“The real question isn’t whether the church got it wrong or right. It’s whether we’re willing to step outside the boundaries of what’s been handed down to us to explore the possibilities of a different kind of faith, one that sees Jesus’ words not as an end point but as a starting point. One that challenges us to ask, not just who God is, but who we are in relation to the divine.”
This clear YouTube has profound insights about the man called by his contemporaries “Yeshua bar Yosef,” whose name has come down to us as “Jesus.” He was a man whose teachings should have had a profound effect on humankind. But they were shrouded in the ecclesiastical doctrines of the church that has transformed him into a god and has foresaken his teachings to maintain control.
The authors of the video explain that in the Gospels, “Jesus isn’t presented as a distant savior to be worshipped from afar. Instead, he’s a guide, a teacher revealing the divine within every person.”
A transcript follows the video below.
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Transcript Describing Jesus' Real Teachings
Let’s start with one of the most explosive discoveries in modern religious history, the Gospel of Thomas. This isn’t your typical Sunday school lesson. Buried in the sands of Egypt for over a millennium, this collection of Jesus sayings was only unearthed in 1945 among the Nag Hammadi texts. And the church? They’d prefer you never found out. The Gospel of Thomas flips everything on its head. It’s not a narrative like the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke or John. No miracles, no crucifixion, no resurrection story. Just pure, unfiltered wisdom, and it’s precisely this stripped-down version of Jesus’ teachings that threatens the very core of traditional Christian dogma.
Jesus isn’t presented as a distant savior to be worshipped from afar.
Instead, he’s a guide, a teacher revealing the divine within every person. And the most shocking part? One of the central messages is this, the kingdom of God is inside of you. Not in the sky, not in a distant future, but here, right now, within you. This isn’t some vague, mystical idea, Jesus is directly challenging the way the church has framed salvation for centuries. He’s suggesting that the divine isn’t locked away in cathedrals or reserved for priests, it’s inherent in you.
The power to connect with the divine has always been personal, direct, and accessible to everyone.
What does that mean for the Christian faith? For centuries, salvation has been tied to rituals, intermediaries, and the approval of religious authorities. But if Jesus really said that the kingdom of God is within us, it means that the power to connect with the divine has always been personal, direct, and accessible to everyone. No mediators, no gatekeepers, just you and the divine spark that Jesus insists is already within.
Why would the church hide a message like that?
Why was the Gospel of Thomas excluded from the New Testament, left to decay in the Egyptian desert while other Gospels were canonized? Was it because it didn’t fit the narrative they wanted to construct, a narrative that places authority in the hands of a few rather than within every individual?
The Gospel of Thomas was likely written as early as the first century, right around the same time as the canonical Gospels. This isn’t some late heretical addition, these are ancient teachings that were circulating among early Christians, possibly even earlier than some parts of the New Testament. And yet, they were labelled as heretical, buried, and branded as dangerous. In Thomas, Jesus speaks in riddles, cryptic sayings that hint at a deeper reality, urging us to seek knowledge for ourselves. If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you. This isn’t the passive faith preached from most pulpits today, this is a challenge, a call to awaken to our true nature, to understand the divine essence that resides in each one of us.
The early church fathers must have understood the explosive potential of this message. A faith centered on personal spiritual awakening rather than institutional control could undermine the very foundation of their power. They needed followers, not self-realized individuals who believed in their own capacity to connect with God. So the gospel of Thomas was labeled as dangerous, banned, and hidden from view. But we’re no longer in the dark ages.
These teachings are out in the open now, and they’re asking us to reconsider everything we thought we knew about Jesus and his message.
What if he wasn’t just telling us to look to him for salvation? What if he was telling us to look within ourselves? In this secret text, Jesus speaks of a deeper truth, one that empowers and liberates rather than controls and condemns. It’s not about worshipping him; it’s about realizing the divine within. This is not about dismissing the Jesus of the canonical gospels but about rediscovering a side of his teachings that was buried for centuries, a side that, if fully understood, could change the way we see ourselves, faith, and the world.
Now let’s talk about the spiritual movement that almost rewrote the story of Christianity, Gnosticism.
