Three Questions: The Father’s Inquiry.

I’ve always wondered how “believers” would respond if asked these three questions from the Father….

“How do you know that the English Bible is My uncompromised word?”

There are no accidents in the Kingdom. There are appointments, alignments, and assignments—and there are detours men manufacture when they seize holy things to serve earthly aims. This is not rhetoric; it is the operating condition of history. The question is not an invitation to sentiment, brand loyalty, or inherited comfort; it is a plumb line held against a wall that many assumed was straight because their fathers stood beneath it. The measure does not ask, “Do you cherish the scrolls?” It asks, “Can you distinguish the Voice breathed from the versions institutions managed?”

The answer cannot be proven by quoting the book back at its Author; it must be demonstrated by coming to the Light provided as the test. I require that all handling of the word—all translation culture—must prefer glass-walled rooms where decisions are visible, names are preserved, terms are defined in full, and rationales are published. This is the covenant posture. The alternative is the dim corridor where committees write in passive voice and the public receives outcomes without seeing the choices. That requires shadow to survive.

Follow the English version from its first glimmer and you do not find a straight line of covenant fidelity; you find a chain of custody stamped by crowns, councils, committees, denominational boards, seminaries, and corporate publishers. Wycliffe labored without royal hire, and the reflex of power was swift: prohibitions on unauthorized English. Tyndale reached past Latin into Hebrew and Greek, placing a sword-edge in the hands of the people, and fidelity set the translator on a pyre. The state then responded with engineering: the Great Bible under the king—a royal monopoly. The hinge is 1611: the rules fixed ecclesiastical terms, forbade doctrinal notes, and tethered translators to continuity with the already official text. The sword remained a sword, but the hilt bore the sovereign’s seal.

Modernity changed machinery, not the impulse. The marketplace added licenses, portfolios, and brands: a formal-equivalence flagship, a mission-owned juggernaut, a brand permanent, another scaling dynamic equivalence. The stated aims—clarity and faithfulness—sat beside structural outcomes—licensing revenue, denominational lock-in, reputational capital, and brand guardianship. If throne and miter held the steering oar in earlier centuries, boardroom and brand hold it now. None of this erases the grace preserved, but it does explain the mixture: light carried in vessels stamped by power.

Look closely at the lexicon, because language is how power travels. Where Scripture drew distinctions, the English flattened them, turning three-dimensional sculpture into a poster and a symphony into a monotone hum. The anatomical male (zākār) was collapsed into the same “man” as one of authority (‘îš), blurring biology with vocation so that hierarchy could be smuggled in as “creation order.” The strong, corresponding help (ʿēzer kenegdô)—the same word used of My rescuing aid—was downsized to “helper suitable,” a phrase that reads like a job posting rather than a revelation of matched strength. A Father’s instruction (tôrāh) was cast as “law,” bureaucratizing My voice. The differentiated physician’s toolkit of lifting away guilt, pardoning, and cleansing was collapsed into the single abstraction “forgive,” moving sinners from a clinic of cure to a courtroom of endless apology. The whole breathing life (nephesh) was reduced to a detachable “soul,” importing a dualism alien to the embodied hope of resurrection. The assembly (ekklēsia) was institutionalized as “church,” moving a people into a building. The covenant center—the Name that carries Yahweh and salvation within it—was swapped for a substitute syllable common in a system of man.

These choices are rail ties on which a civilization runs: vocabulary becomes catechesis; catechesis becomes culture; culture becomes conscience. When such flattenings persist because they preserve control, protect thrones, and maintain portfolios, they are shabby, low-grade practices that hide from searching evaluation. The remedy commanded is not a fresh press release; it is exposure—open decision trails, restored names, transparent rationales, and corrigibility without fear. I ask this question to invite you out of the shadows of tradition and into the radical transparency of truth. Drag your entire chain of custody into the Light and let it be judged whether your deeds were, in fact, wrought in Me.

“Where did this term come from? That was not given, which has been embedded: “Christian” and “Christianity.”

This label you embedded yourselves in is a name, a category, and a system built by men. It does not descend from the covenant Voice; it is a managerial label born where empire required universality, councils required enforceable categories, and later committees and corporate imprints required an administrable identity. Scripture’s own witness marks the contrast: ekklēsia—the called-out assembly under My headship—names a people; “church” and “Christianity” name a system. One word summons sons; the others can be stamped on buildings, budgets, licenses, and brands.

Peel back the centuries and the pattern becomes legible. The early followers were known as Nazarenes, not as members of a religion called “Christianity.” They gathered as ekklēsia—called out by Voice, formed by instruction, breaking bread in homes, and refusing imperial sponsorship. Rome’s genius was never to annihilate but to absorb—renaming gods, rededicating sites, translating local devotions into Roman-compatible formats. When My disciples proved non-absorbable, the empire shifted strategy: tolerate, then legalize, then standardize. Constantine’s legalization was an imperial merger. The Council of Nicaea did not occur in an upper room; it convened in an emperor’s court. Its aftermath severed the faith from Israel’s calendar and cast hostility toward the Jews in official tones, not because heaven changed covenants, but because empire required universality without Hebrew specificity.

