The Kingdom We Forgot

Beloved,

To the one who suspects that Jesus never wanted this version of Christianity

Come close. You are not alone in your suspicion. And you're not blasphemous for feeling it.

You are awake.

Because something has gone deeply wrong.

And the fact that you still feel the sting of that wrongness is the first proof that the Spirit is still breathing in you.

You are not faithless.

You are faithful enough to be disturbed.

Blessed are you who do not belong.

Blessed are you who stayed quiet in the sanctuary because the sermon erased your story.

Blessed are you who walk out of the church still bleeding, still gay, still divorced, still depressed.

Blessed are you who love Christ but have no more energy to pretend.

Blessed are you who wonder if the real Gospel is somewhere buried beneath the concrete we poured over it.

You have heard it said:

“Follow Christ and your life will be blessed.”

But I say to you:

If your faith makes you rich, comfortable, and applauded, you might not be following Christ at all.

You have heard it said:

“Obey, submit, keep your place.”

But I say to you:

You were not made to disappear in the pews. You were made to bear witness, to burn, to breathe fire in your own voice.

You have heard it said:

“Do not question leadership. Authority is God-ordained.”

But I say to you:

If authority protects itself and silences the wounded, it no longer serves God; it imitates Pharaoh.

You have heard it said:

“Don’t bring politics into church.”

But I say to you:

If your gospel cannot stand in the refugee camp, the prison yard, the welfare line, or the street where blood still dries on the concrete, it is no Gospel at all.

Woe to you who build churches with no windows.

Woe to you who sell mercy only to the clean.

Woe to you who sell forgiveness with stipulations.

Woe to you who bless nations while ignoring the crucified among them.

Woe to you who made God into an idea, a weapon, or a brand.

You stand in pulpits and call it love while erasing the names of the hungry.

You gatekeep the table that was set for enemies.

You dress the tomb and ignore the body.

And still, you say, “This is the will of the Lord.”

But truly, I say to you, it is not.

Christ did not come to make perfect citizens.

He came to overturn empires.

To tear open the heavens,

and invite the uninvited to sit where kings once ruled.

He came for those with no language left.

For the women touching the hem of power,

for the tax man with trembling hands,

for the shamed woman at the well,

for the doubter, the denier, the betrayer,

for you.

The Kingdom is not in attendance.

It is in attention and presence.

Not in purity codes,

but in unclean compassion.

The Kingdom is where a paralyzed body is not pitied but crowned.

Where Mary is not an exception but a revelation: the one who said yes to divine disruption.

The Kingdom is where saints still pray.

Where the Church is not a fortress but a cracked floor.

Where the Spirit groans in our chaos and does not ask us to explain it.

Let me be clear:

This is not about rebellion.

This is not about progressivism.

This is about returning to the fire.

To the fire that descended upon the Apostles and Gentiles alike.

To the Gospel that does not flirt with power.

To the table that does not check credentials.

To the Christ who did not ascend a throne but a cross.

We are not reforming religion.

We are remembering resurrection.

From now on:

• Do not equate morality with godliness.
• Do not sanctify busyness as obedience.
• Do not be ashamed of embodiment, desire, difference, or doubt.
• We will not abandon the cross for the crowd.
• We will not crown an empire and call it a church.

We will follow the Breath wherever She leads.

Even if it costs us comfort.

Even if it costs us certainty.

Even if it costs us everything we thought was sacred.

Truly, I tell you, you must let it all burn. Then, and only then, will you find what cannot be burned.

So let it burn.

Let go of the faith that needs applause.

Let go of the Jesus who sounds more like your country than your Gospel.

Let go of the God who can only love straight, clean, strong people.

And meet the one who still walks through locked rooms,

wounds showing, breath still warm, saying, "Peace."

For that same One now walks through train stations in winter,

through slums in Mumbai,

across desert borders,

beneath tarpaulin tents in Gaza and Sudan,

through Manila’s garbage hills and Cairo’s alleyways,

across favelas, flood zones, detention centers, and forgotten villages.

He kneels beside the unshowered, the unpapered, and the unfed.

He does not wait for a welcome.

He is already there, breathing peace into places the world has discarded.

I will write you hundreds more letters.

So you can whisper into alleys, shout into sanctuaries, and bleed into words.

But know this: Everything begins here.

With the shaking.

With the fire.

With the hunger to begin again.

Peace to your uprising.

Courage to your grief.

Bread for the fire.

And the Spirit who breaks all gates.

Until we meet again,

A voice shouting from the desert.