These early Christians were unlike anything the church became, seeking a direct, mystical experience of God, bypassing the authority of priests and bishops. For the Gnostics, Jesus wasn’t the final destination, but the roadmap showing each of us the way to reconnect with a lost, divine reality. The Gnostics spoke of a hidden truth, a secret knowledge, or gnosis, that could unlock the divine within. In their texts, like the Gospel of Philip and the Secret Book of John, salvation wasn’t about sin and repentance, it was about waking up. They believed we’re trapped in a world of illusion, blinded by the material and the physical. According to Gnosticism, the true God is not a far-off ruler judging from above, but the divine essence embedded in every human soul. The Gnostics didn’t see Jesus as a sacrifice for sins but as a revealer of hidden knowledge, urging humanity to transcend the physical and awaken to a greater spiritual truth. In their eyes, the real battle was not against flesh and blood but against ignorance, the veil that keeps humanity in spiritual darkness.
It’s a far cry from the image of a savior who died to pay a cosmic debt, a concept that became central to the later church. Now, if you’re wondering why Gnosticism was labeled as heretical, just follow the money and the power. A belief system that claims every person holds a spark of divinity? That’s a direct threat to any institution that claims to be the gatekeeper of God’s grace. And so, Gnosticism was erased from history. Its texts were burned, its followers hunted down. All that was left were whispers and fragments, only to resurface centuries later.
The Gnostics didn’t fear speaking about a darker truth either. They accused the creator of the material world, the God of the Old Testament, of being a lesser, flawed being, not the true source of divine light. They called him the Demiurge, a being who created a world of matter, suffering, and limitation, far removed from the true God who is pure spirit, beyond the confines of flesh. This idea directly challenged the authority of the church and the established view of God as the all-knowing, all-powerful creator.
In texts like the Apocryphon of John, Jesus appears not just as a teacher but as a liberator from the Demiurge prison. He’s the one who reveals that our reality is a shadow and that true divinity lies in transcending the physical, realizing the spark within. Salvation for the Gnostics wasn’t about pleasing a wrathful deity but about enlightenment, awakening to a higher reality that the mainstream church sought to keep hidden. Gnostic communities had no grand cathedrals, no golden altars, no robes or rituals. Their gatherings were small, secret, intimate, a group of seekers, sharing knowledge, exploring the nature of God, reality, and the human soul. They believed the divine could not be contained in stone or creed, it was a living truth, meant to be experienced, not just believed.
For them, Jesus’ teachings were the key to that experience, not a rulebook for moral behavior, but a guide to self-realization. Imagine a world where the church had embraced the Gnostic vision, where salvation was seen as a journey of inner awakening, not obedience to an external authority. Where each person was encouraged to explore the mysteries of the divine within, not to follow the dictates of an elite clergy. That’s the world the Gnostics offered, and that’s precisely the world that was stamped out when orthodoxy took over.
The question we’re left with is, what was the church so afraid of?
Why was it so crucial to label these ideas as dangerous, to burn their texts, and to demonize anyone who spoke of hidden knowledge? Was it simply about theology, or was it about something far more tangible, control, power, the authority to define what is sacred and what is heresy? The Gnostics weren’t willing to hand over their spiritual autonomy to any institution, and for that, they paid the ultimate price. We’ve all heard it; salvation is about repentance, forgiveness, and the acceptance of Jesus as savior. But what if the New Testament itself contains hints of a radically different message, one that mainstream Christianity has tried to bury?
“Is it not written in your law? I have said, you are gods.”
Let’s cut straight to one of the most puzzling and provocative passages in the Bible, John 10 verse 34, where Jesus makes a statement that still sends shockwaves today: “Is it not written in your law? I have said, you are gods.” Think about that. Jesus isn’t pulling a vague metaphor here. He’s quoting Psalm 82 verse 6, a psalm that calls human beings gods and children of the Most High. This isn’t a throwaway line either. Jesus uses it to justify his own claims to divinity, suggesting that if scripture can call others gods, then why is it such a big deal that he’s claiming to be the Son of God? The church has often glossed over this moment, shuffling it aside in favor of simpler narratives.
