To better understand how belief systems form and work in practice, let’s examine a pivotal historical moment. Martin Luther’s stand against religious authority at Worms provides a compelling case study of how belief systems work, conflict, and change. It highlights the strength and limits of impassioned beliefs. This example is attractive because it has elements of bravery and huge consequences. It caused a deep division in Christendom and also influenced modern thought.

On April 19, 1521, the young monk Martin Luther entered the city of Worms, standing in a simple two-wheeled cart pulled by a common farm horse. The Holy Roman Emperor Charles V had summoned him to appear for what amounted to a heresy trial. Charles had strong reasons for confronting Luther. Four years earlier, Luther had nailed ninety-five theses to the cathedral door in Wittenberg, attacking the spiritual authority of the Church of Rome. Although Luther was then relatively unknown, his theses had swept rapidly through Europe, aided by the recently invented printing press. By the time he reached Worms, his fame had grown so much that two thousand vocal supporters accompanied him.

The emperor, alarmed that the young monk’s defiance threatened to rend the Christendom he was divinely appointed to rule, had ordered Luther to appear and account for his teachings. The proceedings opened with an examination of Luther’s writings by learned papal emissaries, who quickly proved his errors and commanded him to recant. Luther hesitated, then made his famous declaration: "I will recant nothing. Here I stand, I cannot do otherwise."^[17]

Furious, the emperor let Luther leave under safe conduct. But, on May 6, he published the Edict of Worms. It declared Luther a heretic. Authorities were to condemn his followers, and his books were to be "eradicated from the memory of man."^[18] Luther was promptly excommunicated, but remained defiant: "As they excommunicated me for the sacrilege of heresy, so I excommunicate them in the name of the sacred truth of God. Christ will judge whose excommunication will stand.”^[19] Luther, a tiny figure, just five feet tall and under a hundred pounds, stood unprotected before the mighty emperor. His fearlessness became an iconic example of a true believer, ready to pay any price for his convictions. Shortly after Luther left Worms, the emperor sent soldiers to kill him, but Frederick the Wise, Elector of Saxony, offered refuge. At Frederick’s castle in Wartburg, Luther spent nearly a year in hiding.

How should we feel about Luther’s conduct at Worms? Luther’s steadfastness became a blueprint for believers. They must "take a stand," "hold to their beliefs," "defend their position," and "keep their ground" against the inevitable challenges from nonbelievers. The imagery is potent: people armed only with their convictions, facing opponents with superior power. There are many similar examples throughout history. Here are a few:

Is this kind of uncompromising conviction something we should admire and celebrate? How do we distinguish between admirable moral courage and wreckless, futile inflexibility?

Luther’s clash with Emperor Charles V reveals an important aspect of belief systems: they often define themselves by what they oppose. Luther’s stance gained power and clarity because it stood against the established authority of the Catholic Church. Without this opposing force, his beliefs might have stayed a personal opinion. Instead, they became the spark for a movement that reshaped Western Christianity. This pattern—​of beliefs gaining definition and strength through what they oppose—​appears consistently across religious and secular belief systems alike. Let us explore how opposition functions as an essential component of belief formation and maintenance.

Collective action can be facilitated by aligning the beliefs of many individuals. To align beliefs, adherents must agree on an ultimate authority that governs their belief system. This ultimate authority can take the form of a sacred text, a community, or a single leader. When a single person is in control of a belief system, they can exact extraordinary power and influence over their followers.

The concept of locus of control is important to understanding how belief systems can shape human behavior. Developed by Julian B. Rotter in 1954, locus of control refers to an individual’s perceived source of control over their own actions and life events. Those with an internal locus of control believe that they have agency and control over their own choices, while those with an external locus of control feel that their actions are largely determined by external forces.

In part to bolster his power, Charles V closely allied with the Roman Catholic Church. He relied on religious unity to govern his vast realms, which were otherwise unified only by his own person. As Charles V needed the support of the Catholic Pope to retain his crown as Emperor, he had little choice but to issue the Edict of Worms, condemning Martin Luther. For Charles V, his tremendous investment in the Catholic belief system was so deep-rooted that he could hardly even notice his choice to adhere to it. This reflects an external locus of control, where the adherent regards themselves as compelled to act in accord with the belief system. This strong sense of belonging and the perceived need to defend the belief system from external threats can lead to a willful ignorance of one’s own choice to be a belief system subscriber.

Luther exercised a modicum of internal locus of control by breaking with Catholicism. He believed that common practices of the Catholic Church contradicted Biblical teachings. As an Augustinian monk and theology professor, Luther was troubled by the Catholic Church’s sale of indulgences—​documents that supposedly reduced punishment for sins in purgatory. The practice reached new heights when Pope Leo X authorized the sale of indulgences to fund the construction of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. Luther saw this as exploiting poor Christians and undermining true repentance and faith. Luther argued that salvation came through faith alone (sola fide) and that the Bible, not Church tradition, was the only source of religious authority (sola scriptura).

Frederick the Wise arranged for Luther’s protection as he fled Worms. A group of knights secretly transported Luther to Frederick’s Wartburg Castle, where he would spend the next year in hiding from Emperor Charles V. During this period of isolation, which Luther called his "exile," he undertook his most significant work: translating the Bible from its original Hebrew and Greek into German. This translation would not only make scripture accessible to common people but would also help establish Luther’s dialect as the standard form of the German language.

During Luther’s time at Wartburg, his personal struggles shaped his theology. In one famous incident, feeling tormented by doubts about his faith, Luther believed he saw Satan’s presence in his chamber. According to legend, he hurled an inkwell at what he perceived to be the devil’s shadow, leaving a mark that some visitors claim can still be seen today. This dramatic moment symbolized Luther’s ongoing internal battles with faith and doubt. In his writings, he frequently discussed these spiritual challenges, which he called Anfechtung (temptation or spiritual trial). Luther described himself as simul justus et peccator—simultaneously justified and a sinner. This concept reflected his belief that even the most faithful person continues to struggle with sin while being saved through faith.

As Luther developed his theology, he became increasingly skeptical of using human reason alone to understand divine matters. "When I am told that God became man," he wrote, "I can follow the idea, but I just do not understand what it means."^[22] This humble admission reveals a different side of Luther than the bold reformer who confronted the Catholic Church at Worms. Behind his public defiance was a man struggling with deep questions about faith, reason, and human nature. His greatest battle was not against the Church of Rome but against his own doubts—​a struggle that would influence Protestant theology for centuries to come.

