A ViewPoint by Dr. Shirley Paulson
There is a section in an ancient text from the Nag Hammadi collection—the Gospel of Truth—that feels strikingly relevant in today’s world of mounting tension and anger. Near the beginning of the gospel, we read:
“Ignorance of the Father brought about anguish and terror; and the anguish grew solid like a fog, so that no one was able to see. For this reason, error became powerful. …
“This was not humiliating for the illimitable, inconceivable one. For this terror and forgetfulness and their deceptive figure were as nothing, whereas established truth is unchanging, unperturbed, and beyond beauty.”
Ignorance of “the Father” brought about anguish and terror? Almost everybody talks of some kind of anguish welling up inside these days, but they don’t think of it as coming from their own ignorance. It’s because they—the political leaders or other people—are so selfish or ignorant. And they’re the ones who are making everybody else angry and terrified.
But the reasoning in this gospel runs in a very different direction—and it is precisely this difference that makes the text hopeful rather than condemning. Anguish and terror, the author suggests, grow when we lose sight of what is real. They thicken into a fog that distorts perception until we can no longer see clearly enough to imagine a way forward. In that fog, “error becomes powerful,” not because error is truly strong, but because our vision has been compromised.
It is not hard to imagine how compelling this message would have been in antiquity. After the Bar Kokhba revolt in the mid–second century, Jerusalem lay devastated, and Jewish ties to the land were violently severed. For Jews and other non-Romans living under imperial dominance, anger, anguish, and terror must have felt overwhelming. The fog would have seemed impenetrable. Power appeared to belong entirely to Rome.
But this message from the Gospel of Truth asks its readers to think again. “Error” only appears powerful when the fog convinces us that nothing else remains. “Established truth,” by contrast, is not humiliated by chaos or violence. The truth of the situation, the gospel insists, is that the Father—understood here as the source of all goodness and order—remains unchanging and unperturbed. Truth is “beyond beauty,” beyond distortion, beyond the reach of terror itself.
This is a radical reorientation. Even when error seems dominant, those caught in anger and fear are not abandoned. The gospel offers the startling reassurance that everything necessary for wholeness has already been preserved. Anger is not a sign of power. It is a symptom of disorientation.
What is needed is not more outrage, but a guide through the fog—someone who can lead us out of ignorance and into clearer vision. The gospel continues:
“He [Jesus] became a guide. … He came forward and spoke the word as a teacher. Those wise in their own eyes came to test him, but he refuted them, for they were foolish, and they hated him because they were not really wise. After them came the little children, who have knowledge of the Father. When they gained strength and learned about the expressions of the Father, they knew, they were known, they were glorified, they gave glory.”
This passage cuts close to the heart. If anger arises from ignorance, then healing begins with a willingness to learn. But that willingness is precisely what those “wise in their own eyes” lack. Their certainty hardens them. They cannot be taught, because they do not believe they need guidance.
By contrast, it is the little children who possess the knowledge of the Father—not because they know more facts, but because they are not invested in appearing wise. They are open. They are teachable. They are able to learn “the expressions of the Father” because they do not mistake self-assurance for understanding.
This is where anger quietly loses its grip. Anger depends on the conviction that I already know: who is wrong, who is dangerous, and who must be defeated. The childlike posture modeled here replaces that certainty with humility. It allows space for learning, for being known rather than defended, and ultimately for giving glory rather than demanding control.
The children’s example invites searching questions: Am I so certain that I know my enemies are wrong? Do I truly know how to make everyone do the right thing? Is it more important for me to be right—or to participate in something larger, more enduring, and more beautiful than my own certainty?
History offers its own lesson. The Roman system, once seemingly invincible, eventually collapsed under the weight of its own “error.” Its power proved temporary. What endured instead were communities that learned how to adapt, re-imagine, and begin again. Judaism and Christianity survived not by clinging to dominance, but by cultivating the resilience to relearn who they were in changing circumstances. In their childlike willingness to start over, they discovered paths that outlasted imperial force.
The Gospel of Truth still holds out that same promise. Jesus Christ illuminates a path beyond anger, dissolving anguish not by suppressing emotion, but by restoring vision. When truth is understood as unchanging, unperturbed, and beyond beauty, anger is revealed for what it is: not power, but fog—and fog, once lifted, cannot remain.
Note: The translations are my own combination of Marvin Meyer, James M. Robinson, and Samuel Zinner.
© 2026 by Dr. Shirley Paulson and Christian Feminism Today
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