Yet, it’s right there in the text, a passage that raises unsettling questions about humanity’s spiritual potential. If Jesus is saying that the Scriptures acknowledge a divine aspect in humanity, what does that imply about the way we should see ourselves? More importantly, why has the institutional church steered away from this interpretation? This isn’t just a theological curiosity. For centuries, the dominant message has been clear. Here, humanity is fallen, flawed, in need of saving from an external source. But here Jesus seems to be suggesting that something divine already exists within us. This isn’t a doctrine of separation and sin, it’s a doctrine of potential and empowerment. And it’s not the only clue. Throughout the New Testament, Jesus’ words are laced with similar hints. In the Gospel of Luke, he speaks of the kingdom of God not as a distant heaven, but as something in your midst. In the Gospel of John, he emphasizes that those who follow him will do greater things than he himself.
These aren’t the words of a teacher placing himself on a pedestal, these are the words of someone inviting us to reach the same heights. Take a look at the early Christian communities, the ones before the church formalized its creeds and doctrines. They didn’t gather around strict hierarchies or priestly authority. They met in homes, shared mystical experiences, and spoke of personal transformation. There was an air of empowerment, a belief that Jesus’ message was about lifting the veil, showing that the kingdom of God is not just near but accessible, here and now.
The problem for the church is that kind of thinking doesn’t lend itself to control.
It doesn’t support elaborate religious institutions that act as intermediaries between God and humanity. A faith that says you are gods threatens the very structures that rely on a divide between the sacred and the profane, the saved and the unsaved. It removes the power from the pulpit and places it squarely in the hands of every individual. Even the concept of being born again, a cornerstone of many Christian traditions, originally pointed to something far deeper. It wasn’t just about a public declaration or a single transformative event. It was about awakening to a new understanding of reality, of self, and of divinity. Early Christian mystics talked about an inner transformation that made them new creations, not because they followed rules, but because they realized the divine nature within.
None of this undermines the core of Christian faith
It’s not about rejecting Jesus, it’s about re-examining what he was really teaching. What if his message wasn’t about human inadequacy but about awakening to a potential that’s been there all along? What if the words “Ye are gods” were not a radical departure but the very essence of what Jesus came to reveal? The canonical Gospels aren’t just religious texts, they’re revolutionary documents, fragments of a much larger untold story. A story where the lines between divine and human blur, where spiritual authority doesn’t come from titles or robes but from an inner awakening. It’s a story that doesn’t need grand cathedrals, golden altars, or gatekeepers. It’s a story about the power of self-realization, of embracing the divine spark that, according to Jesus, has always been within.
The early Christian communities were engaging in intensive, transformative experiences
Let’s shift the focus to the early Christian communities, the ones that existed before institutional Christianity solidified its grip. These groups weren’t just sitting in pews, passively listening to sermons. They were engaging in intense, transformative experiences that mainstream Christianity rarely talks about today. Early followers didn’t see Christianity as a set of doctrines to memorize, they saw it as a path to mystical awakening, a direct connection to the divine.
The evidence is all over the place if you know where to look. From early Christian writings to archaeological discoveries, it’s clear these communities practiced forms of meditation, prayer, and even ecstatic experiences that would be considered radical by today’s standards. These weren’t fringe movements, they were at the very heart of early Christianity. The famous Desert Fathers and Desert Mothers sought solitude, not to isolate themselves from the world, but to plunge deeper into the mystery of divine union. They were mystics, exploring altered states of consciousness, seeking visions, and recording profound spiritual insights.
One key aspect was becoming one with God.
One key aspect of this mystical tradition was the idea of theosis, a Greek term meaning divinization or becoming one with God. This wasn’t about worshipping a distant deity, it was about an intimate, transformative process where believers sought to become like Christ, not just in morals, but in nature. For early Christians, Jesus wasn’t an unreachable figure, he was an example of what humanity could achieve, a model for the transformative journey from human to divine. And this was no secret. Writings from early Christian theologians like Clement of Alexandria and Origen clearly pointed to the idea of mystical knowledge as a path to God. Origen, for example, spoke of three levels of understanding scripture: the literal, the moral, and the mystical. It was the mystical, the hidden, the symbolic, the direct experience of God that he considered the most profound. Yet, these teachings, which emphasized personal spiritual awakening over institutional control, slowly faded as orthodoxy tightened its grip.
Suppression of the direct experience of God was deliberate.