Luther’s internal struggle reflected his effort to bound his belief system. With some awareness of his internal locus of control, the boundary was not firm. During his time at Wartburg Castle and afterward, he worked hard to decide which beliefs to keep and which to reject. Scholars distinguish two versions of Luther: the "early Luther" who questioned everything, and the later Luther whose ideas became more rigid—​ironically similar to the Catholic teachings he had once rejected.

As time went on, Luther’s locus of control shifted from internal to external in the sense that his decisions relied on the belief system that he developed when he was younger. His older self came to rely on the authority of his younger self. The final stage in this process can occur when people forget that they chose to accept the external authority in the first place. Yet the very fact that we need to put limits on our beliefs is a tacit admission that a part of us wants to explore beyond those limits. This means that no matter how firmly we hold our beliefs, we always have the ability to reclaim authorship over our beliefs rather than accepting what others tell us.

Luther’s intellectual wrestling had far-reaching effects on later philosophers and thinkers. Søren Kierkegaard studied Luther’s works extensively. He developed his idea of existential anxiety from Luther’s writings. This theme of inner conflict resonated with generations of thinkers. Friedrich Nietzsche, the son of a Lutheran pastor, explored similar themes of anxiety and self-doubt. Martin Heidegger, a former Catholic seminarian, and Jean-Paul Sartre, a grandnephew of theologian Albert Schweitzer, both built on this in their philosophical works. Even Freud’s theories on the unconscious mind echo Luther’s insights about internal struggle.

Looking back, Luther’s brave stand against Catholicism seems admirable. Its corruption and oppression were vast. The Protestant Reformation promoted needed reform. But as Luther’s self-doubt diminished, Protestantism ossified into just another faith. The two faiths squared off for centuries of conflict. Neither Catholicism nor Protestantism could define the Christian religion—​despite each tradition’s intentions to do exactly that. These systems represent only two of countless interpretations. Since the New Testament, such interpretations have risen, declined, and vanished. Yet, the religion endures with vitality. This suggests that religion transcends belief systems. We won’t try to define religion here (we’ll tackle that in the next chapter). But it suffices to say that Christianity largely consists of an ongoing attempt to understand itself. That is, Christianity resists full understanding, not only by its critics but, more importantly, by its own followers.

Throughout history, miracles have played a significant role in establishing divine authority. A miracle is generally understood as an event that appears to defy natural laws. But its significance extends far beyond the mere supernatural occurrence. Miracles shape belief systems, they can be manipulated for political purposes, and their power often derives from their meaning to believers rather than from their historical accuracy.

Religious traditions often view miracles as divine acts beyond scientific explanation. The New Testament says Jesus healed the sick and walked on water. These stories challenge beliefs about what is possible. Miracles represent more than supernatural events. When people see the impossible, they often seek explanations that align with their beliefs. Many interpret miracles as evidence supporting their faith. Early Christians saw Jesus’s reported resurrection as proof of his divinity. Miracles can also push people to question their existing worldview and expand their sense of what is possible.

Many religious traditions view miracles as divine communication. But the power of miracles to strengthen belief has not gone unnoticed by those seeking political advantage. Leaders have often used miracles to justify their power. Leaders who can associate themselves with miraculous events can claim a mandate that transcends human judgment. Roman emperors claimed divine ancestry and supernatural powers to legitimize their rule. Medieval kings asserted they had healing powers to strengthen their authority. The Nazis spread stories about Hitler’s mystical abilities. North Korean media claimed supernatural signs marked their leaders' births. These manufactured miracles often serve cynical political aims.

Distinguishing real miracles from invented ones is rarely simple. Written records often have gaps or biases. Even people who witness events firsthand can misremember or misinterpret what they saw. Historians and skeptics often focus on whether miraculous events actually occurred. But the psychological and social evidence suggests a different measure of importance. What shapes people’s beliefs and actions is the impact of a miracle story on their lives. Real or not, these stories can deepen religious faith, change how people see the world, and guide their choices. Their power comes not from historical accuracy but from their ability to satisfy the human need for meaning.

Miracles occupy a unique position at the intersection of religion, politics, and human psychology. Their power derives not only from being supernatural. It also comes from meeting basic human needs of meaning, transcendence, and order in a chaotic world. Miracles are an important ingredient in how humans construct meaning and authority.

Our psychology includes several tendencies that can strengthen extreme confidence in beliefs. These mental shortcuts impair our critical thinking skills. They stop us from evaluating ideas carefully. One significant psychological tendency is how we treat supposedly divine knowledge.

Ideas we believe come from divine sources hold special status in our minds. When we think a concept came from a higher power, we treat it differently than ordinary human thoughts. Moses receiving the Ten Commandments is a prime example. Many view these tablets as perfect divine wisdom rather than human-created laws. Thomas Jefferson similarly wove divine and natural law into the Declaration of Independence, giving it an aura of perfection. Artifacts with supposed divine origins seem pure and free from human error. This perception can shut down our critical thinking. After all, why question something if God provided it? This creates a mental barrier against examining such ideas with normal scrutiny. While divine inspiration places certain ideas beyond criticism, our pattern-seeking behavior also reinforces existing beliefs through everyday experiences.

Humans naturally see patterns, even in random events. This tendency, called apophenia, can strengthen beliefs. A person who supports a certain political party might see a red cardinal outside their window and interpret it as a sign confirming their views. A random bird sighting transforms into a meaningful message supporting what they already believe. This pattern-seeking connects random coincidences to our personal stories. We find signs everywhere that seem to validate our existing beliefs, creating a self-reinforcing cycle. Our individual tendency to see confirming patterns grows stronger within communities that share our worldview.

Communities form around shared beliefs, creating powerful social structures that discourage critical analysis. Cultural traditions often treat certain texts or ideas as divine revelations. Social bonds help communities trust received wisdom without question. When Joseph Smith claimed to receive golden plates from an angel, his followers accepted this revelation and formed a community around these beliefs. People often adopt beliefs to maintain harmony within their social groups. Questioning core ideas risks ostracism. This pressure leads people to accept group beliefs without thinking critically. They prioritize fitting in over independent thought. These social dynamics strengthen belief not only through external pressure but also by providing internal psychological rewards.

