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To Whom it may concern…
The Protestant Reformation is often hailed as a revolution. It is seen as the great liberation of the gospel from Roman tyranny, the heroic rediscovery of grace, and the moment when the Word of God was returned to the hands of the people. But we must ask a deeper question: Was the Reformation truly a return to the original faith—or was it merely a reshaping of Rome’s religion in a different image? In this chapter, we confront the uncomfortable truth: the Protestant Reformation did not plant a new tree. It broke off a branch. That branch splintered into many more, but every one of them still draws from the same poisoned root. The movement that began as a protest against indulgences and papal power eventually became a system of its own—complete with denominations, doctrines, divisions, and distortions. And perhaps more dangerously, it rebranded the faith entirely. It introduced new terminology, reinforced institutional control, and further distanced the body of the Messiah from its original identity. The Catholic trunk was fractured—but the Roman root was never cut.
Martin Luther’s break from the Catholic Church in 1517 was indeed historic. His 95 Theses, nailed to the church door in Wittenberg, challenged the sale of indulgences and called out the moral corruption of Rome’s leadership. Luther’s translation of the Bible into German was revolutionary, and his rejection of papal supremacy was a direct blow to the authoritarian structure of the Church. But while his protest was bold, it was not complete. Luther maintained many of the doctrinal and structural elements of Catholicism. He retained infant baptism, preserved Sunday as the day of worship, upheld hierarchical clergy roles, and perpetuated theological antisemitism. He called the Pope the Antichrist, but still taught that the Jewish people were cursed. He broke from the pope but not from the system. His movement was not a return to the early assembly of believers—it was an attempt to purify the trunk, not uproot it.
What followed Luther’s protest was a cascade of splinters. Calvinists, Anabaptists, Anglicans, Methodists, Baptists, Presbyterians, and eventually Pentecostals—each movement broke away from something else, often in reaction to theological disagreement or political tension. And yet, none of them returned to the original blueprint. Each one became its own denomination, with its own hierarchy, its own creeds, its own structures. Some rejected liturgy, others embraced it. Some emphasized grace, others holiness. But all of them preserved the core framework inherited from Rome: centralized leadership, organized services, controlled access to spiritual authority, and a reliance on theological education rather than spiritual revelation. The original ekklesia—the called-out, Spirit-led, relational body of believers—was never restored. The body of the Messiah remained institutionalized. The branches changed shape, but the trunk still held them up.
One of the most powerful—and most overlooked—ways this transformation took place was through language. The Protestant Reformation may have made Scripture accessible in native tongues, but it did not restore the original names, meanings, or cultural context of the faith. Instead, it perpetuated the linguistic theft that began in Rome. Nowhere is this more evident than in the name “Jesus.” The man the world calls Jesus was born with the name Yehoshua—a Hebrew name meaning “Yahweh saves.” In Aramaic, He was called Yeshua, a shortened and familiar form. But as the gospel passed through Greek, Latin, and eventually English, the name morphed. Greek had no “Y” or “sh” sound, so it became Iēsous. Latin turned this into Iesus. English, after the invention of the letter “J” in the 17th century, gave us “Jesus.” The result? A name entirely disconnected from its Hebrew root, stripped of its original meaning, and repackaged for Western tongues. And while many argue this is merely a phonetic shift, it is much more than that. Names in Hebrew carry function and identity. To change a name is to change a mission. When Yehoshua’s name was changed, so was the power behind it.
This identity theft extends to the apostles as well. Sha’ul became Paul. Kefa became Peter. Ya’akov became James. Yochanan became John. Every name was anglicized, Latinized, and distanced from its Hebrew origin. This matters. These men were Jewish. Their culture, worldview, and function were grounded in the Torah and the covenant. But Protestant Christianity inherited not their identity, but Rome’s reconstruction of them. Their names were changed to fit the Western narrative. Their teachings were filtered through Greek philosophy. Their legacy was transformed into something comfortable, European, and clean. This wasn’t restoration. It was marketing.
And that marketing reached its full power in the rebranding of the faith itself. The early followers of Yehoshua were never called “Christians” by one another. The term first appears in Acts 11:26, and even then it was used by outsiders, possibly as an insult. Yehoshua never once used the term. He called His followers disciples. Believers. Friends. Servants. He never started a religion. He inaugurated a kingdom. But as Protestantism spread, the label “Christian” became a convenient umbrella—broad enough to include any variation of belief, flexible enough to avoid offense, and useful enough to create religious unity without spiritual truth. The term “Christianity” became a brand. It was no longer a way of life—it was a title, a checkbox, a denominational badge. But Yehoshua didn’t die to start Christianity. He died to restore relationship. And yet what we now call Christianity is a system of rituals, statements of faith, and church services that often bear little resemblance to the Messiah Himself.
Even among Protestants who rejected statues and saints, the spirit of idolatry remained. Many idolized pulpits, preachers, books, denominations, buildings, conferences, and music. Instead of bowing to carved images, they bowed to charismatic leaders. Instead of trusting the hierarchy of priests, they trusted the hierarchy of celebrity pastors. The performance changed, but the power source did not. Many churches became stages. Worship became entertainment. The Bible became a weapon or a trophy, depending on the speaker. The God of Israel became a mascot for national pride or political power. Rome may have been rebuked, but its spirit still ruled through Protestant hands.
The result of this compromised protest was not unity—but fragmentation. Today, there are over 45,000 Protestant denominations across the globe. Each claims to follow the same Messiah, yet each teaches different interpretations of His words. The early assembly had one Spirit, one baptism, one faith. The modern church has thousands of variations, each claiming to be the most biblical. But truth has become tribal. People now follow their denomination the way nations follow flags. Identity is no longer found in being born again—it is found in which church you attend. This is not what Yehoshua built. This is not what He died for. The Reformation created the illusion of restoration, but it never returned to the root. It merely multiplied the branches of a system God never authored.
And at the center of this entire collapse lies a wound that has never healed—the wound of stolen identity. When the name of the Messiah was changed, the function of His identity was weakened. When the language of Scripture was filtered through Greco-Roman categories, its meaning was flattened. When the apostles were renamed and their culture erased, the faith became alien to its own people. The gospel was not just mistranslated—it was redefined. The Hebrew Messiah became a European Savior. The Jewish covenant became a Western creed. The Spirit became a ritual. The Way became a brand. What has been passed down to us is not the fullness of truth—it is a diluted inheritance.
And so we must say it clearly: Protestantism did not return to the faith once delivered. It simply inherited a broken system and tried to make it beautiful. But you cannot reform what God never formed. You cannot revive what was born in compromise. The branches still draw from the root. And if the root is Roman, no matter how sincere the protest, the fruit will remain corrupted. Chapter 4—The Leaf—will expose how this religious tree has shaped its modern appearance: political alignment, cultural influence, media performance, and the illusion of unity. But we must carry this truth forward: the name we call upon matters. The identity we carry matters. The system we submit to matters. We were not called to be Christians. We were called to be disciples. The question is—whose tree are you really growing from?