The suppression wasn’t accidental. As Christianity spread and became intertwined with political power, the need for a unified, controllable doctrine became paramount. The mystical dimension, messy, unpredictable, and deeply personal, posed a direct threat to that control. So, the institutional church began favoring a more rigid, literal interpretation of Jesus’ teachings, emphasizing obedience over enlightenment, faith over experience. Look at the early Christian texts that didn’t make it into the canon, the so-called Apocrypha. These writings are filled with mystical language, visions, and direct experiences with the divine. In the Acts of John, a text labeled heretical, Jesus appears not just as a historical figure but as a cosmic, spiritual presence. He dances, he speaks in riddles, and he calls his followers to experience the divine themselves, not just through faith, but through direct spiritual insight.
Then there’s the Lodes of Solomon, a collection of early Christian hymns that is practically soaked in mysticism. These aren’t just songs of praise, they are poetic revelations about unity with God, seeing the divine light, and transcending the material world. world. They were widely circulated among early Christian communities but vanished from mainstream teaching as the church tightened its doctrinal boundaries. By the time the church established its authority, mystical practices were increasingly viewed with suspicion. Ecstatic experiences were seen as dangerous, uncontrollable, threatening the neat, organized structure of the institutional church. Visionaries and mystics were marginalized, their writings buried or branded as unorthodox. What was once a thriving, diverse spiritual landscape became a narrow path, regulated by clerical authority.
What began as mystical rites became ritualistic, symbolic, and controlled.
And let’s not forget the sacraments themselves. What began as mystical rites, baptism seen as a literal death and rebirth, the Eucharist as a mystical union with Christ, became ritualistic, symbolic, and controlled. The rich, transformative symbolism was sanitized, reduced to acts that reinforced institutional power rather than encouraging a direct encounter with the divine. Today, those ancient texts, those mystical experiences, are still out there. They’re reminders of a lost dimension of Christianity, a dimension that challenges the static, hierarchical nature of modern faith. They ask us to reconsider what it means to be a Christian, to reconnect with the ancient practices that weren’t about following rules but about transcending them, stepping into a realm of divine experience that was once the heart of early Christian spirituality.
Everything changed in one historical moment.
Now let’s dig into the historical moment when everything changed, the moment when a once diverse, dynamic Christian movement became a tightly controlled religious institution. We are talking about the early church councils, the gatherings that defined what would become orthodox, Christianity and what would be discarded, banned or condemned. Start with the Council of Nicaea in 325 AD, arguably the most critical turning point in Christian history. It’s here that a group of bishops, backed by the Roman Emperor Constantine, came together to settle debates that had been raging for decades. Debates about who Jesus was, the nature of his divinity, and the correct understanding of God. The result? A new, uniform creed, the Nicene Creed, that sought to eliminate ambiguity and silence dissent.
What most people don’t realize is that early Christianity was far from monolithic. There were multiple factions, each with its own interpretation of Jesus’ teachings. The Ebionites saw him as a great prophet, but not divine. The Martianites rejected the Old Testament entirely, seeing Jesus as a figure who brought a radical new revelation. The Gnostics, as we’ve seen, believed in hidden knowledge and inner divinity. It was a theological free-for-all until the Council stepped in to declare one view, their view, the only acceptable one. Constantine’s role can’t be overstated. He wasn’t a theologian, he was a ruler, and he saw the potential of a unified Christian church as a force to solidify his empire. By standardizing Christian belief, Constantine sought to create order out of chaos, but that order came at a cost. The diversity of early Christian thought was suppressed, and texts that didn’t align with the emerging orthodoxy were labeled heretical. They were banned, burned or hidden away, leaving only the approved version of Jesus’ story to dominate the centuries. The canon of the New Testament was also solidified around this time. Think about it, 27 books out of countless others were selected, while works like the Gospel of Thomas, the Gospel of Mary and other so-called apocryphal texts were left out. These choices weren’t just theological, they were political. A single, cohesive narrative was chosen to promote a certain kind of authority, one where the church held the keys to heaven and salvation was mediated through its rituals and sacraments.
Why were these texts and ideas banned?
Because they threatened to decentralize spiritual power. If Jesus’ message was about awakening the divine within, as many of these lost writings suggest, then the role of the church as the sole pathway to God becomes questionable. If salvation is a personal journey of enlightenment rather than obedience to doctrine, the hierarchical structure crumbles. The councils knew this and they acted accordingly. Over the next centuries, orthodoxy tightened its grip. The teachings of thinkers like Origen, once a respected theologian, were anathematized because of his more mystical views on scripture. The influence of female leaders, who had significant roles in some early Christian communities, was erased as the church became more male-dominated and patriarchal. Mystical practices that encouraged direct experiences of the divine were replaced with formalized liturgy. Everything became more standardized and more controlled.