Turning off critical thinking provides comfort. The belief that human reasoning cannot challenge divine truth removes the burden of doubt. Certainty feels good. It provides clear direction and eliminates the anxiety of questioning important beliefs. When we convince ourselves that our viewpoints come from a higher source or reflect universal truth, we no longer need to wrestle with uncomfortable doubts. Together, these interlocking psychological mechanisms—​divine attribution, pattern recognition, community reinforcement, and comfort in certainty—​create a strong barrier to critical thinking.

These psychological tendencies can strengthen belief. Ideas gain special status, random events seem to confirm them, communities reinforce them, and the comfort of certainty makes us resist questioning them. Understanding these mechanisms can promote humility about our own certainties. Recognizing these patterns in ourselves helps us approach others' beliefs with greater empathy. We all share these same psychological tendencies.

Modern science is built on a powerful idea: nature follows consistent rules. When Newton watched the famous apple fall, he realized the same force pulls planets into orbit. This predictability led scientists to develop the concept of determinism. Every scientific breakthrough has strengthened this idea. Chemical reactions always yield the same products under identical conditions. Genetic codes determine physical traits. Even random-seeming gas movements follow precise mathematical laws.

Scientists found that knowing starting conditions and rules leads to accurate predictions. This predictability has driven countless innovations. It has helped us launch spacecraft and develop life-saving medications. Quantum physics shows some uncertainty at small scales. But determinism is central to understanding cause and effect in our physical world.

What role does determinism play in scientific discovery itself? Lucky accidents or unexplained hunches seem to contribute to many scientific discoveries. We offer Alexander Fleming’s discovery of penicillin and Einstein’s vision of general relativity as case studies. We will show that many events beyond their control increased the odds of their discoveries.

If scientists stumble onto discoveries due to a series of past events and subconscious processes, why do we treat them like heroes? Along these lines, Isaac Newton remarked: "If I have seen farther, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants." We might as well celebrate someone for winning the lottery. Scientific discoveries benefit society. But we may over-glorify individual scientists. Discoveries depend both on earlier work and luck.^[25]

Both scientific knowledge and divine knowledge are types of knowledge. But scientific claims are easier to verify through observation and testing. This makes our appreciation of scientific discoveries more defensible than the adoration of those who claim divine knowledge. But if we overpraise scientists, how much praise do those who claim divine knowledge deserve? After all, both might result from factors beyond individual control.

Believers can think they have reached complete understanding. They may feel they have nothing left to learn. Beliefs may contain knowledge and even profound insights. But claiming complete understanding assumes a certainty that even knowledge itself cannot have.

Galileo’s trial showed this tension clearly. Pope Urban VIII did not equate, but went further and reversed the roles of knowledge and belief. He dismissed Galileo’s scientific findings as false while elevating his own religious views to the status of knowledge. This enraged Galileo. He didn’t dispute the content of the pope’s beliefs but objected to confusing belief with knowledge. But such fine distinctions were lost on the pope. Urban VIII engaged in motivated reasoning—​starting with his desired conclusion and working backward to support it.

Galileo approached beliefs with deference yet emotional detachment. As a critical thinker, he understood that knowledge can be corrected. But beliefs often resist change. This shaped his response to persecution. Unlike Martin Luther’s bold stand, Galileo saw no need for such resistance. His beliefs were flexible. And scientific knowledge doesn’t require defense since it remains open to revision.

This highlights a key difference between knowledge and belief systems. Belief systems mature to be comprehensive and final. Science stays open to new discoveries and changes. True knowledge welcomes correction and improvement. Galileo recognized that avoiding discoveries that might challenge current ideas was foolish.

How someone receives information reveals their mindset—​knower or believer. Knowers have no personal stake in past claims. Believers quickly defend their positions. The test is simple: knowers welcome correction while believers resist it. The knower says, "This is my current understanding; I await your response to check its truth." The believer declares, "This is my truth; I await your recognition of it."

Inherent in divine revelation is that we cannot predict what will be revealed to us. Received beliefs must come from outside ourselves, from a higher authority. Consider Moses on Mount Sinai. If Moses had merely sought divine approval for his own laws, we wouldn’t call it true revelation. Instead, divine authority called him to receive specific laws directly. This raises an important question: If we can receive one set of divine truths, what prevents further revelations that modify or replace the first? History shows this can happen.

Every received belief contains some uncertainty. We cannot know what further revelations might come or how our understanding might change. Belief is not privileged over knowledge. Despite what believers feel or claim, both belief and knowledge are uncertain. If we recognize higher ignorance, we accept there will always be limits to our understanding. This principle applies to both knowledge and revealed belief.

What comes after conversion or divine revelation? However inspiring the new insight or the awakening may be, we must receive it and act upon it, not ignore and discard it. We must incorporate it into our person for it to have meaning. Consider the story of Paul from the Bible. He didn’t choose to have his famous vision of Christ on the road to Damascus. But he made the decision to completely change his life afterward. In his letters to early Christian communities, Paul urged others to embrace this new way of living. The vision alone wasn’t enough; it was the beginning of his journey.

Where does this sentiment show more than in Jonathan Edwards' 18th-century New England sermons? In 1742, the famous preacher delivered his now-classic sermon, "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God," in Enfield, Connecticut. In this powerful speech, Edwards wrestled with a contradiction. He insisted that only God decides who gets salvation. Yet, he urged his listeners to pursue their inner growth. He likened this quest to miners seeking precious metals. He urged people to work hard for spiritual understanding.^[27] Salvation may come from God, but we must actively choose to accept and maintain it. We might be chosen, but we also choose to be chosen. And not choose it once, but over and over.

These examples come from Christianity. But the same principle appears in other religions. In Buddhism, the Buddha taught that suffering comes from desire and striving. But he taught his followers that they must make a determined effort to cease striving. Similarly, while Moses received the Ten Commandments from God, people still had the freedom to choose whether to follow or ignore these laws. This shows us that beliefs—​whether religious, political, or personal—​are not imposed on us. Not even the most persuasive speaker or leader can make us believe something without our cooperation.

