Something stirs in me when I read the Gospels—not the institutional voice of religion, but the wild, liberating presence of a man who made God feel bigger, not smaller.
Jesus, as I’ve come to know him, didn’t arrive to reinforce the religious systems of his time. He came to upend them. To speak of God not as a tribal deity tied to place, rule, or temple—but as a living reality within the heart. His message turned the sacred inside-out.
He walked past the temple and into the lives of fishermen. He bypassed priesthood and taught with authority from within. He touched the untouchable. Loved the unlovable. And opened heaven not as a destination but as a lived experience.
And yet… within a generation, we find the disciples back in the Temple courts, wrestling with hierarchy, arguing over Gentile inclusion, and clinging—understandably—to the old forms. Their Rabbi was gone. Even with the gift of the Spirit, grief has a way of pulling us back to what we once knew. It’s not a failure. It’s simply human.
We do not always know how to carry a flame. So we build a fireplace. And then one day we realise, the fire was never meant to be tamed.
The Disciple’s Dilemma
There’s something deeply moving in the disciples’ story. They weren’t trying to build a religion. They were trying to honour a presence that had changed them forever. But as structure returned, so too did distance.
They knew Jesus intimately—but the moment he was gone, they leaned back on familiar scaffolding: temple rituals, leadership debates, communal rules. We see in Acts that the Spirit is at work—but even so, the human tendency toward order, legacy, and survival creeps in.
I don’t say this to judge them. Quite the opposite—I see myself in them. We all reach for old habits when our hearts are uncertain. But the cost is this: something of Jesus’ wild freedom—his uncontainable love, his disruptive grace—begins to fade into forms we can control.
Paul and the Path to Power
Then comes Paul.
A Roman citizen. A man of fire and conviction. A missionary with a vision. And yet also, perhaps, a strategist.
I don’t deny Paul’s sincerity. His encounter on the Damascus road was radical. His letters are full of heartache and hope, vision and vulnerability. But I also can’t ignore how his teachings, over time, became the scaffolding for a church that eventually aligned itself with empire.
Paul spoke the language of Rome. He understood order, law, citizenship, and discipline. He was uniquely placed to move the message of Jesus from backstreets to basilicas. But in doing so, did the wildness get polished away?
He didn’t preach a return to temple ritual, but he did lay the groundwork for doctrine, structure, and control. By the time Constantine made Christianity the religion of the empire, Paul’s letters were already being used to legitimize power, define orthodoxy, and sideline the Spirit.
Again, not necessarily Paul’s intention. But intention and impact do not always align. The Jesus who bent low to wash feet became, in time, the figurehead for a religion propped up by thrones and swords.
The Qur’an’s Jesus – Revered but Contained
My recent curiosity led me to explore what the Qur’an says about Jesus. And I was surprised.
Jesus—Isa ibn Maryam—is mentioned often. He is respected. Called the Messiah. The Word from God. Born of a virgin. A miracle-worker. Even a prophet strengthened by the Holy Spirit.
But in the Qur’an, the radical intimacy of Jesus seems subdued. He is made to fit a framework. The Qur’an honours him, but it confines him. He is not crucified. He is not divine. He is not risen. He points not to God-within but to submission from without.
And I find myself deeply torn.
On the one hand, I respect the reverence with which the Qur’an holds him. But on the other, I feel it misses the deepest pulse of his message: not just to follow God’s will, but to become one with it. Not just to submit, but to embody. To live, breathe, and awaken God within us.
The Jesus I know is not simply a prophet among prophets. He is a tearing open of heaven. A collision of God and humanity so complete that the curtain between worlds split in two.
To reduce him to anything less—whether in the name of monotheism or order—feels like pulling the flame back into the fireplace. It may be safer. But it’s not the same fire.
Are We Still Getting It Wrong?
Sometimes I wonder if we’ve ever truly understood what Jesus came to do.
Not just forgive sins. Not just teach morality. Not just prepare us for heaven. But to call us into the full aliveness of God. To teach us how to die before we die. To free us from systems, structures, and self-preservation.
And maybe even his disciples didn’t quite get it. How could they? Their world was still wrapped in Temple thinking. Even after Pentecost, they were learning how to let go. Spirit-led interpretation is still filtered through human fear, habit, and longing.
As for us—we inherited centuries of institutional theology. We were taught to worship Jesus, but not always to follow him. We memorized creeds but lost the poetry. We debated doctrine but forgot the dance.
I don’t say this to tear down faith. I say this because I believe faith is still evolving. Still unfolding. Still becoming.
The Temple Within
At the heart of all this is one truth I cannot escape:
God does not live in doctrine. God does not live in books. God lives within.
This is what Jesus revealed. The kingdom is near. The veil is torn. The presence of God is no longer behind stone walls or bronze altars. It’s in the breath. In the broken. In the becoming.
The temple of God is the human heart, awakened.
This is the fire that cannot be contained. This is the voice that speaks not just to nations, but to the soul.
And when I look around at the world, I wonder: is it time to remember?
To leave behind the empire model of religion?
To rediscover a faith that’s wild, humble, intimate, and alive?
A Faith Still Becoming
Perhaps Jesus knew this would happen. Perhaps he knew that even with the Spirit, we would still reach for systems to help us cope with the mystery.
But maybe that’s why he never wrote anything down. Why he taught in parables instead of policies. Why he left us not a doctrine, but a way.
Follow me.
That’s all he said.
Not build me a temple.
Not write me a creed.
Not defend me in councils.
Just: follow me.
Into the wild.
Into the heart.
Into the sacred ordinary.
Maybe it’s time to begin again.
To tear down some altars.
To sit with our questions.
To listen for the whisper of the untamed Christ.
Not the one bound by religion.
But the one who still walks the shoreline.
Calling our name.
Inviting us—not into certainty—but into love.
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