Why Turning Over Tables Might Be the Most Holy Thing You’ll Ever Do
Have you ever considered the modern church and thought, “This looks more like monkey business than a ministry?”
You’re not wrong. Neither was Jesus.
Let’s clarify this: the Messiah did not die for performance culture. He flipped tables over it.
“And Jesus entered the temple and drove out all who sold and bought… He overturned the tables…” (Matthew 21:12, ESV)
Jesus didn’t just object. He dismantled the mechanism of spiritual exploitation. Not politely. Not silently. Not with a consultation form.
What many call ‘rebellion’ was righteous reformation.
What people call ‘irreverent’ was the most holy disruption since Sinai.
Jesus was not performing for the crowd. He was clearing the stage for revival.
“Zeal for your house will consume me.” – John 2:17 (cf. Psalm 69:9)
In Hebrew, קִנְאַת בֵּיתְךָ תֹּאכְלֵנִי (kin’at beitecha to’cheleni) – “the zeal (jealous fire) for your house will eat me up.”
This wasn’t passive disappointment. It was holy jealousy.
To the watchers, critics and onlookers:
But before you accuse me of “stirring the pot”, remember that the first pot-stirrer was divine.
I didn’t come to entertain you. I came to say: This is my Father’s house. Not your stage.
Let’s not forget the wonderful humour of Jesus… savage, prophetic, purposeful humour.
“You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel.” – Matthew 23:24
“You whitewashed tombs… full of bones.” – v27
“You clean the outside of the cup…” – v25
You don’t say these things unless you’re mocking a system that mocks God.
This is holy satire. Divine irony and kingdom clown-slapping.
This is why I’ve laughed publicly at manipulation. Why I have responded with joy and fire. Why I’ve used satire to pierce deeper than logic ever could.
It’s not irreverence. It’s an inheritance.
Jesus wasn’t laughing with religion. He was laughing at it — and setting the captives free in the process.
You’ve seen the livestreams. You’ve felt the stirring. You’ve read the blog posts, the accusations, the book.
But here’s what you need to understand: this wasn’t monkey business. This was Messiah business.
I’m not sorry for exposing darkness and bringing light. I’m not sorry for the roaring laughter among the thousands in our movement. I’m not sorry that it looked wild. Jesus didn’t look tame when he came with a whip.
This is your invitation.
Not to the circus, but to the Kingdom.
Not to curated performances, but to burning altars.
“These are the ones I look on with favour: those who are humble and contrite in spirit, and who tremble at my word.” – Isaiah 66:2
Come trembling. Laugh and weep as the presence of God manifests.
But know this: the flipping of tables was an invitation back to holiness.
An open rebuke to the leadership of C3 Church Carlingford.
Maybe you speak in tongues.
But if you still view the world as a platform for performance rather than a people to be loved, then Pentecost hasn’t touched you.
Maybe you raise your hands and shake under the lights and declare prophecy in a polished accent.
But if the fruit of your ministry is obedience to ego rather than humility before Christ, you’re not filled. You’re inflated.
We are in an hour when Pentecost is being parodied. Where pulpits play dress-up with fire and offer smoke machines in place of upper-room trembling. Where sermons are strung together with motivational fluff, and the Holy Spirit is recast as a kind of brand manager for church growth.
And to that, I say: maybe you speak in tongues… but you missed Him entirely.
Because the true outpouring doesn’t start in a sermon. It starts with surrender. With repentance. With a tearing down of platforms built on manipulation and a weeping over sheep who were fed theology laced with performance metrics and leadership coaching.
I’ve watched a church stand up and talk about marketplace prophecy while never addressing its complicity in spiritual abuse. I’ve heard them call for tongues and visions while silencing trauma disclosures and gaslighting those they wounded. Now I’ve listened—twice—as the same pastor uses the story of Pentecost to celebrate noise, not transformation.
There was a moment in the most recent sermon where the mask slipped:
“Maybe you speak in tongues… but you don’t really see people through God’s eyes.”
That’s not a word of knowledge. That’s a confession. Not a caution. A window into their failure.
Let’s tell the truth, at least for a minute…
You can preach Acts 2. You can exegete Joel. But if the people under your care have to write books just to survive what you did to them under the guise of ‘discipleship,’ then Pentecost is not your ally. It’s your indictment.
Because the Spirit of Pentecost never produces that kind of cowardice. It doesn’t wink at the suffering of the neurodivergent or elevate pastors who participated in conversion-based coercion. It does not bless emotional suppression or wrap it in theology. It doesn’t show up with a slogan, it shows up with truth.
