Michael: Alright Kevin, quick—Thomas Paine. What's the first thing that comes to mind? Kevin: Uh, 'Common Sense,' powdered wigs, the American Revolution... a respectable Founding Father, right? Michael: That's what they want you to think. What if I told you he also wrote a book so scandalous it got him branded an infidel, ostracized, and had booksellers thrown in prison for even touching it? Kevin: Hold on, prison? For a book? That doesn't sound very 'Founding Fatherly.' What book are we talking about? Michael: Today we’re diving into that very book: The Age of Reason by Thomas Paine. Kevin: Okay, now I'm intrigued. What made it so dangerous? Michael: He wrote the first part in 1793, in France, literally in the shadow of the guillotine during the Reign of Terror. He was convinced that the revolution against kings had to be followed by a revolution against priests, and he put it all on the page just before he was arrested and nearly executed himself. Kevin: Whoa. So this isn't some dusty philosophical text; it's an intellectual bomb thrown in the middle of a revolution. Let's get into it.

Michael: Paine's first target is the very foundation of Western religion: the Bible. And he doesn't just question it; he takes a sledgehammer to it. His core argument is that the Bible cannot be the "Word of God" because it's a human document, filled with errors, contradictions, and stories that he finds morally repulsive. Kevin: That’s a huge claim. I mean, millions of people have built their lives on that book. Where does he even start? Michael: He starts like a detective, looking for forensic evidence within the text itself. He points out things that seem small at first, but have massive implications. For example, he looks at the first five books of the Bible—Genesis, Exodus, and so on—which are traditionally attributed to Moses. Kevin: Right, the Books of Moses. Michael: But Paine points to a passage in Genesis. It describes Abraham chasing his enemies to a place called "Dan." Paine, being a meticulous reader, cross-references this. He finds in the Book of Judges that the town wasn't named Dan until hundreds of years after Moses was dead. It used to be called Laish. Kevin: Oh, I see. It's like finding a reference to "New York City" in a document supposedly written by a Roman soldier. The name didn't exist yet. Michael: Exactly. It's a chronological fingerprint left at the scene of the crime, so to speak. For Paine, this is proof positive that Moses did not write Genesis. It was written by someone much later, looking back. He finds dozens of these little anachronisms. Kevin: Okay, that's a clever historical critique. But a lot of his reputation for being an "infidel" comes from his moral outrage, right? Michael: Absolutely. That's his second line of attack. He moves from historical critique to moral condemnation. He reads the story in the Book of Numbers where Moses, after a battle with the Midianites, is furious that his soldiers have spared the women. Kevin: I think I remember this story, and it's... uncomfortable. Michael: It's horrifying. Moses commands his soldiers, "kill every male among the little ones, and kill every woman that hath known a man... but all the women-children... keep alive for yourselves." Paine is just aghast. He says this isn't the command of a benevolent God; this is the order of a bloodthirsty military commander. Kevin: Wow. To say that in the 1790s... he must have had a death wish. Michael: He essentially argues that if this is the Word of God, then God is a monster. And if God isn't a monster, then the Bible is a book of lies. He concludes it's more like "the word of a demon than the Word of God." He doesn't pull any punches. Kevin: But aren't there good parts in the Bible? Psalms, the teachings of Jesus? Is he just cherry-picking the worst bits to make a point? Michael: That's the classic counter-argument, and Paine has an answer for it. He says that for a text to be a divine revelation, it must be perfect. It can't have errors. It can't have contradictions. The moment you find one mistake, one historical impossibility, or one command that violates your innate sense of justice, the claim of divinity collapses. Kevin: So for him, it's a house of cards. One faulty card and the whole thing comes down. Michael: Precisely. He argues that any moral teachings found in the Bible, like "do unto others," aren't special because they're in the Bible. They're special because they are self-evidently true. They exist with or without the book. But the parts that are unique to the Bible—the massacres, the bizarre laws, the contradictions—those are the parts that prove it's a human, and deeply flawed, creation. Kevin: To call Moses a "detestable villain"... that's a line you can't uncross. Michael: And he was just getting started. After tearing down the old faith, he was ready to build a new one.

