In 1 Corinthians 1–3, Paul presents a hierarchical religious framework that distinguishes between believers he considers “immature” and those he regards as “mature.” The immature are described as receiving elementary instruction—what Paul calls “milk”—while the mature are associated with a deeper, hidden wisdom disclosed through the Spirit. This wisdom is not publicly accessible, but is spiritually discerned, a feature that closely resembles what later traditions would describe as gnosis, even if Paul does not yet formalize the term.

Within Paul’s own logic, the gap between these two groups is not merely pedagogical but epistemological. Those lacking spiritual discernment are said to perceive higher teaching as foolishness, implying that the mature would be misunderstood or rejected by the very communities Paul addresses. The foundational message given to immature believers—“Jesus Christ and him crucified”—is explicitly characterized as introductory instruction rather than the fullness of Paul’s teaching.

Contemporary Christianity, however, is largely structured around the assumption that “Christ and him crucified” constitutes the entirety of Christian doctrine. Many churches, consciously echoing Paul’s words, present this message as the complete substance of the faith rather than as its starting point. In doing so, the category of spiritual maturity that Paul describes—along with the hidden wisdom associated with it—has been marginalized or reinterpreted. Interpretive traditions that emphasize spiritual knowledge, revelation, or gnosis in the sense outlined in 1 Corinthians 2 have historically been labeled heretical, while the exoteric message Paul himself called “milk” has come to define Christianity as a whole.

That early Christianity understood itself as possessing both exoteric and esoteric teachings is not merely a modern scholarly inference, but an explicit admission made by orthodox Christian authorities themselves. In Contra Celsum 1.7, Origen responds to the charge that Christianity is a secretive system by acknowledging that, while its basic doctrines are publicly proclaimed, there nevertheless exist “certain doctrines, not made known to the multitude,” which are revealed only after the introductory teachings have been received. Origen compares this structure to philosophical schools such as Pythagoreanism, where some teachings were offered openly while others were reserved for those deemed sufficiently prepared.

This admission closely mirrors the framework outlined by Paul in 1 Corinthians 1–3. Paul distinguishes between believers who are “infants in Christ,” capable only of receiving “milk,” and those who are “mature,” among whom he speaks a hidden wisdom revealed through the Spirit. Far from rejecting such a hierarchy, Origen systematizes it, presenting Christianity as a pedagogical tradition in which deeper truths are intentionally withheld until the appropriate stage of instruction.

It is within this context that Valentinian Christianity becomes intelligible. Valentinians understood themselves as the pneumatikoi—the spiritually mature believers to whom Paul’s hidden wisdom was addressed. Drawing heavily on Pauline language, they interpreted the public proclamation of Christ crucified as an introductory teaching, while claiming access to a deeper, spiritual understanding reserved for the mature. The proto-orthodox rejection of Valentinianism, therefore, did not arise from a denial that Christianity possessed deeper teachings, but from a dispute over who was authorized to claim them.

Over time, the church resolved this tension not by embracing Paul’s hierarchical epistemology, but by flattening it. The exoteric message Paul identified as “milk” came to define Christianity in its entirety, while traditions that emphasized spiritual knowledge or gnosis were excluded as heretical. In doing so, Christianity preserved Paul’s language while quietly abandoning the tiered structure that gave it meaning.

The figure of Valentinus further complicates the modern assumption that “Gnosticism” existed entirely outside the boundaries of early Christian orthodoxy. Valentinus taught openly in Rome in the mid-second century and was regarded as a respected Christian intellectual within the Roman church. Patristic sources such as Tertullian report that he was considered a serious candidate for ecclesiastical leadership, an indication that his theology was not initially perceived as heretical. Only later, as doctrinal boundaries hardened, was Valentinian Christianity decisively excluded.

Valentinian theology is also notable for the way it treats religious myth not as a literal account of supernatural events, but as a symbolic and transformative narrative describing the human condition. The complex mythological language found in Valentinian texts functions as a psychological and spiritual map, depicting ignorance, fragmentation, and alienation from the divine source, and the process by which knowledge (gnosis) restores wholeness. Salvation, in this framework, is not achieved through legal obedience or belief in historical propositions, but through recognition—an awakening to one’s true identity.

This symbolic and experiential dimension of Valentinian thought attracted the attention of Carl Jung, who famously described the Gnostics as the first psychologists. Jung argued that Gnostic myths externalize inner psychological realities, anticipating modern depth psychology by treating religious symbols as expressions of the inner life rather than literal cosmological claims. In this light, Valentinian Christianity appears less as a speculative aberration and more as an early attempt to articulate the inner transformation implied by Paul’s distinction between spiritual maturity and immaturity.

When viewed alongside Paul’s language in 1 Corinthians, the Valentinian claim to be among the pneumatikoi—the spiritually mature—becomes historically intelligible. The later condemnation of Valentinianism was not the rejection of psychological or symbolic religion per se, but the rejection of an interpretation of Christianity that took Paul’s hierarchical and experiential epistemology to its logical conclusion.