Let’s be honest, the most prophetic thing some of us can do is stop pretending that the microphone is evidence of anointing. If Peter had spoken like this, if he had told people to kneel quietly and reflect on how God sees their job, we wouldn’t have had 3,000 saved. We would have had another conference.
This is not Pentecost. This is posturing.
And I’m not here to play games with it.
I’ve wept in the aftermath of the version of “Spirit-filled” you preach. I’ve watched what your brand of empowerment did to teenagers. I’ve lived it. I had to escape from it. And I’m here to say: no more.
You think it appropriate to offer sermons on “marketplace prophecy” while those in your congregation are recovering from spiritual violence. Why are you talking about “seeing with God’s eyes” while shaming those who didn’t fit your ideal mould, and going after pastors who align with me?
What part of Christian is that? It is, frankly, demonic.
Do you understand what happens when people speak in tongues? It humbles the proud.
Prophecy? It exposes the rot.
You want Pentecost?
Then let the fire fall. But don’t you dare sanitise it and call it another Sunday.
Because in the upper room, no one was asking about how few viewers were on the YouTube video, or for Instagram handles, or offering a moment. No one was building programs.
They were building altars.
And that is the problem. You’ve tried to turn fire into a formula.
Now you’re facing silence from your people. The trickle of views. The cold glare of exposure. Because those around you are waking up. Because some read. Some listened. And the majority started to believe the Holy Spirit might actually care more about healing than stage presence.
Now, when you hear the line “maybe you speak in tongues… but,” it doesn’t sound like a caution.
It sounds like a warning.
This is a collapse of credibility. The flicker of conscience trying to peek through the lights. The sound of a pastor realising the congregation doesn’t believe it anymore.
Because deep down, if the leadership knew Pentecost was real, you wouldn’t have had to fake it this long.
You would have repented.
You would have listened.
You would have come down from the platform and said:
“I hurt people. I didn’t see it. Forgive me.”
That is Pentecost. That is what happens when fire falls.
But no.
You doubled down.
You changed nothing.
You wrapped it in more language. You pulled out Joel. You invoked Peter.
But let me tell you something:
Peter didn’t prop up the system that crucified Jesus.
Peter didn’t spend his Pentecost sermon inviting people to give money to the ministry that helped drive the nails.
Peter didn’t get up and preach marketplace fire. He preached repentance.
And if you can’t do that?
Then maybe you speak in tongues… but you’ve silenced the voice of the Spirit long ago.
I don’t care how polished the sermon is.
I care whether the abused are safe.
I care whether the vulnerable are heard.
I care whether the neurodivergent teen who came through your ministry and was told to “pray harder” is ever going to hear the word Pentecost again without flinching.
Maybe you speak in tongues.
But unless that tongue confesses, repents, and cries holy, you are nothing but a clanging cymbal.
We begin this post by unravelling how Pentecostal performance culture has reshaped discipleship into a system of conditions. Behind soft language and polished sermons, there is a darker gospel at play. Grace with strings. What is offered is not resurrection. It is a restoration with requirements.
“The way you go is the way you return.”
A phrase like that is unmistakably engineered. It does not disappear. It lingers. It follows your faith journey, quietly deciding who gets to come home and how.
This was not just a sermon illustration. It was a gatekeeping tool. Spoken softly, wrapped in theological polish, it told the listener: If you want to come back, come back the right way.
That is not grace.
That is choreography.
And it is not biblical.
Jesus does not require matching movements. The Prodigal Son did not return rehearsed. He did not mirror his exit. He collapsed into mercy, messy, barefoot, unscripted. The Father did not wait for posture. He ran.
But in performance-based discipleship systems, especially in Pentecostal spaces where outer actions are everything, this phrase becomes a toll gate. The message is clear:
Come back, but only if your repentance looks the way we want.
We call it grace, but it is compliance culture dressed in church clothes.
We say mercy, but we whisper management.
When Hosea says, “I desire mercy, not sacrifice” (Hosea 6:6), he was not rejecting ritual for the sake of reform. He was declaring war on conditional love. He was confronting leaders who demand spiritual theatre before opening the door. He was tearing down systems that preach restoration but require you to earn it first.
Because grace does not match exit to entry.
It resurrects.
And resurrection does not ask for permission.
In the Pentecostal world, baptism is a powerful moment. But under pressure, it becomes something else.
