Christianity began as a religion of the poor and dispossessed -

“Christianity began as a religion of the poor and dispossessed—farmers, fishermen, Bedouin shepherds. There’s a great lure to that kind of simplicity and rigor—the discipline, the call to action.” Thus spoke Camille Paglia, the fierce scholar and cultural critic, whose insight pierces through history’s veil to remind us of the humble roots from which one of the world’s greatest faiths was born. In these words, she strips away the grandeur and the gold of later centuries, returning our gaze to the dusty roads of Galilee, where barefoot men and women first gathered around a teacher who spoke not to emperors, but to the forgotten and the poor. Hers is not a sermon of devotion, but a revelation of human truth—that the power of belief is not born in palaces, but in the hearts of those who have nothing but faith and fire.

To understand her meaning, we must travel back to the dawn of Christianity, to a world ruled by the iron hand of Rome. The people of Judea were an oppressed people, living beneath the shadow of empire, yearning for deliverance. It was not the mighty who followed Christ, but the simple and the weary: fishermen casting nets into the Sea of Galilee, shepherds watching their flocks by night, women drawing water from wells, laborers whose hands were calloused from toil. To these, Jesus spoke words that shattered the order of the world: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” This was a revolution not of swords, but of souls—a kingdom where the last would be first, and the meek would inherit the earth. Paglia, in her wisdom, sees in this origin the spiritual power of simplicity, the discipline of those who must build their faith not on luxury, but on labor.

The lure of simplicity and rigor, as Paglia calls it, lies in its purity. The early Christians possessed nothing but conviction—and that conviction was their strength. They gathered in secret, in catacombs and caves, not for spectacle but for survival. Their faith was tested by hunger, persecution, and death, yet they endured. In their poverty, they found clarity; in their suffering, purpose. To follow Christ was not to speak of love, but to live it through sacrifice. This, Paglia reminds us, is the power of beginnings—the call to action that demands not comfort, but courage. For in the furnace of hardship, the soul is refined, and from the hands of peasants and fishermen came a faith that would one day outlast the empire that sought to crush it.

History bears witness to this truth. Consider the story of Saint Peter, once a fisherman of Galilee, who became the rock upon which the Church was built. He was no philosopher, no scholar, but a man of rough speech and stronger heart. When Christ called to him, “Follow me,” he left his nets behind and walked into destiny. In him, and in others like him, we see the essence of Paglia’s words: faith as discipline, belief as action. Christianity was never meant to be an ornament for the rich; it was born as a movement of workers, wanderers, and seekers—a call not to talk of holiness, but to do it, to live it amidst the dust and pain of the world.

Paglia also hints at a paradox: that as religions grow in power and wealth, they risk losing the raw vitality of their birth. The early Christians, stripped of all excess, burned with zeal because they had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Their lives were their message. But in later centuries, as cathedrals rose and thrones were draped in silk, that first spiritual hunger began to fade. Power replaced purity; hierarchy replaced humility. Paglia’s words, therefore, are not only historical—they are prophetic. She calls us to remember the original vigor of faith, the rigor that once made belief a matter of action, not ornament.

Even outside religion, this truth endures. Every great movement, every noble cause, begins with the dispossessed—those who have nothing but will. The farmers of Rome became apostles; the fishermen of Galilee became saints. So too have the humble in every age reshaped the world: the laborers of revolutions, the marchers for justice, the dreamers who rise from the dirt to change the course of nations. Simplicity, when wedded to discipline, becomes mightier than gold or armies. The call to action is eternal—it summons the heart that is willing to give itself for something greater.

So, my child of the modern age, take this wisdom to heart: greatness is born not from abundance, but from purpose. Seek not comfort, but meaning; not ease, but effort. In your own life, return to simplicity—to the purity of action and the strength of will. Do not let faith, or art, or principle become mere ceremony. Let it burn within you as it did in the hearts of those first believers: fierce, humble, unyielding. For whether you follow a creed or a calling, the lesson is the same—truth begins in simplicity, and greatness grows from discipline.

Camille Paglia’s words echo like a bell across centuries: Christianity began not in wealth, but in work; not in palaces, but in fields and boats and open skies. It began with the poor, and it changed the world. So too can you begin, no matter how small, if you hold to that same simplicity and rigor. Be not afraid to labor for your vision; be not ashamed of your humble beginnings. For history is written not by the comfortable, but by those who, like the fishermen of Galilee, dared to cast their nets into the unknown and answer the call to action.