The presence of symbolic and allegorical interpretation within early Christianity did not arise in a vacuum. Jewish precedents for non-literal engagement with sacred texts were already well established prior to and during the first century. In Ecclesiastical History (2.17), Eusebius quotes extensively from Philo of Alexandria regarding a Jewish group known as the Therapeutae, often associated with the Essene movement. Philo describes them as ascetics devoted to prayer, communal life, and the allegorical interpretation of scripture, explicitly stating that they treated the literal text as symbolic of deeper spiritual realities.

This Essene tradition of allegorical exegesis provides an important backdrop for understanding early Christian approaches to scripture. While definitive proof is lacking, many scholars have speculated that Jesus may have had contact with Essene circles, given overlapping concerns such as asceticism, critique of temple authority, communal ethics, and emphasis on inner purity. Whether or not Jesus himself belonged to the Essenes, the intellectual and spiritual atmosphere in which Christianity emerged clearly included symbolic and non-literal modes of interpretation.

This continuity becomes more visible in later Jewish-Christian groups such as the Ebionites. In the Panarion, Epiphanius describes the Ebionites as following a way of life strikingly similar to that of the Essenes, including practices such as vegetarianism and communal discipline. He also reports that while the Ebionites claimed fidelity to the Law of Moses, they simultaneously rejected or violated significant portions of its legislation. This apparent contradiction is difficult to explain if the Law were understood strictly literally, but becomes intelligible if it was interpreted symbolically or selectively, as pointing beyond itself.

Epiphanius further notes that the Ebionites claimed revelation through Christ as the basis for their interpretations, suggesting that their authority did not rest solely on textual literalism but on perceived spiritual insight. While culturally and theologically distinct from later Gnostic groups, the Ebionites nevertheless shared important methodological features with them: an emphasis on being led by the Spirit, a willingness to reinterpret inherited texts, and the conviction that true understanding required more than surface-level observance.

When viewed alongside Paul’s distinction between natural and spiritual understanding in 1 Corinthians, these diverse movements—Essenes, Ebionites, Pauline communities, and Valentinians—can be seen not as isolated anomalies, but as participants in a broader ancient religious pattern. Across these groups, sacred texts were treated as symbolic, spiritual discernment was privileged over literalism, and revelation was understood as transformative insight rather than mere assent to propositions. The differences between them are real and significant, but they operate within a shared framework in which spiritual maturity entails access to deeper meaning.

A careful reading of Paul’s letters—particularly 1 Corinthians and Galatians—reveals a form of Christianity that is more internally stratified, epistemologically complex, and spiritually demanding than later doctrinal summaries often suggest. Paul distinguishes between immature and mature believers, between exoteric proclamation and hidden wisdom, and between surface-level understanding and Spirit-mediated discernment. His insistence that “Christ and him crucified” constituted introductory instruction rather than the fullness of his teaching was not rhetorical flourish, but a structural feature of his theology.

That this hierarchy was neither accidental nor uniquely Pauline is confirmed by later orthodox voices. Origen openly acknowledged that Christianity, like philosophical schools and mystery traditions, possessed teachings not disclosed to the multitude, but reserved for those sufficiently prepared. Far from denying Paul’s framework, Origen normalized it, reframing spiritual maturity as a matter of pedagogical progression rather than charismatic exclusivity. In doing so, he preserved the language of depth while curtailing its destabilizing potential.

Valentinian Christianity represents one historical attempt to inhabit the role of the spiritually mature believers Paul described. Valentinians did not see themselves as innovators or rebels, but as heirs to an apostolic tradition of spiritual insight, interpreting Christian myth symbolically and psychologically rather than literally. Their emphasis on inner transformation, recognition, and integration—later recognized by Carl Jung as a proto-psychological understanding of religion—demonstrates that early Christianity could be experiential and symbolic without abandoning its core narrative.

The broader Jewish context further supports this reading. Allegorical interpretation among Essene-associated groups, as described by Philo and preserved by Eusebius, shows that symbolic engagement with scripture was already established prior to Christianity. The Ebionites, as portrayed by Epiphanius, likewise occupied a liminal space: affirming the Law while reinterpreting it, claiming fidelity while violating its literal prescriptions, and grounding authority in revelatory insight. Though culturally distinct from Gnostic groups, they shared a common orientation toward Spirit-led interpretation and non-literal meaning.

The later triumph of proto-orthodox Christianity did not eliminate Paul’s categories; it redefined them. The exoteric proclamation Paul called “milk” became the entirety of the faith, while the language of spiritual maturity and hidden wisdom was either moralized, deferred, or excluded. Traditions that pursued gnosis—understood as transformative insight rather than speculative cosmology—were increasingly labeled heretical, not because they lacked apostolic roots, but because they threatened unity, control, and doctrinal stability.

Modern Christianity, in many of its forms, continues to proclaim “Christ and him crucified” as the whole meal rather than the beginning of it. Whether this represents a necessary safeguard against fragmentation or a loss of spiritual depth is a matter of judgment. What cannot be denied is that the earliest Christian texts themselves preserve a more layered vision—one in which faith begins with proclamation, but maturity leads beyond it, into a form of understanding that is discerned rather than taught, experienced rather than asserted, and known rather than merely believed.