactly what faith looks like in the face of opposition. Not necessarily a grand public rebuttal. Sometimes just the quiet, stubborn refusal to let the last word be a sneer.
Paul knew this too. He didn’t pretend the cross was easy to defend. He acknowledged straight-faced that it looked like foolishness — and then proclaimed it anyway, because he had seen what it actually was.
The world hasn’t really changed its tune. The mockery takes different forms now — social media pile-ons instead of graffiti, polished scepticism instead of crude cartoons — but the message is largely the same: You believe in a crucified God. How embarrassing.
To which the only answer worth giving, then and now, is the same one scratched into that Roman plaster two millennia ago.
Be faithful.
Further Reading
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On Sunday it was St Andrew’s Day and I was in church listening to a sermon about Andrew (and the namesake of our church), that often overlooked disciple, meeting Jesus for the first time. In John’s Gospel, it says: John 1:40–42One of the two who heard John speak and followed him was Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother. He first found his brother Simon and said to him, ‘We have found the Messiah’… He brought Simon to Jesus. As I sat there listening to our vicar speak about evangelism and how we should be more like Andrew in bringing people to meet Jesus, something from many, many years ago flickered to life in the back of my mind. A realisation I had long ago that gave me a great sense of freedom. Something I think I had forgotten, unfortunately (so thank God for the reminder!). There was a point in my life when I finally understood the relief of letting go of a burden I didn’t even realise I was carrying: it’s not my job to convert people. It was never Andrew’s. And it’s not yours either. Our role — our real and most basic calling — is simply to introduce people to Jesus. We get to be the planters and the waterers, but God is the one who brings the growth. As Paul writes: 1 Corinthians 3:6I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth. When this truth sinks in, it strips away the pressure, the anxiety, and the awkward “sales-pitch” mentality that we sometimes (without realising it) attach to evangelism. And this ties into something even deeper: our basic calling as Christians is the Great Commission, Jesus’ final instruction to His followers: Matthew 28:19–20Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptising them… and teaching them… But it dawned on me that all of those actions: teaching, mentoring, discipling, baptising; they all come after someone has come to faith. We are not told to convert people. We are told to make disciples. Conversion is the doorway into discipleship, yes, but that moment of heart-opening and illumination belongs to God alone. Our job is simply to bring people to the Lord, to make the introduction. If they choose to stay, if they choose to follow then we begin the work of discipling, teaching, and baptising. Think of evangelism like inviting someone to a feast. We can bring someone to the meal, we can tell them how good it tastes, maybe even share how it changed our life… but whether or not they like the food is out of our control. That part isn’t up to us. Or to use an old expression: “you can lead a horse to water… but you can’t make it drink”. And honestly, that’s such a freeing realisation. It turns evangelism from a heavy responsibility into a joyful invitation: “Come and see.” “Come meet Him.” “Taste and see that the Lord is good.” That last phrase echoes the Psalm: Psalm 34:8O taste and see that the LORD is good. Andrew never argued Peter into belief. He never crafted an apologetic defence or theological persuasion. He simply said, “We’ve found the Messiah,” and he brought him to Jesus. That was enough. The rest was up to Jesus. And maybe that’s the model we need far more than we think. Evangelism isn’t a performance. It isn’t a debate. It isn’t a pressure. It’s an invitation. Once we realise that all the real work happens in the hands of God, it changes everything for us. It removes the fear. It removes the self-consciousness. It removes the burden of success or failure. Because there is no failure when your role is simply to point the way. So let’s be like Andrew: quietly faithful, gently invitational, always ready to say, “Come meet the one who changed everything for me”. Because at the end of the day, that’s all we were ever asked to do. ...
