The Gospel of the Wild Messiah

The Gospel of the Wild Messiah

He did not come robed in safety.

He did not come crowned in gold.

He came with dust on his sandals,

blood in his future,

and fire in his bones.

Not to keep the peace—

but to break it open.

The penniless preacher from Nazareth

walks towards the pain,

kneels where no king kneels,

calls friends what the world calls waste.

The mission of the wild messiah is

madness to the market and

mercy to the margins.

Here is a man.

Exiled flesh.

Olive skin cracked like parched land.

No one hugs lepers.

But he does.

No ritual.

Just reach.

Let the church be like this—

touching what others avoid.

Body of Christ,

move your hands.

Here is a man.

Dropped through a broken roof.

They say his legs are cursed,

but Jesus says,

"Friend."

Forgiveness before healing.

Wholeness before walking.

Let the church be like this—

tearing open ceilings

so mercy can get in.

Here is a man.

Sworn to Caesar.

A soldier’s posture,

a servant’s pain.

Faith speaks from strange lips.

Jesus listens.

Heals.

Let the church be like this—

wide-lunged enough

to breathe in

foreign hope.

Here is a woman.

Tears on feet,

perfume in air,

shame in the room.

They call her sinner.

He calls her forgiven.

Let the church be like this—

welcoming the shamed.

Less pointing.

More tears.

Less tally.

Here is a man.

Naked in tombs.

Self-harm scrawled across skin.

Unclean,

unkempt,

unloved.

Jesus asks one thing:

What’s your name?

And the demons

tremble.

Let the church be like this—

naming the silenced,

holding the haunted.

Here is a woman.

Twelve years of blood.

Invisible in a crowd.

She dares a touch—

and it stops him.

He says:

“Daughter.”

A word that heals

more than wounds.

Let the church be like this—

interruptible.

Alive to power

in the unnoticed.

Here is a man.

Short in stature,

tall in corruption.

Collaboration money

stacked in a crooked house.

Jesus invites himself in.

No lecture.

Just presence.

And something changes.

Let the church be like this—

hosting grace

before repentance,

feasting with the fallen.

Here is a man.

Blind and begging.

Shouting louder

than the crowd’s comfort.

Jesus halts.

Sees what others pass by.

And lets light in.

Let the church be like this—

attentive

to inconvenient cries.

This is not a clean gospel.

It smells of spit and soil,

rupture and resistance.

It weeps in alleyways

and whispers beside beds.

It eats with the wrong people

and sings in the dark.

The kingdom is not far.

It is falling

like a tear

from the face of God.

And still

he walks.

Still

he calls.

Still

he touches the untouchable

and invites the forgotten home.

Let the church be like this.

Let us be

wounded,

wild,

and faithful.

Amen.

And amen again.

— Rev’d Jon Swales