“Two Martyrs, Two Civilizations: Why Socrates Was Greater than Jesus”
Christians have spent two thousand years blaming the Jews for killing Jesus. The cry of “Christ-killers” rang through medieval pogroms, inquisitorial sermons, and even the modern bloodbath of the Holocaust. The Jews were told their guilt was eternal, their crime unforgivable. But if we are to play this game of historical blame, let me offer a counter-charge: it was not the Jews who killed the world’s hope, it was the Europeans who killed Socrates. Athens may have staged the trial, but Europe, by adopting the crucified prophet of blind faith instead of the philosopher of reason, murdered Socratic dialectics for eternity. The crime is not only ancient—it is ongoing. Every time faith is exalted over questioning, every time obedience is praised over reason, Europe reenacts the execution of Socrates and buries philosophy beneath theology.
The symmetry is perfect. Socrates and Jesus both ended their lives as condemned men. Both were seen as disturbers of order, corrupters of youth, enemies of authority. Both went quietly to their deaths—Jesus to the cross, Socrates to the hemlock—turning execution into martyrdom. However, there is a crucial difference: Socrates never claimed to be God. He claimed only to know nothing, to be a lover of wisdom, a gadfly who would sting Athens awake. Jesus claimed divinity, sonship, incarnation, and a cosmic destiny beyond reason. Any lunatic can proclaim himself God incarnate; the world is never short of messiahs and prophets. But not everyone can live the life Socrates lived: poor, questioning, unyielding, exposing the contradictions of the powerful, preferring truth to safety. His greatness is reproducible by any human who dares to think. Jesus’ greatness depends on a leap of faith that no logic can prove or disprove.
And that is precisely why power prefers Jesus. Socratic dialectics levels the playing field. It takes away the mystique of authority by forcing kings, generals, and priests to answer the same questions as slaves or children. In Socratic dialogue, no one is exempt, no argument is above examination. But faith—especially faith in a divine savior—creates hierarchy. Faith builds a vertical order: God above, prophet below, priest below him, and the trembling believer at the bottom. Faith teaches obedience, not questioning. Faith turns submission into virtue. From the standpoint of rulers, faith is infinitely more useful than reason. That is why Europe chose Jesus over Socrates, theology over philosophy, Church over dialectic.
Christians defend themselves with reason only in a self-serving way. Whenever reason supports doctrine, it is called theology. Whenever reason challenges doctrine, it is called heresy. Reason is not the lamp of truth; it is a guard dog chained to faith. Faith sells itself as salvation, but salvation here is a euphemism for surrender. To “surrender to Christ” in practice means to surrender to his earthly representatives: the priest, the Pope, the televangelist. And this surrender is the source of their power. Christianity’s marketing genius was to turn obedience into a commodity and sell it as freedom. The poor are told they are blessed, the meek are told they shall inherit the earth, while the rich and powerful inherit the pulpits, the cathedrals, and the tax exemptions.
Look at the structure. A white man becomes Pope, and instantly millions of colored Catholics are required to call him “Holy Father.” His personal behavior is irrelevant; his office exempts him from examination. The very idea of the papacy contradicts Socratic dialectic. The Pope cannot be cross-examined by his flock. He is above questioning, because faith has placed him beyond reason. The same is true of modern televangelists. Their personal corruption—embezzlement, adultery, hypocrisy—matters little to their followers. As long as they preach Jesus, as long as they wield faith, they are obeyed. Reason would have unmasked them in a moment; faith keeps their coffers full.
Now compare this with Socrates. He never asked for obedience. He never demanded blind submission. He demanded only that his fellow citizens think. He leveled every hierarchy he encountered: the generals who claimed wisdom, the politicians who claimed virtue, the poets who claimed inspiration. All were exposed as frauds by the simple method of questioning. No wonder Athens killed him. No wonder Europe abandoned him. Reason cannot be controlled; faith can. Socrates is useless to rulers; Jesus is indispensable.
And so the irony stands. Christians accuse Jews of an eternal crime for killing Jesus, but the greater crime is Europe’s own: killing Socrates, and by extension, killing reason. The Jews, at least, killed a man whose followers turned him into a god, whose death was mythologized into redemption. The Europeans effectively eliminated the possibility of a civilization governed by thought rather than faith. If Jesus’ crucifixion is the cornerstone of Christianity, Socrates’ execution is the cornerstone of Europe’s betrayal of reason.
