I recently watched Jordan Peterson vs. 20 Atheists. Normally, I avoid productions from groups like Jubilee. Manufactured conflict has never appealed to me, much like reality TV or sensationalist talk shows. I also tend to skip clickbait titles such as “Destroyed by Logic and Reason,” “The Science Says,” or “The Signature of Moses Found.” Still, Peterson’s exchanges left me frustrated on several levels.

I won’t attempt a point-by-point breakdown of every flawed reasoning instance; others have already done that with clarity and depth. Instead, I want to focus on a broader concern that emerged after reflection: Peterson allows his personal beliefs to determine how he reads the Bible, rather than letting the text speak on its own terms.

This approach isn’t unusual; many engage with the Bible this way, and if it remains a matter of personal meaning or inspiration, that is their choice. So long as it doesn’t harm others, people can approach sacred texts however they wish for insight. However, Peterson is not simply a private individual interpreting scripture for himself; he is also an academic. This role carries a responsibility to engage the text with rigour and openness to what it actually says. When read critically, the Bible sometimes directly challenges the ideas he promotes. By overlooking this, Peterson constructs a self-contradictory framework, a topic deserving its own detailed analysis, where he claims the text’s authority while reshaping its content to fit preexisting beliefs filtered through a Jungian psychoanalytic lens.

Peterson’s Jungian method psychoanalyzes figures who lived thousands of years ago, authors and characters from a world without our modern assumptions, values, or psychological frameworks. This method is risky for anyone, but especially questionable coming from a psychologist. When confronted by critics, Peterson deflects by invoking “context,” ignoring that he has already applied his own psychological context, one that may not align with the text itself. Ironically, this recontextualization undermines his own appeal to context. You cannot have it both ways.

When I study biblical literature, I turn to experts like Richard Elliott Friedman, William G. Dever, Christine Hayes, Nahum M. Sarna and the late Frank Moore Cross, my go-to voices. This is an area where you don’t fly solo; when it comes to history or textual criticism, you should turn to scholars, not apologists. There’s a world of difference between genuine scholarship and the kind of interpretive devices used by apologists, and, frankly, by Peterson. My advice is to consult those with those who have a rigorous background in the language and culture of the period. These scholars are grounded in a long-standing tradition of critical textual analysis, studying texts in their original language and historical context. Occasional theological interpretations sneak in, of course, that’s why you consult multiple sources and compare perspectives, not cling to a single one.

Take the story of Elijah, one Peterson references in the Jubilee session. Here, the text’s ambiguity is minimal, yet Peterson muddles it. He talks about the “inner voice of God,” suggesting that this quiet, internal nudge of your conscience or intuition is the divine voice. Essentially, God is just you, talking to yourself. But there’s a serious problem with Peterson’s interpretation, and it’s rooted in the text itself.

Most English Bibles translate Elijah’s encounter on Mount Horeb (1 Kings 19:12) as “a gentle whisper” or “a still small voice.” However, several modern versions render it simply as “silence” (e.g., CEB, NRSVue, NABRE, NJB, NET). The difference arises from translators’ interpretations of the rare Hebrew phrase קול דממה דקה  (qôl demāmâ daqqâ), which literally means “voice of thin silence.” The KJV and similar translations preserve the sense of a voice, while others treat the phrase metaphorically, emphasizing the absence of sound.

This variation shapes how readers understand the scene. A “voice” suggests God speaks quietly, contrasting with the wind, earthquake, or fire. “Silence” shifts focus away from speech entirely, inviting reflection on God’s presence without audible words. For textual criticism, this highlights the challenges of translating rare idioms and deciding how ancient phrases best carry into modern language. Peterson’s interpretation may be emotionally appealing, but it risks being philologically and contextually off the mark.

Even if we grant the interpretation of a “small inner voice,” Peterson ignores the broader prophetic context: the story immediately preceding shows Elijah publicly confronting the priests of Baal on Mount Carmel, where fire falls from the sky in response to his plea. Whether taken literally or not, the message is clear: God is portrayed as an external force. Peterson overlooks this vital context.