Luke J. Wilson | 05th May 2025 | Politics
When we think about David and Saul, we often focus on David’s rise to kingship or his battle with Goliath. But hidden within that story is a deep lesson for today’s generation about leadership, resistance, and the power of revolutionary love. At a recent youth training event (thanks to South West Youth Ministries), I was asked how I would present the story of David and Saul to a Christian teenage youth group. My mind turned to the politics of their relationship, and how David accepted Saul’s leadership, even when Saul had gone badly astray. David recognised that Saul was still God’s anointed king — placed there by God Himself — and that it was not David’s place to violently remove him. Gen-Z are more politically aware and engaged than previous generations, and are growing up in a world where politics, leadership, and social issues seem impossible to escape. We live in a world where political leaders — whether Trump, Putin, Starmer, or others — are often seen as examples of failed leadership. It’s easy to slip into bitterness, cynicism, or violent rhetoric. These kids are immersed in a culture of activism and outrage. As Christians, we’re called to care deeply about truth and justice and approach leadership differently from the world around us (Hosea 6:6; Isaiah 1:17; Micah 6:8). The story of David and Saul offers pertinent lessons for our modern lives. Respect Without Endorsement David’s respect for Saul was not blind loyalty. He did not agree with Saul’s actions, nor did he ignore Saul’s evil. David fled from Saul’s violence; he challenged Saul’s paranoia; he even cut the corner of Saul’s robe to prove he had the chance to kill him but chose not to. Yet throughout, David refused to take matters into his own hands by force. Why? Because David understood that even flawed authority ultimately rested in God’s hands, he trusted that God would remove Saul at the right time. This is echoed later in the New Testament when Paul writes in Romans 13 that “there is no authority except from God, and those authorities that exist have been instituted by God”, something even Jesus reminded Pilate of during his trial (John 19:10–11). In other words, even flawed leadership can be part of God’s bigger plan, whether for blessing or discipline. Even when leaders go bad, our call as believers is to maintain integrity, respect the position, and resist evil through righteousness — not rebellion. David and Saul: A Lesson in Respect and Restraint Saul was Israel’s first king — anointed by God but later corrupted by pride, fear, and violence. David, chosen to succeed him, spent years running for his life from Saul’s jealous rage. One day, David found Saul alone and vulnerable in a cave. His men urged him to strike Saul down and end the conflict. But David refused: “I will not raise my hand against my lord; for he is the Lord’s anointed.” (1 Samuel 24:10) Instead of killing Saul, David cut off a piece of his robe to prove he could have harmed him, but didn’t. In doing so, he demonstrated a real form of nonviolent resistance. He stood firm against Saul’s injustice without resorting to injustice himself, and acted in a way that could try to humble Saul instead. Peacemaking Is Not Passivity There is a modern misconception that peacemaking means doing nothing and just letting injustice roll all over us. But true biblical peacemaking is not passive; it actively resists evil without becoming evil. Interestingly, David’s actions toward Saul also foreshadow the type of nonviolent resistance Jesus later taught. When Jesus commanded His followers to turn the other cheek, go the extra mile, and love their enemies, he was not calling for passive submission but offering what scholar Walter Wink describes as a “third way” — a bold, peaceful form of resistance that uses what he calls “moral jiu-jitsu” to expose injustice without resorting to violenc...
Luke J. Wilson | 05th March 2025 | Lent
Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent, a season of repentance, fasting, and preparation for Easter in the Christian calendar. It is observed by many Western Christian traditions, including the Roman Catholic Church, Anglican Communion, Lutheran churches, and some Methodist and Reformed communities. The day falls 46 days before Easter Sunday and is always on a Wednesday. Origins and Historical Development The practice of Ash Wednesday can be traced back to the early centuries of Christianity, though its formal observance developed over time. The use of ashes as a sign of repentance has deep biblical roots, appearing frequently in the Old Testament. People would cover themselves with ashes as an outward sign of sorrow for sin and a desire to turn back to God (e.g., Job 42:6, Daniel 9:3, Jonah 3:6). By the 8th century, the imposition of ashes on the forehead became a common practice in the Western Church. Pope Urban II (r. 1088–1099) helped formalise Ash Wednesday as the official beginning of Lent, reinforcing the idea of a season of penitence leading up to Easter. The name “Ash Wednesday” itself comes from the tradition of marking the faithful with ashes, typically in the shape of a cross, while the priest or minister recites words such as, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return” (Genesis 3:19) or “Repent, and believe in the Gospel” (Mark 1:15). The Lenten Fast Fasting has always been a central aspect of Lent, and by the time of the Council of Nicaea (AD 325), a forty-day period of fasting before Easter had become a standard part of Church practice. This was based on the example of Jesus’ forty days in the wilderness (Matthew 4:1–2) and was intended to prepare believers spiritually for the Passion and Resurrection of Christ. Athanasius, the great bishop of Alexandria, regularly wrote paschal (Easter) letters to the churches to encourage fasting, self-control, and moderation during this period. His writings provide valuable insight into how Lent was observed in the early Church and confirm that the practice was well established long before later claims that it had pagan origins. In one of his letters, written around AD 332, he describes the structure of the Lenten fast: The beginning of the fast of forty days is on the fifth of the month Phamenoth [Ash Wednesday]; and when, as I have said, we have first been purified and prepared by those days, we begin the holy week of the great Easter on the tenth of the month Pharmuthi [Palm Sunday], in which, my beloved brethren, we should use more prolonged prayers, and fastings… — Athanasius, Letter III (c. AD 332) The early Lenten fast was stricter than modern observances. Many early Christians abstained not only from meat but also from dairy, eggs, and wine. In some traditions, believers ate only one meal per day, typically in the evening. While practices have evolved over time, the principle remains the same: Lent is a time of self-discipline, spiritual renewal, and preparation for Easter. Meaning and Observance of Ash Wednesday Ash Wednesday serves as a solemn reminder of human mortality and the need for repentance. The ashes, often made by burning the palm branches from the previous year’s Palm Sunday, symbolise both death and the hope of renewal in Christ. The day is also marked by fasting and abstinence in many traditions, such as within Roman Catholicism and Eastern Orthodoxy, the faithful are required to fast and to abstain from meat and dairy on various days. Many other denominations encourage similar practices or personal acts of self-denial as a way of focusing on spiritual growth. Churches hold special services where worshippers receive the imposition of ashes. The act is not merely ritualistic but is meant to be a public declaration of one’s commitment to turn away from sin and seek God’s grace. Greek Orthodox Yearly Fasting Calendar (2025). Fasting isn’t just for Lent! An Anglican Perspective The Ch...