Hence, belief is a thoroughly voluntary act. While the initial inspiration might come from an unexpected source, what we do with that inspiration is entirely up to us. This makes belief a moral choice, as we select not just what we believe, but an entire framework of values and principles that will guide our actions. Some might argue that, when faced with a choice, we are just doing what is "necessary" or "required." But that overlooks the fact that, before any action, we chose to accept a belief system that makes those actions seem necessary. The consequences of these choices ripple outward, affecting both our own lives and the lives of others. Our beliefs are more than abstract thoughts. They are the blueprints from which we construct our actions and shape our world. Understanding that our beliefs are voluntary helps us recognize our responsibility for the actions that flow from them.

Belief systems typically provide clear moral guidelines. When we wholeheartedly accept a mature belief system, it largely defines our sense of right and wrong. Following strict rules can seem to eliminate the need for personal moral judgment. The criminal justice system is an example.

Court officials can follow established procedures instead of weighing each case on moral grounds. A judge who uses mandatory minimums doesn’t need to agonize over the appropriate punishment—​the system has predetermined it. This can provide consistency and reduce the emotional burden on decision-makers. But it poses a risk. Believers may feel free from higher moral judgment. They may assume their actions are righteous since they obey. Mandatory sentencing laws sometimes force judges to impose harsh, unfair penalties. Focusing on procedures can overshadow questions about whether the laws themselves are just. Some discretion remains through plea bargaining, judicial interpretation, and jury nullification. Yet, tension persists between rule-following and moral judgment.

How we judge right and wrong often depends on our community. Within a community, certain behaviors may seem perfectly acceptable. But the same conduct may appear immoral from an external perspective. Good people can inadvertently become complicit in the immoral or even evil actions of the larger group with which they identify.

The behavior of German citizens during Hitler’s rule demonstrates this problem. While many Germans didn’t know about all the Nazi crimes, they knew their government was doing terrible things. They faced a difficult choice: resist and risk punishment, or live quietly while sharing blame for their nation’s acts. A railroad worker might ensure that trains run on time but might turn a blind eye to the cargo he transports. A mother might avoid helping Jewish neighbors to protect her children. In such cases, the veneer of moral conduct masks a deeper complicity.

The maturity of belief systems can lull adherents into a false sense of moral righteousness. True moral behavior requires us to question our beliefs, resist group pressure, and accept responsibility for how our actions affect others.

Throughout this section, we’ve seen how believers seek the comfort of certitude. They attribute ideas to divine sources to place them beyond criticism. They see confirming patterns in random events. They form communities that discourage questioning. They mistake beliefs for knowledge and resist correction. They create boundaries that limit their thinking while pretending these boundaries don’t exist. They submit to authorities who reinforce their convictions. They pursue rigid moral codes that eliminate the need for judgment. Each of these mechanisms offers the tempting comfort of certainty. But they also impair critical thinking. Is deep and abiding faith compatible with uncertainty and risk? The Apostle Paul suggests it is.

Though deeply convinced in his faith, he expressed this sense of risk and mystery. He declared that nothing could separate him from God’s love. But acknowledged human limitations in understanding divine truth: "Now we see in a glass darkly, then face to face" (1 Corinthians 13:12). The glass Paul refers to was actually a crude metal mirror of his time, producing only vague, unclear reflections. This metaphor emphasizes how our current understanding is partial and imperfect.

Almost eighteen centuries later, philosopher Søren Kierkegaard echoed this idea of faithful uncertainty in his famous phrase, the "leap of faith." Many imagine this leap as a simple jump to a safe place. But Kierkegaard never promised a safe landing. The leap was an embrace of uncertainty. He compared the believer to a swimmer in an endless ocean, seventy thousand fathoms deep. It was a powerful image of faith in vast uncertainty. There is no inherent conflict between faith and higher ignorance. On the contrary, faith can help us cope with uncertainty.

Embracing uncertainty requires courage—a virtue often overlooked in discussions of belief. When we acknowledge the limits of our understanding, we step away from the safe harbor of absolute certainty into rougher waters. This courage allows us to hold beliefs while remaining open to growth and correction. It lets us act based on what we believe while humbly recognizing that we might be wrong. Unlike the false comfort of certitude, which builds walls against doubt, courage turns toward uncertainty. In this way, the most profound faith is not the one that eliminates questions, but the courageous one that persists despite them. Paul and Kierkegaard remind us that the path to wisdom often requires the courage to embrace uncertainty rather than flee from it.

Hadrian built his famous wall across northern England in 126 CE. This massive project took four years to complete. The Romans needed to protect their territory from fierce tribes beyond the wall.

Romans were skilled rulers who knew how to maintain peace. They allowed some local customs to continue. They built roads and markets to encourage trade. They constructed grand theaters with advanced technology. They promoted the arts throughout their territories.

Hadrian himself loved music and the arts. He worked hard to spread Roman culture. The Romans established schools and trained craftspeople. They celebrated athletes and sporting events. They taught Latin as both the official and cultural language. Their law system was strict but fair. It applied to everyone equally. The Romans had much to protect from northern invaders.

But Hadrian’s Wall was more than a defensive structure. It served two key purposes in Roman society. First, it kept out dangerous attackers. Second, it defined what it meant to be Roman.

Everyone in the empire knew their place in society. They might be slaves, government officials, senators, or soldiers. Roman citizenship depended on these clear boundaries. If the wall failed, Romans would lose more than their safety. They would lose their identity.

These strong borders were vital to Roman life. Their property, families, and political positions depended on them. Their business dealings and future plans required stability. Even the Roman God of boundaries, Terminus, was said to be unmovable once he chose his place. This focus on borders reveals a deeper truth about Roman society.

Roman society needed enemies to define itself. Without someone to guard against, the wall would have been mere decoration. The Romans sometimes provoked conflicts with outside groups. Being Roman only made sense in contrast to being barbarian.

The word barbarian came from how foreign languages sounded to Romans: "bar-bar-bar" (like "blah-blah-blah"). Without barbarians, Romans couldn’t even be sure what counted as proper speech. Yet, this distinction wasn’t merely external.

These boundaries existed within people too. Romans had to guard against internal barbarism just as they guarded their physical borders. Each Roman citizen lived with this inner conflict. To be Roman meant having impulses that required ongoing control. Without this internal struggle, social rules would lose their meaning. This psychological dimension helps explain why Hadrian was so determined to create physical boundaries.