Kevin: Alright, so he tears it all down. It's easy to be a critic. What does he build in its place? Does he just want everyone to be an atheist? Michael: That's the biggest misconception about Paine. He was passionately religious. He wrote The Age of Reason specifically to combat the rise of atheism in France, which he feared would destroy morality. He just believed that the church and the Bible were pointing to the wrong God. Kevin: So where do we find the right God, according to Paine? Michael: Not in a book, but in the universe itself. He proposes his alternative, which is Deism. His central idea is that the Creation is the true, original, and only "Word of God." Kevin: What does that actually mean? Michael: Think about the time he was writing. The scientific revolution is in full swing. Newton had laid out the laws of motion and gravity. For the first time, humanity could understand the universe as a vast, intricate, predictable machine. For Paine, this was the ultimate miracle. Kevin: So the evidence of God wasn't a burning bush, but the law of gravity? Michael: Exactly. He argued that a book, any book, is a terrible way to transmit the Word of God. Languages change, translations have errors, copyists make mistakes, and people can deliberately alter the text. But the "scripture of Creation," as he called it, is different. The stars, the planets, the laws of physics—they speak a universal language that can't be corrupted. It's the same for every person in every country for all time. Kevin: So, instead of reading scripture, Paine would say... go study astronomy? Michael: Yes! He literally called the study of science, especially astronomy, "the true theology." He believed that contemplating the sheer scale and mathematical elegance of the solar system tells you more about the power and wisdom of the Creator than any story in Genesis. Kevin: That's a beautiful idea, actually. It's a very Carl Sagan-esque spirituality. The cosmos as the ultimate cathedral. Michael: It is. And it leads to his most famous declaration: "My own mind is my own church." He believed that our God-given reason is the tool we use to "read" the scripture of Creation. And our moral duty is simple: to imitate the goodness of that Creator. Since the sun shines on everyone and the rain falls on everyone, our duty is to be just and merciful to everyone. Kevin: So the "rules" of his religion aren't commandments written on a tablet, but principles derived from observing the universe? Michael: You've got it. It's a religion of observation and reason, not revelation and obedience. He wanted to free people from what he saw as the prison of dogma and have them look up at the stars with a sense of awe and personal connection to the divine. Kevin: It's a powerful and elegant alternative. But he didn't stop there, did he? He had one more, even bigger argument to make. Michael: Oh yes. He took that cosmic cathedral idea and used it to land his final, crushing blow against the Christian faith.

Michael: And that 'cosmic cathedral' idea leads to Paine's most devastating and, frankly, most imaginative argument. He basically asks his readers to zoom out. Kevin: Zoom out from what? Michael: From our tiny little world. Paine asks us to consider the universe as science was beginning to reveal it: not one world at the center of everything, but a "plurality of worlds." He says it's probable that every star we see is a sun, just like ours, with its own system of planets revolving around it. Kevin: So he's talking about a universe of countless solar systems. That's a very modern thought for the 1790s. Michael: It was revolutionary. And then he poses his killer question. He says, let's take the Christian story seriously for a moment. The story of Adam and Eve, the forbidden apple, the fall of man, and the redemption of humanity through the sacrifice of God's only son. Kevin: The central narrative of the faith. Michael: Right. Now, Paine asks, does it make any logical sense that the Creator of this infinite, sprawling cosmos—with millions, maybe billions of worlds—would stage this entire, epic drama of salvation on just one of them? Because one woman on one tiny planet ate an apple? Kevin: Huh. I've never thought of it that way. He's using scale as a weapon. Michael: A devastating one. He paints this picture that is both hilarious and profound. He asks, "Are we to suppose that every world in the boundless creation had an Eve, an apple, a serpent, and a redeemer?" He creates this image of the Son of God having to travel from world to world, being crucified over and over again, for all eternity. Kevin: Wow. That's a powerful argument from scale. It makes the whole Christian narrative feel... provincial. Almost quaint. Michael: Paine called it a "solitary and strange conceit." He's essentially saying the story is too small for the container. The theology of Christianity was built for a small, Earth-centered universe. Once you accept a vast, populated cosmos, the story starts to look absurd. Kevin: It’s like trying to explain the entire internet by only talking about your neighbor’s Wi-Fi router. The explanation just doesn't fit the reality of the system. Michael: That's a perfect analogy. He argues that the evidence of the heavens, the sheer grandeur of it all, directly contradicts the Christian system of faith. For him, a belief in a plurality of worlds and the Christian scheme of salvation are mutually exclusive. You have to pick one. Kevin: And it's pretty clear which one he picked. He chose the cosmos. Michael: He chose the cosmos. He believed it was a far grander, more rational, and more worthy object of our reverence.

Kevin: So, when you put it all together, what's the lasting message here? It's more than just 'the Bible is wrong.' Michael: Absolutely. Paine's real legacy isn't just his critique. It's his radical assertion of intellectual freedom. He's arguing that your highest moral duty is to your own reason. He believed that you should never profess to believe something that your reason tells you is false. Kevin: That's a tough standard to live by. Michael: It is, and it's why he was so controversial. But for him, it was the only path to true morality. He believed that the universe itself—vast, orderly, and knowable through science—is a more profound and worthy object of reverence than any story written by man. Kevin: So it's not about destroying religion, but about finding it in a different place. Michael: Exactly. It's an invitation to find the divine not in ancient words, but in the very fabric of reality. He's trading a book for the cosmos. And he's asking us to have the courage to read it for ourselves. Kevin: It really makes you think... if you had to write your own 'Bible' based only on what you could prove and observe, what would be in it? What would be your first chapter? Michael: That's a question Paine would have loved. A question for the age of reason. Kevin: A question for our age, too. Michael: This is Aibrary, signing off.