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Luke J. Wilson | 25th August 2026 | William Lane Craig
If you’ve been on Christian social media this week, you’ve probably seen it: William Lane Craig — one of the most respected Protestant apologists of our time— flatly denying a core line of the Nicene Creed. In his own words, he does not believe or confess that the Son is eternally begotten from the Father in his divine nature. Human nature, yes. But divine? Nope. For a lot of readers, that’s a jarring sentence. Isn’t “eternally begotten of the Father” literally in the Creed we recite? How can someone who has spent decades defending the resurrection and the existence of God turn around and reject something so central? I want to walk through what’s actually going on here, because it’s more interesting — and older — than a single viral clip suggests. What Craig is actually rejecting The doctrine in question is called eternal generation: the idea that the Son is eternally derived from the Father, “begotten, not made,” sharing the Father’s nature without there ever being a time he didn’t exist. It’s not saying the Son had a beginning; it’s saying the Son’s very being is eternally from the Father, the way light is eternally from the sun. Craig has argued for years, most fully in his paper Is God the Son Begotten in His Divine Nature? (2019), that this idea owes more to Greek philosophical categories borrowed by the second-century Apologists than to anything the biblical writers themselves teach. He calls it a vestige of “Logos Christology” and prefers a model where Father, Son, and Spirit are simply co-equal and co-eternal, without one eternally generating another. William Lane Craig disavows the Nicene Creed Why I think this gets the history backwards Here’s where I’d push back, and where I think this whole debate needs a bit more historical texture than a viral post can give it. Long before Nicaea formalised its language, the earliest post-apostolic Christians were already working with something like what’s called the Monarchy of the Father (or Monarchical Trinitarianism) — a framework that takes the Father’s monarchia (his unique, self-existent source of divinity, or autotheos) seriously as the fountainhead from which the Son is begotten and the Spirit proceeds. This is worth distinguishing carefully from Monarchianism, the second/third-century heresy that collapsed the persons of the Trinity into one another to protect God’s oneness — the Monarchy of the Father is the orthodox opposite of that, affirming three distinct, co-eternal persons while still honouring the Father as their singular source. On this reading, the Son and Spirit aren’t lesser, but they do find the very source of their divinity in the Father — not as effects of a philosophical system layered onto scripture, but as a way of taking John’s own language (the Word who was with God and was God, yet distinct from “the Father”) with full seriousness. That’s the thing I think gets lost when eternal generation gets dismissed as a “leftover.” Logos Christology isn’t an embarrassing accretion — it’s arguably what John 1 is doing from verse one. The Church didn’t import that idea to explain the text; the text seems to be why the Church needed the idea. None of this makes Craig any less serious a thinker, and it’s worth saying plainly: this isn’t the first time he’s stepped outside Nicene orthodoxy — he’s made similar moves on Christ’s two wills (dyothelitism) in the past. But it is, I think, a real departure, not just a “minor unorthodoxy.” Why it matters beyond the argument It would be easy to turn this into another “gotcha” moment — ‘look, even the great apologist gets it wrong!’ I don’t think that’s the right response. Craig has done more than most to defend the reasonableness of the Christian faith to a sceptical world, and disagreeing with him on this doesn’t erase that. But it is a good reminder that ev...