This is not to deny Jesus’ personal virtues. Compassion, love, turning the other cheek—these are noble ideals. But they did not come from Judaism, with its ethic of eye for an eye, nor from the tribal covenantal morality of the Old Testament. They came, as scholars like J.M. Robertson, Michael Lockwood, Marcus Borg, Roy Amore, and Radhakrishnan have argued, from Buddhism. Celibacy, evangelization, universal compassion, and the idea of divine incarnation—all are Buddhist values that seeped into the Mediterranean world through centuries of trade, conquest, and cultural exchange. If Jesus is praised for his radical ethics, the praise belongs to the Buddha, who taught them centuries earlier. Christianity took Buddhist compassion and chained it to Jewish monotheism, packaging a message of obedience as if it were liberation.
The result was a faith that could conquer empires. The emperor Constantine did not choose Christianity because it was true; he chose it because it was useful. Faith unites, faith commands, faith controls. Socratic dialectic could never have built Constantinople or St. Peter’s Basilica. It could never have launched crusades or inquisitions. It could never have demanded tithes, indulgences, or blind obedience to authority. Christianity, with its intoxicating mixture of borrowed compassion and Semitic absolutism, did all this with ease. That is why Europe canonized Jesus and exiled Socrates.The bottom line is simple. Socrates is greater than Jesus. Socrates’ rationality made him unwelcome to the powerful, yet it remains the highest expression of human dignity. Jesus’ faith made him useful to the powerful, but it reduced his followers to a state of eternal submission. If Jews are guilty forever of killing Jesus, then Europeans are guilty forever of killing Socrates. And until Europe repents of this crime—until it restores reason above faith—the world will remain chained to the cross of obedience instead of freed by the dialogue of thought.
The triumph of faith over reason was not inevitable, but it was convenient. Faith gave rulers something philosophy could never provide: mass obedience dressed up as spiritual liberation. Christianity perfected this trick. It claimed that human beings are saved not by their reason, not by their virtue, not by their questioning, but by surrender—surrender to a faith, to a church, to a doctrine. It claimed that to doubt was to sin, to question was to rebel, to seek knowledge outside the authorized scripture was to fall into darkness. From the moment Constantine enthroned Christianity as the religion of the empire, the logic was fixed: the emperor wields the sword, the bishop wields the keys, and the people kneel. What began as a small sect of Galilean followers of a crucified prophet evolved into the grandest machine of control the world has ever known.
Christianity rebranded slavery as freedom. To be enslaved to sin was terrible, but to be enslaved to Christ was called salvation. The paradox is striking: freedom was promised, but only through unconditional obedience. Liberation was offered, but only if you surrendered your mind and soul to authority. It was an ingenious con, a theological pyramid scheme that enriched the top at the expense of the bottom. For the peasants of medieval Europe, for the colonized of Africa and Latin America, for the poor of every age, Christianity told them their misery was holy, their suffering sanctified, their obedience divine. And for the rich and powerful, Christianity provided the perfect alibi: exploit the masses in this life, and promise them justice in the next.
Socratic reason could never play this role. Imagine a Church of Socrates. Imagine if the cornerstone of European civilization had not been the cross but the dialectic. No priest could have survived Socrates’ questioning, no monarch could have justified divine right under the scrutiny of a gadfly. A civilization built on reason would have elevated questioning over obedience, argument over authority, and equality over hierarchy. But Europe did not want such a civilization. Kings, popes, landlords, generals—they wanted power. And Jesus, not Socrates, gave them the script.
Even the so-called intellectual defense of Christianity shows the scam. From Augustine to Aquinas to modern apologists, reason is permitted only as a servant of faith. Aquinas built his “proofs” of God not to invite questioning but to silence it. Augustine declared that faith seeks understanding, but only to confirm what is already believed. This is not reason in the Socratic sense; it is sophistry in priestly robes. The result is a civilization that teaches logic in its schools but forbids logic in its churches, that allows questioning in its universities but punishes it in its pulpits. Faith, having killed Socrates, keeps his ghost alive only in cages where it cannot escape to trouble the faithful.