A symbol of grace is turned into a threshold for belonging.
“If you want to be more like Jesus, have you been baptised?”
“Maybe you missed the boat.”
“Will you follow Him into the waters?”
It sounds like a challenge.
It feels like encouragement.
But it is spiritually loaded and dangerous.
This is not theology.
This is leverage.
When baptism is framed as the final evidence of “true” discipleship, mercy stops being the fuel for obedience. Obedience becomes the price of mercy.
He calls it:
“The outward sign of inward repentance… the power of this outward expression is so critical.”
This is performance gospel.
You are not just encouraged to be baptised.
You are questioned if you’re not.
He even recounts his own baptism story, placing himself as the obedient example. Then comes the appeal:
“What is preventing you from being baptised? Maybe you’ve missed the boat.”
This is not a pastoral invitation.
This is a spiritual ultimatum.
Let us examine his citation of Matthew 3:15:
“Let it be so now. It is proper for us to do this to fulfil all righteousness.”
In Hebrew thought, the word for righteousness is צְדָקָה – Tzedakah.
But here is the problem. Tzedakah is not merely about legal correctness or outward obedience. It is deeply tied to justice, mercy, and faithfulness, the same trio Jesus invokes in Matthew 23:23:
“You have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice, mercy, and faithfulness.”
The speaker reads righteousness as replicating Jesus’ actions; that is, “He was baptised, so you must be too.” But in Jewish thought, Tzedakah is about covenant fidelity, not copy-paste compliance.
To fulfil all righteousness is to honour the heart of God, not mimic the movement.
And what is that heart?
חֶסֶד — Chesed
Unfailing mercy. Covenant love. A love that initiates, not reacts.
What the speaker is doing with baptism fits a known psychological pattern used in high-control religious environments:
| Cult Mechanism | How It Shows Up |
|---|---|
| Performance for belonging | “If you want to be more like Jesus, have you been baptised?” |
| Public loyalty acts | Baptism becomes a testimony of allegiance, not grace |
| Shame as motivation | “Don’t let the fear of man stop you” |
| Rewriting spiritual failure | “Maybe you missed the boat” |
| Manipulative spiritualisation | “I went into the waters… and weeks later, the sin was gone” |
These tropes mirror established cultic mechanisms and are referenced from outlines in both the BITE Model and ICSA’s Characteristics of Cultic Groups. Performance-based belonging, coercive shame, and the spiritualisation of obedience rituals are classic hallmarks of high-control religious systems, especially where baptism becomes a gatekeeping act, not a grace response.
The result?
Discipleship is not about union with Christ.
It is about passing the checkpoint.
Let us be clear:
Baptism is not proof of transformation.
Nor is it a ticket to entry.
It is a sign, a gift, a declaration. Not a demand.
What the speaker frames as “obedience to Christ” is really a soft coercion into conformity.
But in the Hebrew tradition, mercy always precedes obedience.
It is not “do, then belong.”
It is “belong, and be changed.”
That is Chesed.
That is Gospel.
That is Jesus, who baptised no one, but welcomed everyone.
Who offered the Kingdom to unwashed hands and unmet expectations.
Who never said, “Maybe you missed the boat.”
He said, “Come.”
On the surface, it sounds like growth. Progress. Movement.
But the language reveals something deeper. A redefinition of discipleship through the lens of output.
The speaker teaches from John 15:
“Remain in me and I will remain in you… you will bear much fruit.”
But then he turns it:
“Are those you are discipling growing closer to Jesus? Are there more of them?”
And just like that, the fruit of the Spirit becomes metrics. Discipleship becomes production. Faithfulness becomes a number.
This is not abiding. This is auditing.
Jesus’ metaphor of the vine is deeply relational. In Greek, the word for “remain” — menō — speaks of communion. Dwelling. Ongoing intimacy. It is about being, not producing.
But the speaker reframes “remain” as perseverance toward output. He calls it:
“The fruit of a disciple is in other disciples.”
Then the question:
“Are you making more of them?”
This turns intimacy into industry. You are not fruitful unless you multiply. You are not faithful unless others can see it.
This is performance gospel wearing a smile.
In Hebrew thought, fruit — פְּרִי (peri) — is never separated from the life-source. It is the overflow of being rooted in God’s covenant. You do not grow fruit to prove connection. Fruit grows because you are already connected.