The word “Catholic”—according to the whole—functioned as a political technology: flatten difference, absorb practice, centralize adjudication. From there the machinery grew a trunk: creeds by vote, bishops by rank, canon law by code, sacraments by gatekeeping, and violence by writ. The people of the Name became a managed populace. The later “Reformation” shattered the trunk into branches, but did not cut the root; it multiplied administration under new banners. Denominations rose; so did publishing houses; so did “authorized versions” owned, licensed, branded, and defended. In this ecosystem, “Christianity” became the canopy term—wide enough to include anything with a compatible silhouette, vague enough to avoid covenant friction, and profitable enough to sustain a vast economy of conferences, curricula, imprints, and identities.

This label sits atop a lexical grid that herds lives. If the rail ties say “organization,” sons will ask to be managed. If the rails say “assembly,” sons will learn to deliberate under the King. If the rails say “Jesus,” a substitute in Christianity, generations will be catechized to accept substitution at the center—and once the center is substituted, all other substitutions feel natural. Truth under judgment does not permit you to keep the label while lamenting the rails. The label is part of the rails.

The term’s birth certificate is stamped by empire; its adolescence was managed by councils; its adulthood is maintained by boards and brands; and its vocabulary has trained generations to live in a courtroom, a stadium, or a marketplace—anywhere but the assembly under the Name. The label is not incidental. It is a costume of religion worn by power, the canopy that often hides a hollow core. I gave the way, a manner of living, not a religion. The family name you received was called-out assembly, not a marketable brand.

“Who is this Jesus you speak of? He was not called. He was not sent.”

This question is a summons to place a name on the scale of covenant and watch whether it holds or collapses. The Name I gave is bound to the soundness of the invocation: “Everyone who calls on the Name of Yahweh will be saved” and “If you confess with your mouth… you will be saved.” These are oral acts, not silent sentiments. Covenant names in the Scriptures are not elastic labels you can stretch to fit taste; they are sounded identities that carry function and allegiance.

The Name I gave to Miriam, My word made flesh, was Yehoshua—which embeds My own Name in His saving mission: “Yahweh saves.” That meaning lives in the utterance, not merely in ink. When the assembly walked in it, they spoke it, they baptized in it, they suffered for it, and they watched power follow it.

Translation carries meaning across languages; “Jesus” does not. Transliteration carries sound across scripts; “Jesus” does not echo ye-ho-shua. Synonymy permits interchange without loss of identity; a covenant Name revealed from heaven is not a generic tag with swappable equivalents. What remains is substitution—a swap that displaces the original.

Greek manuscripts wrote Iēsous because that language lacked the “sh” sound and forced case endings; that was a scribal accommodation on the page, not My authorization to alter the family’s spoken allegiance. The fracture happened when Gentile assemblies pulled the scribal form into their mouths, normalized it as invocation, and handed that spoken habit to Latin and English until a foreign sound stood at the center of worship.

The “necessity defense” fails. English has always had the capacity to speak Yehoshua exactly. No barrier compelled a change. The substitute remained because it was easier to inherit than to repent. The substitution traveled well through empire, council, catechism, and later through denominational boards and corporate publishers. The same process that reduced instruction to “law” and assembly to “church” also demoted My saving Name to a market-ready syllable.

This is why the word stands that many will say “in Your name” three times—prophesy, exorcism, miracles—and yet hear, “I never knew you; depart from Me, you who practice anomia (covenantlessness).” Works may be real; effects may occur; but recognition hinges on union under the true Name. If salvation is bound to calling and confessing, and if the Name is Yehoshua, then calling a different sound is not the act Scripture ties to rescue.

Ignorance once overlooked is not an eternal license to cling to error once the truth has been revealed. “God knows what I meant” cannot be the refuge for a people who refuse to revise their mouths when the Light exposes the swap. The “Jesus” you hear is a man-made sound, enthroned by empire and maintained by councils, boards, and markets; it is not the covenant Name I spoke from heaven.

“This is My intention.”

To call you out of the shadows of tradition and back onto the Way (Derekh / Hodos). The Way was never a brand; it was a life in communion. The one who was the word made flesh is not the founder of a system; He is the reopened road to the Tree of Life. The early assemblies were “those of the Way,” not consumers of a weekly product.

Religion demands; relationship supplies. Religion performs; relationship transforms. Religion builds temples; relationship makes you the temple. The veil was torn, the priesthood fulfilled, and the Spirit refuses to be throttled by valves and gates. The same Light that exposed shabby practices now invites abiding: not affiliation but fusion—not membership but sonship.

The test is mercifully concrete: say what heaven said, do what the Scriptures say salvation does (call, confess, be immersed, abide), and let the Spirit vindicate the confession with fruit that cannot be manufactured—holiness without theater, justice without slogans, power without manipulation, and unity without branding.
I gave a Name, Yehoshua; I bound salvation to its sound and pledged My Spirit to those who confess it; men bent vocabulary to preserve power and comfort, enthroning a substitute at the center and paving a living path into a managed religion.

Therefore let the record show, in the open daylight, that I require you to reject the substitute and confess the Son by the Name He was given; refuse the economy that needs opacity and choose processes that welcome audit; renounce the tree that boasts leaves without fruit and plant yourselves in the Vine; cast off the costume of “Christianity” and step into The Way.

The only thing that remains when the altars of tradition have been cleared and the market of religion has been driven from the courts is the Breath, the Cross, the Name, the Path—and a people who walk it. This is the final word because it is the first word heard again: not a system, a communion; not a brand, a covenant; not “Jesus,” Yehoshua; not religion, The Way.
Now walk….In The Word.