The most chilling aspect? This wasn’t a gradual evolution. It was a deliberate purge. Heretical groups were hunted down, their texts destroyed, their members executed. In 367 AD, Bishop Athanasius of Alexandria wrote a now-famous Easter letter that not only defined the New Testament canon but also called for the destruction of all heretical books. What was once a broad, diverse faith became a narrow corridor guarded by creeds, dogma, and a rigid hierarchy. This wasn’t just about theology, it was about power, influence, and control over the spiritual lives of millions. The Church shifted from a movement of transformation to an institution of enforcement. It became a gatekeeper of truth, defining what could be said, believed, and practiced. The very teachings that encouraged personal empowerment were declared dangerous, subversive, and punishable.
The mysticism, the freedom, the diversity were pushed underground or erased.
By the time the dust settled, much of the early Christian spirit, the mysticism, the freedom, the diversity, had been pushed underground or erased. Orthodoxy reigned supreme, and with it came a version of Christianity that would dominate the Western world for over a millennium. A version that turned the story of Jesus into a tool of control, stripping away the radical essence of his message in favor of a system that supported a powerful institution. By now, we’ve seen how the early diversity of Christian thought was systematically streamlined into Orthodoxy. But the story doesn’t end there. Once the Church solidified its doctrine, the battle for control only intensified. What followed was a centuries-long campaign to manage not just belief, but knowledge itself, a campaign that lasted well into modern times.
One of the most effective tools in the Church’s arsenal was language.
For over a thousand years, the Bible remained exclusively in Latin, the language of scholars, priests, and the elite. Ordinary believers, who spoke vernacular languages, had no access to the scriptures. They were completely reliant on clergy to interpret the Word of God. This wasn’t just a matter of tradition, it was a power play. Keeping the Bible in Latin maintained a barrier between the common people and direct engagement with sacred texts. Knowledge remained centralized, controlled, and mediated through a priestly class. The situation took a radical turn in the 15th and 16th centuries. The printing press was invented, and suddenly, mass distribution of information became possible. Enter Martin Luther, the Reformation, and the first major cracks in the church’s monopoly on spiritual knowledge. Luther’s translation of the Bible into German was revolutionary, and it wasn’t just about language, it was about access. It was about tearing down the walls of secrecy and putting the sacred texts into the hands of the people.
But the church didn’t take this challenge lying down. Inquisitions, book burnings, and excommunications became the order of the day to maintain control over doctrine and interpretation. And then there were the mystical movements, groups that continued to seek direct experiences of God, outside the bounds of church authority. The Cathars, the wild ancients, and later the Christian mystics like Meister Eckhart all posed a threat to the rigid hierarchy. They spoke of inner transformation, of seeing the divine in everyday life, of bypassing the need for institutional mediation. These movements were often labeled heretical, their members persecuted, and their writings destroyed or hidden away.
It wasn’t just about theology; it was about information.
During the Middle Ages, the church didn’t just control the Bible, it controlled education, philosophy, and science. Monasteries were the centers of learning, and what could be taught, copied, and studied was heavily monitored. Ideas that didn’t align with church doctrine were suppressed, and thinkers who dared to challenge the orthodoxy faced severe consequences. From the trial of Galileo to the execution of Giordano Bruno, the Church’s influence over intellectual freedom was absolute. One of the most dramatic examples of this control came with the Index Librorum Prohibitorum, or the List of Prohibited Books. For nearly 400 years, this list dictated what Catholics could and couldn’t read, banning works that contradicted or questioned Church teachings. It included not just theological writings, but also scientific, philosophical, and political texts.
The aim was clear, to keep the flow of information within limits, to maintain a narrative that supported the Church’s vision of the world. The Enlightenment changed everything. The rise of reason, science, and individualism in the 17th and 18th centuries began to erode the Church’s intellectual stronghold. Knowledge started to spread beyond the cloistered walls of monasteries, beyond the stained glass of cathedrals. The Bible was translated into more and more languages, making its way into the hands of ordinary people. Secret teachings, apocryphal texts, and mystical writings slowly resurfaced, revealing a side of Christianity that had been buried for centuries.