Nowhere is the hypocrisy more evident than in Christianity’s use of “reason” to defend its own absolutism. The Church councils of the early centuries did not deliberate on truth—they voted on dogma. Bishops counted hands to decide whether Jesus was “of one substance with the Father” or “of similar substance.” Imagine Socrates voting on the truth of a proposition. It would have been unthinkable. For him, truth could not be decreed by majority vote; it had to be tested by relentless questioning. But for Christianity, dogma was manufactured like imperial decrees, and reason was reduced to the courtroom of power where dissent was heresy and obedience was law.
And what of Jesus himself? Even if we grant that he was compassionate and loving, those qualities are not unique to him. They were not products of Judaism, which prized obedience to law and vengeance against enemies. They came from a completely different current—Buddhism. Scholars from J. M. Robertson in “Pagan Christs” to Michael Lockwood in “Buddhism’s Relation to Christianity,” from Marcus Borg’s collection “Jesus and Buddha: The Parallel Sayings” to Roy Amore’s “Two Masters, One Message,” have all pointed to the uncanny parallels between the teachings of Jesus and the Dharma of the Buddha. Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, the great Indian philosopher, showed how ideas traveled along the trade routes between India and the Mediterranean, seeping into Alexandria and the Hellenistic world long before the Gospels were written.
Consider the evidence. Celibacy is not a Jewish virtue; it is alien to a tradition that saw children as the fulfillment of God’s promise. Yet Jesus praises those who renounce marriage for the sake of the kingdom. This echoes the Buddhist monastic ideal, where monks renounce family life to pursue Enlightenment. Evangelization is not a Jewish practice; Judaism was notoriously non-proselytizing. Yet Christianity was born a missionary faith, sending apostles to the ends of the earth. Buddhism, centuries earlier, had pioneered organized missions under Ashoka, spreading across Asia with a zeal that Christianity later imitated. Non-violence and “turn the other cheek” are not Mosaic values; the Hebrew Bible is filled with wars, punishments, and the ethic of retaliation. But these are central to Buddhist ethics, where patience and ahiṃsā are cardinal virtues. Even the notion of God incarnate—God becoming flesh—is foreign to Semitic monotheism, but familiar in Buddhist and Hindu traditions, particularly in the concepts of bodhisattvas and avatars.
If Jesus is admired today, it is primarily because of these Buddhist echoes, rather than his Jewish heritage. His “radical” teachings were radical only in the context of Judaism; in the broader context of world religions, they were borrowed. Christianity’s real genius was not in originating these values but in marketing them. It took Buddhist compassion and dressed it in Jewish monotheism, then sold it as the universal cure for sin. In short, Jesus became less a philosopher of truth and more a salesman of obedience. His Sermon on the Mount was not a Socratic dialogue but a religious commercial, pitching submission as the path to salvation.
This is why the rich and powerful prefer Jesus to Socrates. Jesus, as constructed by his followers, is a useful figure. He is infinitely malleable. He can be turned into a Roman emperor’s mascot, a medieval pope’s justification, a televangelist’s cash cow. He can sanctify slavery, empire, conquest, and colonization—all in the name of love and forgiveness. Socrates, on the other hand, cannot be used in this way. Try to make him the foundation of an empire, and he will ask the emperor what justice is. Try to make him the servant of a pope, and he will ask why God needs an earthly representative. Try to make him a televangelist, and he will ask whether charging money for salvation is not itself a form of corruption. Power cannot control Socrates; it can only silence him. Power can always control Jesus, because Jesus, as mediated by faith, demands surrender.
Thus, Europe’s guilt is more profound than the Jews’ alleged guilt. The Jews killed one man; the Europeans killed reason itself. They buried Socrates and canonized Jesus. They replaced dialectic with dogma, philosophy with faith, and freedom with obedience. And they have never repented. Every cathedral is built on the site of Socrates’ grave. Every sermon that preaches faith over reason is a fresh dose of hemlock for philosophy. Every Pope who declares himself infallible is another Athenian judge condemning the gadfly to death.
If Christians insist that Jesus was unique, let us examine that claim with the cold light of history. When you strip away the dogma, what stands out is not originality but borrowing, not revelation but imitation. The most celebrated teachings of Jesus—those qualities that modern Christians boast about as proof of his divinity—are precisely those that cannot be traced to Judaism. They come instead from Buddhism, the older and wider tradition whose influence seeped westward long before the Gospels were written.
