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To Whom is may concern….
A tree does not grow randomly. It grows upward from what is beneath it, fed by the root that gave it birth. If that root is corrupt, what emerges above the surface will only appear strong—it will never bear life. In Chapter 1, we exposed the Roman Catholic Church as the root of modern Christianity, a root birthed not by the Spirit of God but by the political ambitions of Caesar Constantine. Now, in Chapter 2, we turn our attention to the visible result of that root system—the trunk. This is the towering structure that began to form in the centuries following Constantine’s imperial merger with faith. But this trunk is not just about form. It is about function. The trunk is the system that formalized, legalized, and weaponized the faith. It took what was once intimate and relational and made it structural and ritualistic. And if there is one thing we must not overlook—one truth so undeniable that it stands above all historical debate—it is this: Rome did not just create a system. Rome institutionalized idolatry. That is the inescapable core of this chapter. Whatever else we may argue about—dates, doctrines, disputes—this remains: the Roman Church made idolatry legal, enforceable, and sacred.
It began with the councils. After Constantine’s Edict of Milan in 313 AD legalized Christianity, Rome convened the Council of Nicaea in 325 AD to determine what the “official faith” should be. This was not a Spirit-led gathering of believers—it was an imperial summit. Debates about the nature of Christ, the Trinity, the celebration of Easter, and the authority of bishops were settled not by revelation, but by vote. From this point forward, theology was no longer discerned. It was declared. The Nicene Creed became the litmus test for orthodoxy, and those who deviated were labeled heretics and hunted. In subsequent councils—Constantinople, Ephesus, Chalcedon, and others—the same pattern continued. Doctrine became dogma. Disagreements became crimes. The body of Christ became a bureaucracy, and what once depended on the Holy Spirit now depended on imperial consensus. The faith of the ekklesia was transformed into the law of the Church.
With the councils came the clergy class—a new priesthood designed in the image of Rome, not of Israel. The original ekklesia of Yehoshua was led by apostles, prophets, teachers, and elders, each functioning by gifting, not rank. There was no centralized authority, no mediators between man and God, no titles elevating one believer above another. But Rome could not allow such decentralization. So they restructured the faith around hierarchy. Bishops became regional authorities. Cardinals were introduced as elite advisors. And at the top sat the Pope—the Holy Father. This title alone is blasphemous, directly violating Yehoshua’s command in Matthew 23:9, “Do not call anyone on earth your father; for only One is your Father, He who is in heaven.” But Rome was not interested in obeying the Messiah. It was interested in replicating Caesar. And so the clergy became the new priesthood—authorized not by anointing, but by appointment. Salvation no longer flowed from heaven. It now flowed through men.
Then came the ultimate offense—the enthronement of the Pope. As the Roman Empire declined politically, the papacy rose spiritually, filling the power vacuum with divine claims. The Pope was no longer just a bishop—he became the “Vicar of Christ,” a term meaning “substitute” or “in place of” the Messiah. This title alone established the Pope as Christ’s representative on earth, with all spiritual authority consolidated in one man. In 1302, Pope Boniface VIII issued the bull Unam Sanctam, declaring, “It is absolutely necessary for salvation that every human creature be subject to the Roman Pontiff.” This was not leadership. This was usurpation. It was the erection of a throne in the name of God, occupied by a man who claimed to stand in the place of Yehoshua. And this throne was not figurative. It was real, adorned, and feared. The Pope spoke, and entire nations obeyed. Kings bowed. Wars were waged. Excommunications were issued. And all of it was done under the pretense of divine order. But the truth is unmistakable—the papacy was not the continuation of apostolic authority. It was the reincarnation of imperial power wearing a holy mask.
To enforce this power, Rome codified its own laws. What had once been a movement led by the Spirit of God became a legal system governed by canon law. Confession, penance, indulgences, annulments, fasting, feast days, excommunications—all were defined, categorized, and regulated. The Torah was discarded, but in its place arose something far more controlling: a manmade system of religious law. This was not moral guidance. This was spiritual control. And perhaps most telling of all, the Bible itself was locked away from the people. Written only in Latin, chained to cathedral walls, and reserved for the clergy, the Scriptures were kept out of reach from the common man. The Word of God was treated not as bread for the hungry, but as a relic for the powerful. The very thing Yehoshua came to fulfill was hidden, edited, and monopolized by the Church that claimed to represent Him.