Guest Author | 31st July 2026 | Prayer
Guest Post By Fiach OBroin-Molloy My own roots lie in the Catholic tradition, but my workbench has brought me into contact with Christians whose devotional lives differ from mine. I make Catholic rosaries, Anglican prayer beads and other forms of devotional beads by hand. That work has not taught me that distinctions between traditions do not matter. It has taught me that, beneath those distinctions, many of us know the same difficulty: we want to pray, but our attention is restless. I have travelled, lived and worked in a number of countries, from parts of Africa to countries further east. Again and again, I encountered beads or knotted cords held, counted or carried in prayer. The words, beliefs and purposes were not the same, and I would not flatten them into one vague spirituality. What stayed with me was the recurring human instinct to give devotion rhythm and weight—to let the body help the mind and heart remain present. For a Christian, however, that instinct is gathered into a particular faith—the faith confessed in the creeds. Our prayer is addressed to the God made known as Father, Son and Holy Spirit. It is shaped by Scripture and centred on Jesus Christ, the Word made flesh, crucified and risen. Prayer beads do not broaden that confession into something less definite. At their best, they help us stay with it. A faith that takes flesh seriously Christian prayer is never only an activity of the mind. We speak and sing. We stand, kneel and bow. We fold our hands, make the sign of the cross, and receive bread and wine. The Christian faith does not ask us to escape being embodied creatures. At its centre is the astonishing declaration that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us (John 1:14). Material things are not God, but they can serve our attention to God. That is the modest place in which I understand prayer beads. They do not create faith, improve the words of Scripture or make prayer more sincere. They simply give the hands something quiet to do while the heart and mind try to remain present. As a maker, I think about weight, texture, spacing and movement. A bead should pass naturally beneath the thumb. The cord or chain should be strong enough to be returned to repeatedly. A good set of prayer beads should not continually demand admiration for itself. Its purpose is to become quiet in the hand. Over time, beads polish, wood darkens and metal takes on the small marks of use. I rarely know the prayers that have been said with something I have made, but sometimes its wear tells me that it has been held often. That is a different kind of beauty from newness: not decoration, but evidence of return. What the hands bring to Scripture Lectio Divina invites us to read Scripture slowly and receptively. Luke J. Wilson has written much more fully about its four movements—reading, meditation, prayer and contemplation—and I would not try to redefine that teaching here. What interests me as a maker is the point at which a reader’s hand might support that attention. Most of us have become highly practised at moving quickly through words. We skim messages, headlines and pages, often looking for the next piece of information before we have received the one in front of us. Sacred reading asks something different. It asks us to stay. A bead introduces a small resistance to speed. It marks a pause and gives us somewhere to return when the mind has already hurried ahead. The Anglican prayer beads I make contain a cross, an invitatory bead, four cruciform beads and four groups of seven, often called weeks. I know that structure first through the work of my hands, not because I would presume to tell Anglicans how they ought to pray. What strikes me about it is its spaciousness: there are landmarks, passages and repeated opportunities to return to the cross. One possible practice would be to choose a short passage from the Gospels. At the cross, the reader might remember that Christ is the centre of the reading. ...
Luke J. Wilson | 29th July 2026 | Faith & Reason
��Pilate asked him, ‘What is truth?’ (John 18:38) What is “truth”? A question famously asked by Pilate to Jesus during his trial. Ironically, Pilate was speaking to the embodiment of Truth itself. John 14:6Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, and the truth, and the life.’ Here’s a little ‘riddle’ to think about while you read this; see if you agree or not: “all truth is fact, but not all facts are truth”. I’ll explain it at the end if you’re confused. Jesus is the ultimate Truth, but in a world and society that is becoming increasingly more relative, how do we test the truth and know what’s real or not? Especially with the sudden rise of AI video and photos getting more and more realistic, that old adage “the camera never lies” is completely false now. This makes sifting and filtering facts from fiction on social media all the more difficult. Memes and images are shared stating claims bluntly and authoritatively as truth, which people just assume are accurate and then share it hundreds of thousands of times. Truth has been replaced by opinion masquerading as truth. “Your truth”, “my truth”, “their truth”. But we can’t just blindly accept everything we see and are told. We must use our brains, check the sources and use our reasoning. God gave us intellect and reasoning to be used. In Isaiah 1:18, God invites us to come and reason together with him. We don’t follow a blind faith, we’re never asked to believe “just because”. The Old Testament is full of times when the historical examples of God’s actions are used as an anchor and reason for faith, and the same is true in the New Testament where we have the Gospels as eyewitness accounts, rooted in history. Paul writes to say that 500 people saw the risen Christ and that many are still alive so you can go and verify it for yourself and that he is passing on what he received from trusted people. The resurrection itself is grounded in it being a real event that if shown otherwise would make our faith “futile” and that we would be people to be most pitied. 1 Corinthians 15:17“If Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile and you are still in your sins.” So with this in mind about our faith being grounded, all the more we should aim to do the same in other aspects of our lives. “Do your own research” is a common mantra online, but that in itself isn’t just Googling something and taking the first result that pops up. Especially now as most search engines give an AI overview first, which is just a compilation of the top results, not anything verified or fact-checked. And top results don’t always mean best results, or even accurate results. It typically just means the best keyworded and SEO-optimised result, which could be anything. To properly research, you must know which are trusted sources, reputable websites as well as looking up people who are experts and authorities in their fields. Now this doesn’t always mean they are right but at least you’ll be better informed to make up your own mind and make decisions based on well-researched information, rather than the first blog you find online, or the most viewed YouTube video with someone yelling “facts” at you. Doing your own research means doing the leg-work in tracing down sources and footnotes and citations to see who said what and where it originated to ensure its faithful and trustworthy, and used in context. The answer and example of the riddle The “Black Swan Problem” Strictly speaking, it highlights the difference between observed facts and absolute truth: The “Fact” (at the time): For thousands of years, every recorded, verified observation of a swan in Europe was white. As far as European zoologists were concerned, “all swans are white” was a well-documented, empirically backed fact. The Truth: Millions of black swans were happily swimming around in Western Australia. The truth was always that black swan...