Yet, even into the 19th and 20th centuries, the Church continued to grapple with this loss of control.
As archaeologists began uncovering ancient texts like the Nag Hammadi Library or the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Church found itself facing documents that challenged the Orthodox narrative. These texts offered alternative views of Jesus, of the nature of salvation, and of humanity’s relationship with the divine, views that had been suppressed for over a millennium. Today, in the age of the Internet, information is more accessible than ever, but the remnants of that old control still linger. Official church doctrine remains cautious about embracing texts that fall outside the traditional canon. There’s a hesitancy to acknowledge the complexity of early Christianity, to admit that the dominant story was shaped not just by spiritual insight, but by centuries of political maneuvering and suppression.
What evolved was a religion that speaks of light and revelation but has kept its followers in the dark.
We’re left with a fascinating contradiction, a faith that claims to offer absolute truth, yet has spent centuries editing, controlling, and manipulating the very sources of that truth. A religion that speaks of light and revelation but has, at times, kept its followers in the dark. The struggle for control over knowledge, over who gets to speak for God, who gets to interpret scripture and who gets to decide what is true is a struggle that continues, even now, in ways both subtle and profound.
Let’s bring everything together and face the big question, what if the hidden, mystical teachings of Jesus were right all along? What if the message that the church worked so hard to control was about something far more profound, far more empowering, than we’ve been told? The idea that divinity isn’t just out there, but within each of us is a radical shift, a complete redefinition of what it means to be human, what it means to be spiritual. Think about it, a message where Jesus isn’t just a savior to be followed, but a model to be emulated. A message that doesn’t rely on obedience to a religious authority, but on personal transformation and spiritual awakening.
This is the Christianity that could have been.
This is the Christianity that could have been, the one that celebrated the potential for every person to connect directly with the divine, to transcend the limitations of the material world, and to step into a greater understanding of reality itself. The implications are staggering. It’s a shift from a faith of dependence to a faith of empowerment. From viewing humanity as inherently flawed and needing salvation from the outside, to recognizing that the spark of divinity has always been inside us, waiting to be kindled. This isn’t about denying the importance of Jesus’ teachings; it’s about reclaiming them from the grip of dogma and control, about seeing them for what they might have been intended to be a call to wake up, to seek, and to realize our true potential.
The Church’s narrative has emphasized humanity’s fallen nature, our need for redemption through strict adherence to its interpretation of Scripture. But the banned texts, the lost gospels, the mystical traditions, they point to something much more profound. They hint at a Jesus who came not to reinforce an institution, but to ignite a revolution of consciousness, to tell us that heaven is not a distant promise, but a present reality, accessible here and now.
So why has the Church, for centuries, been so intent on suppressing this message? Perhaps it’s because a faith centered on personal empowerment undermines the very structures that have defined institutional religion for millennia. A religion where the divine is not confined to the altar, the cathedral, or the priesthood, but found within each person, in every act of love, kindness, and self-discovery. The real question isn’t whether the church got it wrong or right. It’s whether we’re willing to step outside the boundaries of what’s been handed down to us to explore the possibilities of a different kind of faith, one that sees Jesus’ words not as an end point but as a starting point. One that challenges us to ask, not just who God is, but who we are in relation to the divine.
In the end, the truth may not be found in creeds, councils, or dogmas. It may not be locked away in the Vatican archives or hidden in ancient scrolls. The truth might be much simpler, yet far more profound, that the divine is not a secret to be revealed by institutions, but an experience to be lived, a journey to be undertaken by each of us, individually and together. We don’t have to wait for permission to explore this side of faith. The texts are there, the stories are waiting, and the questions are ours to ask. What lies beyond the boundaries of orthodox belief might not be heresy, it might be the deeper truth that was there all along. A truth that invites us to see the divine not as an external authority, but as a reality intertwined with our very being.
So where does that leave us?
Maybe it leaves us with a choice: to stay within the comfortable, well-worn paths of tradition or to explore the road less travelled, the one that leads to a deeper understanding of what it means to be human, to be divine, to be connected with a reality that’s far greater than we ever imagined.