The next step in this system was inevitable—violence. The Roman Church, now fully institutionalized, became a military machine. It launched the Crusades under the banner of the cross, murdering Jews, Muslims, and even Eastern Christians who would not submit to papal rule. These were not holy missions. They were land grabs, political campaigns, and mass killings justified with Scripture. The Inquisitions followed, where heretics were tortured and burned alive to preserve “orthodoxy.” Imagine that—the One who said, “Love your enemies,” now represented by an institution that devised tools to tear them apart. The Church of Rome became the beast it once feared, enforcing its doctrine with sword and fire. This was not the gospel. This was not the kingdom of God. This was empire, pure and simple, wielding religious language as a weapon.
At the heart of this empire sat the sacraments—seven official rituals deemed necessary for salvation: baptism, confirmation, Eucharist, penance, anointing of the sick, marriage, and holy orders. These sacraments were not optional—they were required. But access to them was controlled entirely by the clergy. This meant that the grace of God was no longer a gift—it was a gated product. Baptism, once a personal act of faith, became a priestly ritual. Communion, once a shared table of remembrance, became a mystical ceremony of transubstantiation. Penance, once an internal repentance, became an external performance. Everything was regulated. Everything was timed. Everything had a fee—whether it was money, submission, or both. The Spirit of God was replaced by rites. Holiness was replaced by habit. Salvation was not experienced—it was administered, controlled, and, when needed, withheld.
Now we come to the undeniable core: Rome institutionalized idolatry. This is not conjecture. This is not a theological opinion. This is observable, historical fact. The Roman Catholic Church enshrined statues of saints, elevated Mary to “Queen of Heaven,” paraded relics through cities, and sold indulgences for souls in purgatory. It turned crosses into talismans. It assigned power to beads and rituals. It permitted people to bow before carved images, light candles before icons, and pray to intermediaries long dead. This is textbook idolatry. It is the very thing Yehoshua condemned when He cleansed the temple. It is the same spirit that caused Israel to fall into judgment. It is the very thing the Torah forbids, the prophets warned against, and the apostles preached against. And yet Rome made it law. They did not merely absorb paganism. They crowned it, baptized it, and called it Christian. What was once the sin of nations became the centerpiece of institutional faith.
Along the way, something even more insidious occurred—the identity of the people of God was stolen. The true ekklesia—the called-out ones who lived by faith and walked in the Spirit—were overwritten by the Roman Church’s claim to be “the Bride of Christ.” But this bride was no virgin. She was arrayed in wealth, power, titles, and compromise. The body of Christ was rebranded as a religious empire, and those outside its walls were labeled heretics, apostates, or infidels. Yehoshua’s people were no longer defined by their Spirit—but by their paperwork. And Rome held the pen.
And yet… not everyone bowed. As this towering trunk of religious power grew heavier, it also began to crack. At the very end of this era, in 1517, a man named Martin Luther nailed 95 Theses to the door of the Wittenberg church. He was not trying to destroy the Church. He was trying to reform it. But in doing so, he swung the first visible axe at the Roman trunk. His protest against indulgences, corruption, and papal supremacy would spark a movement that split the Church into pieces. But let us not be deceived—Martin Luther was a branch from the same tree. He rejected the fruit, but not the root. He challenged the system, but still bore its genetic imprint. And so we will save him for Chapter 3—The Branch—where we will explore the fragmentation of the Church, the rise of Protestant denominations, and how the spirit of Rome survived even through its own protestors.
Remember this: the root defines the fruit. If the tree is planted by empire, structured by politics, and watered by idolatry, then nothing that grows from it can be holy. The trunk of Christianity as we now know it is tall, ancient, and wide—but it is hollow. The God of creation never asked for a building, a pope, a confession booth, or a council of cardinals. He asked for a people—called out, filled with His breath, shaped by His Word, and led by His Spirit. That is not what Rome built. And that is not what the trunk supports. So as we move forward into Chapter 3, never forget: no matter how many branches grow, they all grow from the same source. And if the source is idolatry, so too will be the fruit.