Even in Isaiah’s vineyard parable (Isaiah 5), fruitfulness is not about expansion. It is about covenant faithfulness and justice. When God looked for fruit, He expected mishpat (justice) and tzedakah (righteousness). Not numbers. Not reach. Not retention rates.
But here, the teaching implies:
If you are not making more disciples, your fruit is questionable. Your faithfulness is in doubt.
Which leaves only one conclusion. You are either producing, or you are failing. That is not the Gospel. That is a business model.
| Mechanism | How It Shows Up |
|---|---|
| Output as identity | “The fruit of a disciple is other disciples” |
| Peer measurement | “Are there more of them?” |
| Community pressure | “Remain in him by producing fruit” |
| Guilt as growth strategy | “If you are not fruitful, are you really abiding?” |
This is not the language of Jesus. This is the language of metrics-based spirituality. And it becomes deeply manipulative when used to measure your place in the church, your progress as a disciple, or your worth as a leader.
Jesus never said, “Grow or go.”
He said, “Remain in me.”
Fruit may come. Or it may not look how others expect. But your value is not in what grows from you. It is in who you are rooted in.
Discipleship is not about duplication. It is about communion.
You do not need to prove you are faithful by how many follow you. The truest mark of abiding is not fruit that can be counted. It is a life that cannot be moved.
A theological response to “the way you go is the way you return” – exploring mercy, chesed, and why resurrection doesn’t ask for permission.
I heard a phrase recently:
“The way you go is the way you return.”
It sounded polished. Soft. The kind of line you’d hear tucked into a sermon, almost forgettable unless you know its weight.
I knew its weight.
Because I left with nothing but my breath and the mercy of God. And when I came back?
It wasn’t the posture that moved Heaven.
It wasn’t the tone.
It wasn’t even the tears.
It was His mercy.
So when I heard that phrase preached, not once, but positioned as theological foundation, I went still.
That wasn’t the Gospel.
That was performance wrapped in politeness.
It was restoration with a toll gate.
I went deep into the Scriptures.
I returned to what had carried me.
And I wrote a post:
“The way you go is the way you return.”
Last I checked, both in Scripture and on Google, grace doesn’t come with conditions.
When I collapsed at the altar, it wasn’t my posture that moved Heaven. It was His mercy.
I didn’t come back the way I left. I came back resurrected.
This is open to everyone…
Or is Jesus’ blood not enough?
“I desire mercy, not sacrifice, and acknowledgment of God rather than burnt offerings.” — Hosea 6:6
When someone says, “You can come back, but do it right,” what they’re really saying is:
Our grace has limits.
That’s not the Gospel. That’s management.
That’s compliance culture wrapped in altar language.
What I heard from the pulpit wasn’t rebellion, but it wasn’t resurrection either. It was:
“Have you been baptised yet?”
“Jesus did it, so why haven’t you?”
“Maybe you missed the boat.”
This is the theology of control, softly spoken.
Let’s talk about Hosea 6:6:
“I desire mercy, not sacrifice, and acknowledgment of God rather than burnt offerings.”
The word used for mercy here is chesed – חֶסֶד.
And that doesn’t mean tolerance.
Chesed is covenant love.
It’s the kind of mercy that doesn’t leave when your posture slips.
It’s not performance.
It’s not shame-based discipleship.
It’s not sacrifice for show.
Chesed is the kind of love that stays.
Unflinching. Fireproof.
You don’t return by earning it.
You return by being held by the Father.
And in my case?
I didn’t come back the way I left. I came back resurrected.
I didn’t name a soul.
I didn’t tag a church.
I didn’t quote a timestamp.
And I didn’t make waves, though I could have.
But everyone who needed to see it? Saw it.
The line came from a sermon that went out publicly.
Mine was just a response.
But the moment I hit “Post”, the silence started speaking.
The Gospel doesn’t need to scream to flip a table.
Sometimes it just needs mercy.
And mercy came with Hebrew, blood, and resurrection fire.
15 views on a sermon in 14 hours.
1,600 souls touched by a resurrection post in 8 days.
I didn’t break the silence. I fulfilled it.
This is for anyone who thinks you need to return a certain way:
You don’t.
Jesus didn’t say to the prodigal, “Show me your baptism.”
He ran.
He embraced.
He clothed.
He celebrated.
And the older brother?
He stayed outside, muttering about rules.
Let him.
You’re not returning to a system.
You’re walking into resurrection.
The table is already flipped.
The fire is lit.
And mercy?
Mercy stayed.