Though I am an atheist, I recognize that God, in typical Judeo-Christian understanding, is considered both an internal voice and an external force. But let’s be clear: in the Judeo-Christian view, God is not you. Peterson’s view, if God is that inner voice speaking to you without any source outside your physical being, collapses God into the self. That is not Judeo-Christian theology.

This example typifies Peterson’s biblical commentary: selective, psychologically loaded interpretations that collapse under scrutiny, especially when the text is read in its original language or full historical context. Yet, predictably, Peterson insists on “context!”, even though he has already reshaped the text to fit his own framework.

Peterson’s interpretation of Elijah’s “inner voice” reveals a pattern in his biblical commentary: he consistently reshapes the text to fit his psychological framework. This method becomes even more apparent when he discusses what it means to be a Christian.

He states that what makes someone a Christian isn’t what they claim, but how they act. But this assumes we all agree on what “Christian” means. If the response is that a Christian is simply a “follower of Christ,” this becomes a distinction without a difference, circular reasoning that does not clarify what counts as “following Christ” beyond the definition itself.

If we probe deeper, disagreement quickly emerges: different denominations define “following Christ” in different and sometimes contradictory ways. Without a shared definition, Peterson’s point becomes trivial. Still, the nuance can be overlooked because taken on its own, his statement isn’t groundbreaking. Aesop told the same story centuries ago with the fable of the two sons, one who says he’ll work but doesn’t, and one who refuses but does the job anyway. The Romans had facta, non verba (“deeds, not words”). Proverbs 21 makes clear that righteousness is shown through action, not empty ritual. Even the 17th-century cliché “actions speak louder than words” carries the same message.

So why present it as some profound revelation? It comes across less as wisdom and more as condescension. It suggests Peterson treats those who disagree with him as dim-witted, needing ancient moral truths broken down like nursery rhymes. It’s patronizing.

Later in the debate, Peterson is asked about morally disturbing parts of the Bible, passages where God commands the slaughter of women, children, and animals. His defence is that you cannot take a single passage out of context and must read the whole Bible. But this insistence on context often feels like a dodge.

Then he pivots to divine intention. When it comes to humans, Peterson says actions matter more than stated beliefs. But when it comes to God, suddenly actions don’t matter; we’re told to focus on intention. “Keep it in context,” he insists. “Just trust that the intent behind it was good.” That’s a rhetorical shell game.

It collapses further when you remember: we’re not talking about a fallible human, but a being supposedly omniscient and omnipotent, at least in the Judeo-Christian view, a view I was raised in.

For a God like that, there is no gap between intent and outcome. He doesn’t “mean well” and then accidentally command genocide. He knows exactly what will happen before he speaks. The outcome is the intent.

Peterson’s defence ultimately backfires. He shifts the focus from action to intention, hides behind the complexity of ancient texts, and implies that if you truly understood the Bible, you wouldn’t ask uncomfortable moral questions. This is apologetics 101 dressed up in Jungian metaphors. It’s also a classic example of begging the question.

Peterson built his brand on being the guy who “speaks the truth.” But when the truth becomes uncomfortable, he dodges or redefines terms mid-sentence.

This isn’t new for Peterson. In earlier interviews, when asked if he believes in God, he’d respond that he “acts as if God exists.” At other times, he insists people act out what they truly believe. When confronted by a reporter with his own words, he was cornered and finally admitted he believes in God. He couldn’t even be honest with himself until painted into a corner with his own framework. Later, he asks, “What do you mean by believe?”

Since Peterson stated he believes in God, he must have a definition of what that means. He demands clear definitions from others, yet it’s his own definitions that truly matter here. I’d call this a burden shift, though he did provide a definition, but I found it vague and insufficient. In this definition, he said belief means to “attend to, prioritize and sacrifice for.” That’s something you do with children, not a profound theological concept. It’s trivial. Using such a loose definition risk turning the argument into one from absurdity.

If God is the ideal, then He should be judged by the highest moral standards. If He’s beyond judgment, then that’s just power. And power alone isn’t morality. It’s force, something Peterson has been highly critical of in the past. It’s interesting he seemingly adopts a position he once opposed.

Peterson built his brand on telling people to “clean their room” and “tell the truth.” Maybe it’s time he cleaned up his arguments and told the truth to himself.