Hadrian wanted to create a structured society ruled by law. In this society, citizens knew their place. They understood clear social limits. The emperor’s authority shaped every part of life. This included family, military, slavery, taxes, and money. It also covered education, religion, trade, law, entertainment, and criminal justice.

Some social mobility existed. But major changes were carefully watched. Leaders controlled Roman society. They enforced strict expectations based on ethnicity and class. Yet in practice, this rigid vision proved more flexible than Hadrian might have expected.

Hadrian’s Wall didn’t work exactly as planned. Within a few years, active trade developed with the northern tribes. These tribes never became Roman citizens. Still, both sides benefited from their differences. Some hostility remained. The wall was occasionally damaged and rebuilt. But people often simply ignored it.

Interestingly, Hadrian’s Wall enclosed several independent tribes that resisted Roman control. This mix helped make Britain one of Rome’s most peaceful and prosperous territories for centuries. Most political problems came from Rome itself, not from the British tribes. This unexpected outcome reveals an important lesson about boundaries in general.

While boundaries can prevent chaos, too many restrictions can harm society. If Hadrian’s boundaries had worked exactly as intended, Roman society might have become stagnant and divided. The society seemed to work best when its flawed limits gave citizens more freedom to shape their lives. This property of boundaries—that they function best when somewhat permeable—extends beyond ancient Rome.

Hadrian’s Wall shows how physical boundaries serve both practical and symbolic functions. They keep out perceived threats while defining who belongs within. But boundaries need defense. Throughout history, military force has maintained such divisions.

The relationship between belief systems and military power is more than a pragmatic alliance. They mirror each other in structure, language, and purpose. Both operate through discipline, hierarchy, and clear separation of insiders from outsiders. To understand how belief systems defend their boundaries, we must examine this connection between religious and military thinking.

Hadrian defended his territory in his capacity as a military figure. Believers and warfare exhibit remarkable parallels in that someone defends a boundary. Military groups often use religious imagery. Religious groups, in turn, embrace warlike language. Before we discuss horizon, we will spend some time detailing the mirroring in both symbolism and practice. Both domains share a vocabulary of sacrifice, transformation, and absolute commitment to a higher cause.

We start by looking at religious patterns exhibited by military forces. Armies are sent on missions to bring peace and freedom to the world. Soldiers undergo initiations that transform them into real men or new beings, much like religious conversions. They join an exclusive brotherhood with monk-like discipline. Political-military events like Mao’s Long March have become religious pilgrimages. Soldiers pledge themselves to poverty and often practice de facto celibacy. Suffering and self-abasement are regular features of their personal lives. Within their strict hierarchy, they practice faithful obedience, paralleling religious orders. Their language echoes religious ceremony. They speak of being baptized by fire and making the ultimate sacrifice. Like religious martyrs, they’re especially honored for giving their lives to protect others.

The religious elements of military life extend to its physical and ceremonial aspects. Military monuments mirror temples, while statues of military heroes resemble those of Greek Gods. America’s memorial to Lincoln, its greatest wartime president, resembles a shrine. Lincoln sits like a deity above his worshipers. Chaplains serve as priests, offering sacraments and hearing confessions. Soldiers wear uniforms that, like religious vestments, set them apart from civilians. They are ordained to their rank and order. Their identity merges with their unit, one with the body of their sacred society, marked by dog tags worn like holy amulets. They see themselves as chosen protectors against evil, fighting for ultimate victory in a world of clear moral divisions.

Religious groups, in turn, adopt military imagery and concepts with enthusiasm. Christians identify as soldiers of Christ and speak of being in God’s army. The Crusaders wore crosses into battle as knights of Christ. Religious hymns embrace military metaphors, from A Mighty Fortress Is Our God to Onward, Christian Soldiers. Religious groups conduct moral crusades and campaigns, while Muslims speak of jihad. Religious spaces often display military symbols. American churches hang national flags. German churches once displayed swastikas.

Religious texts and traditions often incorporate military themes. The Hindu Mahabharata centers on a great war where the God Krishna tells Prince Arjuna that to fight the battle is his religious duty. Jesus permitted Peter, his closest disciple, to carry a sword. Christian prophecy culminates in the battle of Armageddon, where Jesus will appear as a military commander. Buddhist temples feature warrior bodhisattvas.

Beyond metaphor, religious and military authority have often merged into single institutions. A pivotal moment came in the 4th century CE. Then, Roman Emperor Constantine made Christianity the empire’s official religion. This union of church and state shaped European history for centuries afterward. Medieval popes controlled their own armies. Holy Roman Emperors acted as both military leaders and protectors of the Catholic Church. This intertwining of religious and political authority has left lasting marks on modern Europe. Several European nations still maintain official state churches. The British monarch continues to hold the traditional title "Defender of the Faith."

Muhammad served not only as a spiritual guide but also as a military commander who led forces to retake Mecca in the 7th century. The caliphate that emerged after his death united religious and political authority in a single empire. This system of governance lasted for centuries. It still influences modern Muslim political thought. Most Muslims today practice their faith peacefully. But some extremist groups misuse religious concepts, like martyrdom, to justify violence.

The concept of bushido, the samurai code of conduct, blends Buddhist and Shinto principles with ideas of duty and honor. Many Japanese soldiers viewed their service to the emperor as a sacred obligation. This belief stemmed from State Shinto, which portrayed the emperor as a divine figure. Military personnel often carried small Shinto charms for protection. They prayed at shrines before deployment. They saw their potential death in battle as an honorable sacrifice that would purify their spirit. The military fostered these religious ties by adding Shinto rituals to daily routines and ceremonies.

Warriors fight to protect territories, while believers seek to establish divine rule on earth. In both cases, the goal is to create a space where certain beliefs are protected. In this section, we nominally discussed aspects of religion, but more precisely, it was about defending the boundaries of belief systems, both religious and secular. We have employed colloquial religious terminology to avoid cumbersome expressions. Belief systems can surround religion, but religion transcends them. We will say more about this later.

Boundaries are like walls or fences—​they have clear edges that separate one thing from another. Hadrian’s Wall in Roman Britain marked a clear line between Roman territory and the lands beyond. Everything within a boundary has a fixed place and definition, like how Roman citizens had specific roles in their society.

