In a way, you could say that the writing of this book was inevitable. I’ve always been one to let curiosity get the best of me. On the playground as a child, I refused to use the space as it was intended the way other children did. I played on the roof, I played on the outside of the walls, I climbed up the support beams. I wasn’t inclined to be restricted by the ‘right’ way to interact with the space set out for me. This trend of individualism marked many important decisions in my life, from being an exchange student to Argentina, to where I decided to go after high school. Always interested in foreign languages, cultures, philosophy and religion, I eschewed the typical American campus experience, and went to study on the island of Malta, the Mediterranean island where St. Paul’s ship crashed on the way to Rome (thus Malta’s claim of being the very first converts to Christendom). After flirting with Art History, Latin and Greek, and European history, I settled on a dual major in Philosophy and Theology. The conflict between these two disciplines was the beginning of my interest (obsession) in ‘finding’ the real Jesus.
This interest did not arise out of some pre-conceived prejudice or animosity towards religion; in fact I had remained up until that point a lukewarm, if not sometimes overtly righteous Christian believer. However, certain discrepancies in my courses drew my curiosity towards alarming voids or gaps that no amount of reason could bridge, for which ‘faith’ was ultimately the only blindfold. While I was no stranger to the importance of faith, I was surprised to learn that the core of Christianity does not depend on faith in god, or heaven, or even Jesus – but rather on the historical person of Jesus Christ found in the gospels, an entity of tradition that is notoriously hard to pin down. I was taught that the Bible was historically inaccurate and written to express the beliefs o the community rather than their historical founder, and studied the controversies that had raged for centuries in the early church about such simple ideas like whether Jesus was human or divine; whether he had been born or crucified in the flesh or merely in spirit; and over his role, purpose and message – all of which continued to be debated. On the one hand, I attended Cristological lectures where priests expounded on the exact nature of Jesus’ physical composition (substance) and his relationship to the father and the Holy Ghost. On the other hand, in my philosophy classes I read Nietzsche, Kant, Camus, Shopenhower and Jung. I also found that most of Christ’s teachings were already present in the writings and traditions of Plato, Seneca, Philo of Alexandria, Pythagoras and others – before Jesus arrived on the scene.
At the same time, I discovered the perplexing parallels between biblical literature and ancient mythology.
Who was Jesus? I asked myself. How was he different from the other Jewish rebels of his time, or from the mythical figures he seemed to parallel?
I’ll admit, I was too curious. In matters of faith, there is a barrier that cannot be crossed. Somewhere in my studies, I began to doubt. I pushed, harder and harder, seeking evidence or proof that would support my faith. Where is the boundary? The foundations upon which my faith was built that would not crumble under an intense gaze? I found none. Instead, murmuring beneath the surface of a poorly cobbled ecclesiastical ‘history’, there was another story, difficult to comprehend at first but surprisingly easy to support: the figure of Jesus Christ had originally been a literary figure, which accidentally became viewed as a historical person by converts who had not received full instruction into the community. While the old theory of apostolic succession initiated by a historical founder was ferociously defended but inadequately evidenced, this new theory was silent; it drifted quietly, ignored by all, marginalized by the dialogue.
I was voracious in my excavation; my curiosity was insatiable. I traveled to Rome, then Egypt, and finally Israel. It is perhaps a great misfortune that the majority of Christians will never visit Jerusalem; it brings the entire story of Jesus’ ministry crashing down to earth, in a way that can be either jarring or edifying. I touched the wall of sorrows, I put my hand in the hole that held the cross, on the stone where his body was placed. I walked the path of the 14 stations of the cross. I did everything appropriate to a religious tourist. Later, in a museum in another part of Jerusalem, I learned that virtually no part of the modern city had existed during the time of Jesus Christ. The church had been built directly over a temple of Aphrodite that Emperor Constantine’s mother destroyed while searching for the true cross of Jesus (she found it, miraculous intact after several centuries). If Jesus had touched a wall, if there had been a rock, it wasn’t this wall or this rock. So closely reality recreates the projection of religious history it is nearly impossible to tell truth from fiction.
At about this time, a friend of the family gifted me a set of J.K. Rowling’s first 3 Harry Potter books. I’ll admit I ignored them for a few months; they seemed definitively childish. Sometime later, however, I picked up the first one out of boredom and began to read. I stayed up all night – and the next night after, until I’d finished all three books. Since then I’ve been, and remain, a passionate Harry Potter fan, and have eagerly anticipated the release of each new book for the past several years.
Never content with my level of knowledge and continuously spurred on by both the inadequacy of historical records and the absolute certainty of Christian believers, I began researching comparative mythology, world literature, and esoteric mysticism. I found that carefully preserved in both the Old and New Testaments were symbolic references and remnants of outside traditions. As a Harry Potter fan, it was also obvious that J.K. Rowling had cleverly used many of the same symbols throughout her novels.
It was particularly fascinating, especially in light of the controversy that surrounded the first three Harry Potter books (the religious criticism that Harry Potter promotes witchcraft and Satanism among children), that these ancient symbols were included in both the biblical tradition and Rowling’s magical series. This intriguing relationship became the material for my Master’s thesis: Mythical Influences on Formative Christian Literature and their Inclusion in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter Series.
Jesus Potter, Harry Christ extends that research by reopening a dialogue about who the historical Jesus was, and what the literary Jesus might mean in contemporary society.
This book is not intended as a criticism of religion, or of God, or even of Jesus Christ – as symbolic figure who continues to provide meaning and inspiration to many people. As far as possible, I’ve tried to refrain from making any kind of value-judgment or unrestrained opinion. I will not tell you that religion is bad or that you ought to give it up. In fact, I will make the argument that the literary (non-historical) Jesus is profoundly meaningful, and can actually increase the legitimacy of Christianity while decreasing intra-religious conflict. In return, I demand the right to treat the historicity of Jesus Christ in a secular manner, as a normal investigation of research; to be founded on credible evidence, deduction and logic. Although reason, logic and evidence may not be infallible, and may not be the best tools for spiritual growth, they are certainly practical and obvious tools for this particular endeavor – as they should be in any other historical inquiry. The attempt of an honest examination of historical records which may undermine the traditional account of Christianity should not make me a blasphemer.
Please note that this book is not mainly about Harry Potter but about religious history, astrological mythology, esoteric symbolism, and Jesus Christ. The title of this book merely refers to the central claim of this book, which is that Jesus Christ and Harry Potter have a lot in common; most exceptionally, the fact that they are both literary constructions, or in other words, fictional characters.