The evidence is not merely speculative. It is historical. By the time of Jesus, Buddhism had already crossed the Hindu Kush, spread into Central Asia, and entered contact zones with the Greek world. The Greco-Bactrian and Indo-Greek kingdoms of the 3rd and 2nd centuries BCE produced Gandhāran art that depicted the Buddha in Hellenistic robes. Pyrrho of Elis, traveling with Alexander to India in the fourth century BCE, returned with a skepticism so radical it mirrored Buddhist Madhyamaka thought. Emperor Ashoka, in the third century BCE, sent Buddhist emissaries westward to the “Yona”—the Greeks—inscribing edicts about non-violence and compassion on stone pillars that still stand today. The Silk Road carried not only silk and spices but also ideas, brought by monks, traders, and pilgrims. By the first century CE, it is entirely plausible—indeed likely—that Buddhist concepts had entered the Mediterranean intellectual bloodstream.
Now consider the parallels. Jesus says, “Do not resist an evildoer. If anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also” (Matthew 5:39). The Buddha teaches, “Hatred does not cease by hatred, but only by love; this is the eternal rule” (Dhammapada 5). The resemblance is more than coincidence; it is a shared ethic of non-retaliation unknown in Jewish law. The Torah commands “eye for an eye” (Exodus 21:24), but neither Jesus’ cheek nor the Buddha’s compassion follows that path. Or take celibacy. Jesus praises those who “have made themselves eunuchs for the sake of the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 19:12). In Judaism, family was seen as a sacred duty. Still, Buddhism built entire monastic orders on the renunciation of family life. Evangelization, too, is alien to Judaism. Jews guarded their covenant as an ethnic and religious birthright; they did not send missionaries to far lands. Yet Christianity from the beginning was aggressively proselytizing, echoing the Buddhist model inaugurated by Ashoka.
Even more striking is the concept of incarnation. Jews saw God as transcendent, utterly beyond flesh. To suggest that God became man was blasphemy. But in India, the idea of divine beings appearing as humans was commonplace. The bodhisattva descends to earth in compassion, taking human form for the sake of others. Hindu gods manifest as avatars—Krishna, Rama—divinity in flesh. Jesus as incarnation, God taking human form, makes no sense in Jewish categories but fits seamlessly into the Indian religious imagination. The uniqueness Christians trumpet is, in fact, borrowed originality.
Scholars across centuries have noticed this. J. M. Robertson, in Pagan Christs, catalogued how Christianity lifted myths and motifs from surrounding religions, including Buddhism. Michael Lockwood compiled a comprehensive history of scholarship on Buddhist-Christian parallels, demonstrating how Christianity echoes the Dharma in a systematic manner. Marcus Borg put Jesus and the Buddha side by side in Parallel Sayings, making the similarities unmistakable. Roy Amore wrote Two Masters, One Message to underscore the convergence. And Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, philosopher and statesman, argued in Eastern Religions and Western Thought that Indian ideas profoundly shaped Hellenistic and Christian developments through Alexandria and beyond. Even conservative scholars admit the parallels, though they retreat into claiming coincidence or independent development. But the weight of evidence suggests otherwise. Ideas do not remain confined. When trade routes span continents, philosophies travel with them.
The point is not to deny that Jesus existed or taught. The point is to expose the myth of uniqueness. The ethical core of Christianity—non-violence, compassion, renunciation, universality—belongs to Buddhism. What Christianity added was Jewish monotheism and European marketing. It took Buddhist values, tied them to a messianic figure, and sold them as a package of salvation. This is why Jesus became so useful to power. Buddhist monks preached compassion but renounced power. Jesus’ followers preached compassion but built empires. Buddhism dissolved hierarchies with its insistence on universal compassion. Christianity established hierarchies, with the Pope and emperor at the pinnacle. The ethic of the Buddha was recycled as the ethic of Christ, but emptied of its rational and philosophical depth, repackaged as obedience to faith.
This is Christianity’s genius: to borrow compassion from the East, absolutism from the Jews, and authority from Rome, and then to market the fusion as the only path to salvation. It is why the rich and powerful love Jesus but ignore Socrates. Jesus could be turned into a universal brand, a sacred trademark stamped onto coins, armies, and colonies. Socrates could never be branded; he could only be endured. Jesus offered rulers a way to control the masses with promises of heaven and threats of hell. Socrates offered only the irritation of endless questioning. Christianity became the perfect technology of control. Socratic philosophy remained an inconvenience, tolerated in small doses but always chained to serve the ends of power.