Horizons work differently. A horizon is not a fixed line but rather the limit of what we can see from where we stand. What lies beyond our horizon is always unknown until we move forward to explore it. Sometimes this exploration brings welcome discoveries, while other times it reveals challenging truths. Not every new view will show us something important—​sometimes we see what we expect to find. Yet, if we never look beyond our current view, we risk becoming stuck. We might stop noticing what’s around us, like when you stop hearing a clock ticking after a while.

The word horizon originated from geometrical observations. We can also use horizon to describe our mental sweep. Consider how a student’s understanding of science evolves. In elementary school, a student might see atoms as simple, indivisible building blocks. But as they learn more, their horizon expands. In high school, they discover atoms have complex internal structures with protons, neutrons, and electrons. In college, they study quantum mechanics. It reveals that atoms are more like probability clouds than solid objects. The atom hasn’t changed, but their perspective has grown with each new piece of knowledge.

Living only within strict boundaries is like having a wall that nothing can pass through—​it might feel safe, but it’s not healthy. Our skin is a good example of a healthy boundary. Skin protects us, but it also senses touch, helps regulate temperature with sweat, and generally interacts with the world around it. Similarly, societies need boundaries for protection, while also maintaining openness to new ideas and influences.

The early Christian Church provides another example of the balance between boundaries and horizons. Like Hadrian’s Wall, the Church created boundaries through creeds. These were formal statements of belief that defined what it meant to be Christian. The earliest and simplest creed appears in Jesus’s words when asked about the greatest commandment. He responded with the Jewish prayer known as the Shema: "Hear, O Israel: the Lord is our God, the Lord is one" (Deuteronomy 6:4).

As Christianity grew, it needed clearer boundaries. The Apostles' Creed, written in the second century, provided more specific guidelines. Later, Roman Emperor Constantine worried about divisions in the Church and the Empire. He called church leaders to meet in Nicaea in 325 CE. They created the Nicene Creed, which still defines core Christian beliefs today.

But this was far from the last word. Over the centuries, hundreds of creeds,^[28] thousands of papal bulls, countless official resolutions, and binding councils have been advanced. Yet, none completely succeeded in limiting new interpretations. This failure helped Christianity stay vibrant. Like the mixing of cultures along Hadrian’s Wall, the clash of old beliefs and new ideas kept Christianity dynamic.

Belief systems create boundaries that help us make sense of the world, but they also limit our vision. True growth comes from balancing tradition with exploration. What might seem threatening to established systems can help them evolve and stay relevant. Visionaries (whom we will call poets) do not destroy boundaries. They reveal that every boundary lies within a larger horizon of possibility. If a belief system is a wall, then visionary poets search for the windows. Poets do not promise what believers will see, only that the boundaries do not contain the horizon.

Civitas is a top-down, formal structure created by rulers or governments. Think of it like a carefully designed building with clear boundaries, rules, and leadership. Ancient Rome was a good example of civitas, with its emperors, laws, and defined territories. Civitas needs authority figures to protect it and guide its beliefs.

Communitas emerges when people come together around shared interests or beliefs. Unlike civitas, communitas is bottom-up; no one person creates or controls it. It’s more like a garden that grows on its own—​taking different shapes as it develops. Religious groups often embody communitas. For example, Jewish communities preserved their identity for centuries in the Roman Empire. They did so without becoming Roman.

What makes communitas special is its ability to exist within any civitas while maintaining its own character. It can also connect across time and place. Ancient Greek sculptures could inspire Renaissance artists. Classical composers might inspire modern musicians. Communitas brings people together through shared pursuits—​whether in art, religion, philosophy, or culture—​regardless of when or where they live.

While civitas requires boundaries to function, communitas thrives on openness and exchange. The ideal civitas is one that nourishes the broadest possible range of disagreement with itself. One form of communitas can enrich another without either losing its identity. Hence, different cultures can share ideas and practices while maintaining their unique characteristics.

For believers, authority imposes restrictions. It prevents the dilution of belief and blocks paths to disbelief. Often, it’s given supreme status, and the expected response is obedience. It sets fixed and non-negotiable boundaries. Believers are free to wander within these limits but never beyond. These limits serve as the final reference for disputes within the belief system. The goal is to align thoughts with the authority.

Authority acts like a turtle shell, restricting but also shielding from injury. If the boundaries or community face a threat, then the authority must act. Since authority seeks recognition and acknowledgment of its power, a severe reaction is appropriate. For instance, before delivering his Second Inaugural speech, Lincoln was a conquering chieftain. He had, by awesome force, driven back an enemy that threatened the state’s borders. Likewise, Charles came to Worms to define the outer limits of orthodoxy and act in the imperial role of directing his forces at a presumed enemy. This would prove his worth as a protector of the Holy Roman Empire. The theatrical spectacle is as important as the substance. It aims to reassure the audience of believers on an emotional as well as an intellectual level.

Those with mild commitment to a belief system may find authoritarian systems oppressive. But true believers often experience powerful and effective authority as comforting. It is not rare for believers to approve of any sanctions imposed on them, even when the punishment is harsh. Committed believers may even seek punishment.

Leaders of movements can also practice personal deprivation. Embracing personal deprivation to share the community’s pain signals integrity and commitment.

These acts demonstrated adoration and invited consolation. People can express gratitude and praise in many ways. These include dancing, singing, praying, going on pilgrimages, and building sacred structures. It is important to recognize that believers make these choices willingly and do not feel coerced. By experiencing a similar pain or deprivation, believers establish a deeper connection to the central figure or ideal of their belief system.

When believers embrace an authority’s teachings completely, they may earn the right to speak on its behalf. Revolutionary leader Che Guevara is an example. He became so aligned with Castro’s vision that he could speak with similar authority about the Cuban Revolution. This pattern shows how systems of authority can renew themselves through their most devoted followers. The Catholic Church offers another example: each new pope gains the power to interpret and adjust Church doctrine.

Authentication allows selected people to exercise authority. But belief systems must also find ways to spread their ideas to new generations of potential followers. A belief system’s vitality relies on how well it grows over time. It needs to turn outsiders into insiders who will carry forward its vision. Education, in its broadest sense, serves this crucial function. Looking at how belief systems teach their members reveals how the system perpetuates itself. Individuals may change, but the system secures continuity.