Luke J. Wilson | 27th July 2026 | Archaeology
In early July 2026, Egypt’s Ministry of Tourism and Antiquities announced something pretty amazing: an entire Byzantine-era city, buried beneath the sands of the Dakhla Oasis, had been uncovered almost intact! Streets, homes, bread ovens, a fortress, and at its heart, a fourth-century basilica church. That might not seem very exciting on first glance. But this find deserves a closer look, because it puts flesh on something we usually only encounter in the abstract: what it actually looked like when Christianity took root, house by house, in an ordinary town far from the centres of imperial power. What Was Found The excavation, carried out by an Egyptian mission under the Supreme Council of Antiquities at the Ain El-Sabil site in the New Valley Governorate, roughly 185 miles west of Luxor, has been underway for several seasons. According to Hisham El Leithy, secretary-general of the Supreme Council of Antiquities, the settlement was laid out on a deliberate grid — north-south thoroughfares crossed by east-west streets, forming open squares and public spaces. This wasn’t a huddle of huts; it was a planned town. At the centre of that plan stood a basilica church dating to the mid-fourth century AD, overlooking one of the main streets. Around it, archaeologists found the remains of two watchtowers, a heavily fortified structure with thick defensive walls, and houses with spacious reception halls and vaulted roofs — complete with bread ovens, kitchens, and grinding stones for processing grain. Everyday life, preserved almost exactly as it was left. Two houses stand out that have been identified. One belonged to a man named Tisous,* identified as a church deacon, dating to the second half of the fourth century. The other belonged to a man named Tabibos. Over a thousand years later and we know the name of who owned a house and a home-church; I always find it fascinating! Archaeologists believe Tabibos’s house, which dates to the early fourth century, functioned as a house church before the basilica was ever built. A collection of coins bearing Byzantine emperors, Christian symbols and Latin inscriptions was uncovered during the excavation. (Egyptian Ministry of Tourism and Antiquities via Facebook; Dea Picture Library/De Agostini via Getty Images) There’s also a documentary find that’s easy to skim past but genuinely significant: nearly 200 ostraca — broken pieces of pottery and limestone used as everyday writing material — inscribed in Coptic and Greek. Diaa Zahran, head of the Islamic, Coptic and Jewish Antiquities Sector, described them as recording sales transactions, correspondence, and other mundane details of daily life. Things we rarely get a glimpse into as the mundane rarely makes history. Alongside these, the mission recovered a substantial haul of bronze coins bearing Byzantine emperors and Christian symbols, plus gold coins from the reign of Constantius II (337–361 AD) — coinage that anchors the site’s prosperity firmly within the fourth century. Before the Basilica: The House Church at Ain El-Sabil What makes Tabibos’s house the most theologically interesting part of this discovery is timing. If it predates the basilica and dates to the early fourth century, it sits right at — or just before — the pivot point of Roman-Egyptian Christian history: the years surrounding Constantine’s Edict of Milan in 313 AD, when Christianity moved from a persecuted minority faith to a tolerated, and increasingly favoured, one. A time of transition between a house church and a purpose-built basilica when the threat of persecution no longer loomed over the Church. We know from Paul’s letters that the earliest churches met in homes — Romans 16:5 greets “the church in [Prisca and Aquila’s] house,” and similar greetings appear in 1 Corinthians 16:19 and Colossians 4:15. If we were to imagine how a letter from Paul to this house church might...
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