Thus, when modern Christians boast about the compassion of Jesus, they are boasting about Buddhism in disguise. When they praise his missionary zeal, they are praising Ashoka’s precedent. When they marvel at his celibacy, they are marveling at the monasticism of India. And when they worship him as God incarnate, they are worshipping a concept alien to Judaism but native to the Indian subcontinent. To insist on Jewish blame for his death while ignoring European guilt for killing Socrates is hypocrisy of the highest order. The Jews killed a man who claimed divinity; the Europeans killed the man who embodied reason itself. And in choosing faith over philosophy, obedience over dialectic, they killed the very possibility of a rational civilization.
Socrates and Jesus stand as symbols of two opposing strategies for shaping civilization. One is the method of freedom: dialectical reason, which exposes falsehood by relentless questioning. The other is the Message of obedience: faith in divine authority, which silences questions by sanctifying hierarchy. To put it plainly, Socrates is useless to power, while Jesus is indispensable. The trajectory of Western history proves the point.
Imagine, for a moment, if Europe had canonized Socrates instead of Jesus. Imagine if the martyrs of reason had become the saints of civilization. Every child in school would be taught not to memorize creeds but to ask questions. Every politician would be interrogated, not crowned. Every Pope would be cross-examined, not obeyed. Truth would not be decreed; it would be pursued. The civilization built on Socratic dialectic would have been restless, critical, perpetually self-correcting. Such a world would be more complex to govern, but infinitely freer.
Instead, Europe canonized Jesus. Not the man, but the myth: the obedient son of God, the sacrificial lamb, the divine king who preached meekness to the poor and submission to rulers. The story was too valuable to resist. Emperors could point to Jesus and tell their subjects: “Obey as he obeyed.” Popes could point to Jesus and say: “Submit to us as to him.” Slaveholders could tell their slaves, “Suffer in this life, for heaven awaits.” Colonizers could tell the colonized, “Convert and be saved.” The genius of Christianity was not its ethics but its utility. It gave rulers a sacred manual for control.
The inversion is tragic. Socrates democratized knowledge. He treated slaves, women, and foreigners as interlocutors in dialogue. He leveled hierarchies by showing that no one—neither politician nor poet nor priest—had a monopoly on wisdom. Jesus, or rather the Jesus of Christian myth, reinstalled hierarchy with divine authority at the top and unquestioning believers at the bottom. The very qualities that made Socrates dangerous—his universality, his rationality—made Jesus useful when inverted into obedience.
Even the structure of discourse differs. Socrates asked questions. Jesus delivered sermons. The Socratic method is a dialogical, endless, and self-correcting approach. The Christian Message is declarative, final, and absolute. The Socratic method cannot be packaged; the Christian Message can be marketed. This is why Christianity spread at an imperial speed, while philosophy remained confined to small schools. The method of Socrates produces free minds but weak armies. The Message of Jesus produces obedient soldiers and pliant subjects.
Faith, therefore, was not chosen because it was true but because it was useful. Power prefers certainty to doubt, obedience to inquiry, sermons to questions. Socrates asks inconvenient things like “What is justice?” Jesus is made to proclaim convenient things like “Blessed are the meek.” Socrates undermines authority by exposing ignorance. Jesus sanctifies authority by demanding faith. Socrates requires courage to think; Jesus requires surrender to believe. No wonder Europe buried one and enthroned the other.
The consequences are still with us. Every time a televangelist manipulates the poor, every time a pope is treated as infallible, every time a politician waves a Bible to silence dissent, we are watching the victory of Jesus over Socrates. Reason is permitted only as an ornament, never as a foundation. Universities may celebrate critical thinking, but churches demand obedience. Politicians may debate policy, but invoke faith when cornered. The gadfly is swatted; the shepherd is worshipped. Europe’s betrayal of reason was not a one-time execution in 399 BCE—it is a continuous betrayal, reenacted in every age.
What makes this inversion even more damning is that Christianity’s ethical appeal was borrowed from other religions. The qualities that soften its authoritarian core—compassion, non-violence, renunciation—were imported from Buddhism. Without those borrowed values, Christianity would have been nothing but Semitic law plus Roman authority: harsh, narrow, punitive. With them, Christianity became a global empire of faith. Europe exported this faith to every corner of the world, crushing civilizations older and wiser than itself, silencing indigenous philosophies, baptizing entire continents into obedience. And yet, beneath its borrowed compassion, the structure remained: faith as the submission of reason, salvation as the slavery of the mind.