Throughout history, belief systems have excelled at changing minds through education and mentorship. Nazi Germany offers a striking example. The Hitler Youth program turned schools into centers for spreading racial ideology. Young people underwent psychological conditioning in addition to a normal education. It shifted their loyalty from family to the Nazi state. China’s Cultural Revolution used similar tactics. It turned students into tools and victims of radical ideology.

Religious movements have also spread their beliefs effectively. Early Christianity grew through personal connections and shared stories. It attracted converts by offering new ways to think about identity that go beyond traditional tribal boundaries. Modern Islamic fundamentalist groups use similar methods. They spread their message through personal relationships and social networks.

People rarely join belief systems because of logical arguments alone. Instead, they’re drawn in by emotional bonds and the desire to belong. These movements offer simple, powerful stories that help explain life’s complexities. The most successful groups don’t force people to join. They use subtle methods that create the impression of free choice.

Not everyone accepts these belief systems. Some people maintain their skepticism and see these movements as attempts to control how others think. During Soviet rule, Czech dissidents showed how underground networks could preserve independent thinking. These groups used literature, private meetings, and steady resistance to challenge the dominant ideas of their time.

The line between education and indoctrination often blurs. People must work to tell the difference between real learning and subtle pressure to conform. Every belief system, be it political, religious, or cultural, is a mix of individual choice and group influence.

Religious leaders and sacred texts receive veneration through rituals. These range from simple acts like kissing rings to shows of devotion like kneeling. Observe how people treat religious items. They keep the Torah in a special ark and show it elaborate respect when presenting it to the congregation. Churches often place the Bible on a raised pulpit. This special treatment extends beyond religion. The pope has Swiss guards. Kings have courts. Presidents have Secret Service agents. These arrangements do more than provide security. They turn regular things and people into symbols of authority. These rituals send complex messages about power, respect, and shared beliefs. Leaders, texts, and institutions build their authority through careful interactions that show their special status. They create both physical and symbolic distance to inspire awe and reinforce their position.

Charismatic leaders can build respect in unique ways. They combine emotional connection with claims of special knowledge or divine understanding. The Dalai Lama attracts deep respect through his teachings and presence. Nelson Mandela gained a near-mythical aura of moral authority through his story of imprisonment and later push for peace.

For followers, showing respect helps them feel like they belong and are secure. People looking to understand life’s big questions often turn to authority figures who seem to have answers. Young people often find comfort in strong voices that offer direction. Martin Luther King Jr., for example, inspired many to join the civil rights movement.

The relationship between leaders and followers can develop a transactional character. Followers may see their respect as an investment. Through rituals, public support, or personal sacrifice, they build up spiritual or social credit. This creates an unspoken deal: their respect should earn them protection and support from the leader or community. In Scientology, members take expensive courses to gain status and special knowledge. Political groups can work similarly—​vocal support may lead to benefits. In North Korea, showing devotion to the Kim family can merit social and economic opportunities.

Critics, like Martin Luther at Worms, see the worship of authority as a form of control that hurts independent thinking. They point to times when blind respect led to harm, from political oppression to religious extremism. These critics stress the need to stay skeptical when under pressure from institutions. For example, the Czech Velvet Revolution peacefully challenged and defeated communist control.

No one can impose belief. Forced belief is not genuine belief, but a mechanical repetition. Even under extreme threats, people can only recite prescribed phrases without true conviction. When people disrespect authority, it loses its essential legitimacy and becomes oppression. Soviet rulers felt this as the regime decayed: people dismissed their pronouncements as absurd. Without believers' support, they used military and judicial threats to control the population. These powers were pervasive and terrifying. They transformed the nation into a soulless shell. Citizens learned to speak Marxist language without believing its tenets. Official statements became mere background noise. The rulers misunderstood authority, conflating power with genuine belief. They failed to see that power alone cannot create authority. True authority comes only from voluntary recognition.

Sacred scriptures derive their power from those who read them. As a teacher needs students and a deity requires worshipers, authority emerges through mutual recognition. The governed choose and confirm their leaders. Consent and shared understanding authenticate the leaders' roles. True authority flows upward before leaders can exercise it downward. This creates a dynamic relationship between leaders and the led.

The relationship between authority and obedience is more complex than one might expect. When people grant power to an authority figure, they often forget that the real source of that power is their own willingness to follow. Ironically, authority only works when individuals choose to follow its demands. But this compliance is not universal. Many people are skeptical of authoritative systems. They feel constrained by rules and expectations they did not take part in creating or approving. These individuals may conform on the surface while questioning or resenting the authority’s legitimacy internally. Successful leaders and institutions are sensitive to this delicate balance. They adapt to the changing expectations of their supporters and reluctant tolerators. True power lies not in force, but in the subtle negotiations between leaders and the led.

While an authority can lead a belief system, the word authority has another sense. It comes from the Latin auctoritas. It describes those who bring new insights and expand our understanding. Such an authority is not only an expert, but an inventor of new thoughts. When we approach this kind of authority, we seek knowledge that might be hidden or unsettling. We may turn to diverse sources—​psychoanalysts, neurologists, political theorists, or personal experience. We don’t know what we will discover. These unexpected messengers can appear unprompted, delivering news we did not realize we needed.

We can define communitas as the gathered collection of acts of poetic authority. There is no blueprint for communitas. It thrives on originality. It includes diverse experiences, from lawn mowing to deep worship. There is no saying what forms it will take. We create communitas rather than join it. It emerges organically, always open to fresh expressions without conflict.

The concept echoes Plato’s poiesis in The Republic. There, artists and artisans were seen as potential disruptors capable of transforming understanding. Like the discovery of the New World or the theory of evolution, such revelations challenge beliefs and inspire originality. An auctor is an inventor who opens new intellectual horizons, bringing forth ideas that transcend established systems. Interestingly, Plato saw these knowledge-bringers as both threatening and essential. He believed that society should control or exile poets. Yet, he recognized that his ideal Republic required their provocative perspectives more than it needed military opponents.^[30]

Surprising and unexpected moments fill the Christian gospels. Angels appear as messengers from an unseen realm, bringing startling news that disrupts ordinary life. The Magi’s journey and the angels' announcement to shepherds provoked fear and wonder. King Herod was so alarmed by the news that he slaughtered all male infants under the age of two. This unborn child apparently posed a dire threat to Roman Palestine. And this is only the beginning. We will see that the story of Jesus has proven to be a sequence of events that no one fully understands.

Religious traditions worldwide share stories of unexpected divine interactions. The Hebrew Bible describes Jacob wrestling an angel at night. The battle ended when Jacob wounded the angel, not the other way around. In other traditions, divine figures show remarkable complexity. Krishna was both a chariot driver and a mischievous boy. He urged Prince Arjuna into battle and seduced milkmaids. He embodied both divine purpose and playful unpredictability. The Buddha and his followers often confounded expectations. They used paradoxical teachings, like the famous "single hand clapping," to challenge conventional thinking.

Despite inhabiting belief systems, poets do not feel imprisoned by them. Historical figures like Buddha, Muhammad, Kierkegaard, and Marx show this. Buddha emerged from Hinduism. Muhammad drew from Arabian folk religion and some Judaism and Christianity. Kierkegaard came from Lutheran Christianity. Marx developed out of Hegelian philosophy. These thinkers transcended their origins. They use belief systems as springboards for broader understanding.

Some poets are serious, but some make people laugh. For example, Trevor Noah and Hasan Minhaj skillfully use comedy to reshape audience perceptions of complex issues. Noah’s performances weave his mixed-race South African background into observations about American culture. Seldom criticizing racial dynamics directly, he shares stories about growing up "born a crime" during apartheid.^[31] Noah shifts easily between accents and views. This helps audiences see beyond their usual perspectives.

Minhaj takes a similar approach when tackling thorny political topics. In his show "Patriot Act," he used sharp wit to explore political policy from immigration to student debt. Minhaj blends references to hip-hop, Muslim culture, and American politics, creating new connections. Their comedy opens minds by making the unfamiliar feel relatable.

The Yes Men demonstrate another powerful form of political comedy through their creative activism. This duo of anti-corporate pranksters posed as business executives and government officials to expose what they saw as harmful corporate practices. Their performances combined satire with elaborate hoaxes, like the time they appeared on BBC World pretending to be Dow Chemical representatives and publicly apologized for the Bhopal disaster. Through these headline-grabbing stunts, the Yes Men showed how humor can be a tool for social change. Their approach, often called laughtivism, proves that comedy can do more than entertain—​it can challenge powerful institutions and spark important conversations about corporate responsibility.^[32]

Ideologies seeking power often try to neutralize poetic potential. One approach is by commissioning work in service to power: anthems, war monuments, and heroic narratives. Yet, poetry can transcend the envisioned purpose of the work:

But not all works are so transcendent. Official art is often formulaic or propagandistic. It serves a narrow political or ideological purpose and lacks depth. For example:

Poetry’s subversive power resides in its radical indifference to established belief systems. It avoids direct criticism. Poets present surprising perspectives that unsettle conventional thinking. If poetry has a purpose, it is to expand the horizon. It may also inspire more poetry.

We have offered some brief examples of poetic authority. But how exactly does poetry function within established systems of belief and power? What happens when poetic expression meets rigid certainty? To illuminate these dynamics, let us examine two historical moments where these forces collided. The September 11 attacks and Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address show how poetry and power interact in different ways. In one, we witness the destructive potential when poetry is twisted toward violent spectacle. In the other, we see how genuine poetic insight can transcend division and point toward healing.

Nineteen hijackers used sophisticated technology to carry out a deadly, ideological act. Their act was a grotesque form of violent poetry. About three thousand people died in this shocking, traumatic spectacle. The scale of human loss, though significant, pales compared to other annual American fatalities, such as highway deaths. But the terrorists achieved something beyond mere destruction. They framed this tragedy as a bold, symbolic statement:

From the terrorists' perspective, the 9/11 attacks were a strategic success, though at a catastrophic moral cost.

In Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address, both types of authority were on display. He began with a familiar narrative: the enemy initiated the war, and all its evils lie solely with them. Lincoln presented the North as having won a moral victory over slavery. He projected the authority of power.

But Lincoln’s approach shifted dramatically when he introduced God into the discourse. Despite the moral victory, there was no clear ground for righteousness. Lincoln asserted that "the Almighty has his own purposes." He undermined human authority. We were unsure, even in the face of great injustices, like slavery. Even if "all the wealth piled by the bondsman’s two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk," the divine judgments remain "true and righteous altogether."

Lincoln’s critique of human certainty and absolutism was full of poetic authority. The speech’s tone of mutual understanding and lack of vindictiveness was revolutionary for its time. He highlighted the limits of human understanding and dismantled American triumphalism. In doing so, Lincoln emerged as a political leader with a chance to reconcile and reunite the country.

Five weeks later, Lincoln’s assassination disrupted the healing he had hoped for. Significant conflict, racial violence, and ongoing divisions would mark Reconstruction. While the address provided a moral vision of reunification, practical implementation fell short. Southern states resisted civil rights and integration. True national healing remained unrealized for generations. Historians view the speech as an idealistic blueprint that was tragically ahead of its time.

Extreme belief systems risk relativism, where truth is purely subjective. Relativism holds that no belief is definitively true. All perspectives are seen as equally valid. To avoid isolation and stagnation, belief systems need exchange with their environments. The horizon, beyond the boundaries of a belief system, may reveal something unseen. By responding to new discoveries from the horizon, a belief system can retain vitality.

Boundaries establish the civitas, while visionary poets extend the horizon. Authority manifests differently in these spaces. In the civitas, authority maintains order through granted power. In the communitas, visionary poets command authority through their surprising, creative acts. Poets exist within belief systems but are not believers. Their poetry invites disruptive new knowledge and enlivens the conversation.

Throughout this chapter, we have examined belief systems—​their formation, their structures, their boundaries, and their capacity for both creation and destruction. We’ve seen how these systems defend their certainties and how they respond to challenges. But a crucial question remains: what is the relationship between belief and religion? Religion, as we will explore in the next chapter, transcends the confines of belief systems. Though religions contain beliefs, their enduring power lies elsewhere—​in their embrace of mystery, in their capacity to evolve while maintaining identity, and in their ability to create communities across time and culture. To understand this distinction more fully, we will begin by examining Christianity’s central figure, Jesus of Nazareth, whose story helps reveal how religion thrives not on certainty but on the productive tension between what is known and what remains beyond our grasp.