This is why Socrates remains greater. His rationality levels the field; Jesus’ faith tilts it toward power. Socrates is unwanted because he cannot be used. Jesus is indispensable because he can be. Socrates challenges the strong and empowers the weak. Jesus comforts the weak and legitimizes the strong. Socrates is truth without power; Jesus is power disguised as truth. The European choice was not between two martyrs but between two futures—and it chose the one that chained humanity to obedience.
If Christians insist on eternal guilt, let them taste their own logic. For two millennia, they have repeated the slander that the Jews are guilty forever of killing Jesus. But if guilt is eternal, then Europe must wear its own curse: guilty forever of killing Socrates. Athens may have passed the sentence, but it was Europe that sealed the verdict by choosing faith over reason, obedience over dialogue, creed over questioning. The Jews killed a man who claimed to be God; Europe killed the man who taught humanity how to think. Which crime is greater? Which betrayal is more lasting?
The Jews’ supposed crime produced a religion that exalted submission. Europe’s crime produced a civilization that chained itself to faith. From that moment forward, reason was tolerated only in chains, permitted only when it could defend dogma. When reason escaped its cage—the Renaissance, the Enlightenment—it was branded dangerous, heretical, satanic. Even today, whenever philosophy asks the forbidden question, the old reflex returns: silence it, ban it, kill it if necessary. Every execution of a heretic, every book burned, every scientist persecuted, is Europe refilling the hemlock cup.
Socrates should have been the father of Western civilization. Instead, he was exiled as a dangerous memory. Jesus became the face of Europe, not because his Message was unique, but because it was useful. His compassion was borrowed from Buddhism; his divinity was shaped by Jewish law; his obedience was sanctioned by Roman authority—a perfect trinity of control: Eastern ethics, Semitic absolutism, imperial power. Europe did not want the gadfly; it wanted the shepherd. It did not want reason; it wanted faith. And so the Socratic method—the one true path to freedom—was buried under centuries of theology.
We live with the consequences. The Pope is still called “Holy Father” by millions who dare not question his authority. Televangelists still fleece the poor with promises of salvation. Politicians still invoke Jesus to sanctify their lies. All of it is possible because Europe canonized Jesus and condemned Socrates. All of it is sustained because faith is easier than thought, obedience easier than dialogue. The result is not salvation but slavery—a slavery disguised as devotion, a surrender marketed as freedom.
And yet, Socrates waits. His method is indestructible. You can kill the man, but you cannot kill the question. You can silence the gadfly, but you cannot silence the itch it leaves in the mind. Wherever someone asks “Why?”, wherever someone refuses to bow to authority, wherever someone chooses truth over comfort, Socrates rises from his grave. Europe may be guilty forever of killing him, but humanity can still resurrect him. Not by faith, but by reason. Not by worship, but by dialogue. Not by obedience, but by the courage to think.
If Christians want to live by the logic of eternal guilt, let them confess their own. If Jews are guilty for the death of Jesus, then Europeans are guilty for the death of Socrates. If the cross is the symbol of salvation, then the hemlock cup is the symbol of betrayal. Between the two lies the history of civilization: power chose faith, and reason was murdered. The task before us is immense but straightforward. We must bring Socrates back to life. We must drink his hemlock as a sacrament, not to die, but to live—live as free minds in a world no longer ruled by obedience. Only then will Europe’s crime be undone. Only then will reason rise again from its long tomb beneath the shadow of the cross.
Bibliography
Amore, Roy C. Two Masters, One Message: The Lives and Teaching of Gautama and Jesus. Oakville, Ontario: Mosaic Press, 1978.
Borg, Marcus J., ed. Jesus and Buddha: The Parallel Sayings. Berkeley, CA: Ulysses Press, 1997.
Lockwood, Michael. Buddhism’s Relation to Christianity: A Critical Inquiry. Pondicherry: Sri Aurobindo Ashram Press, 2008.
Radhakrishnan, Sarvepalli. Eastern Religions and Western Thought. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1939.
Robertson, J. M. Pagan Christs: Studies in Comparative Hierology. London: Watts & Co., 1903.
The Holy Bible, New Revised Standard Version. New York: HarperCollins, 1989.
Dhammapada. Translated by Eknath Easwaran. Tomales, CA: Nilgiri Press, 1985.
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