Shout it from the rooftops Unveiling the Silenced Truth of Early Christianity

There’s something liberating about reading those words from Jesus in Matthew 10:26–27. “So have no fear of them,” he says—not a suggestion but a command. And then he offers this strange assurance: “Nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known.” That statement has haunted me in the best way. For me, it’s not just about personal transparency or being honest in a general sense. It’s a cosmic promise. It’s a spiritual unveiling. It’s Jesus looking straight through the centuries and whispering to us that the darkness draped over history, especially over what became of his message, will not last. It’s temporary. And the light will break in. It always does.

When I read, “What I say to you in the dark, tell in the light, and what you hear whispered, proclaim from the housetops,” I don’t think of it as a call to shout modern evangelical slogans. I hear it as a revolutionary instruction. The kind that unsettles empires. It’s a call to remember and recover. To pull back the veil on the machinery of religious control and name what has long been silenced.

What became orthodoxy—what we call Christianity today—didn’t descend pristine from heaven. It wasn’t handed down untouched through the generations like a sacred relic. It was forged, argued over, stamped out, and finally enforced with blood and fire. I’m convinced that if Jesus walked the dusty roads of Galilee with a message of awakening, love, and divine union, that message was hijacked. Maybe not all at once. But beginning somewhere around the middle of the second century, a narrowing began. The streams of belief, once so diverse and free-flowing, were redirected. And many were damned as heretical—simply for not echoing the voice of the rising institution.

I think often about the burning of books. Not metaphorically—literally. The words and insights of countless thinkers, mystics, philosophers, and seekers turned to ash because they threatened a theological monopoly. The Church didn’t merely disagree with people like Valentinus, Basilides, or Marcion. It anathematized them. It labeled them enemies of truth, while crafting a version of truth that had more to do with uniformity than illumination. Heretics weren’t just mistaken; they were hunted. Banished. Killed. The term “heretic” became a curse, a death sentence. And the irony of it all is that the early so-called “orthodox” fathers themselves couldn’t agree on everything. Their letters, arguments, and councils reveal a web of disagreement and disunity. And yet, a final voice was chosen—an approved reading of Jesus—and dissent was declared demonic.

The tragedy that still echoes through time is the destruction of the Library of Alexandria. It's hard to comprehend the magnitude of knowledge, insight, and history that was lost in those flames. That library was a symbol of human curiosity and divine wonder. Its burning wasn’t just an act of war or carelessness—it was part of a larger trend. A purge. A dismantling of ancient wisdom in favor of controlled narratives. A kind of sacred censorship that dared not allow people to think beyond the prescribed limits. We’re not just talking about different doctrines here—we’re talking about different ways of perceiving reality, of encountering the Divine, of understanding who we are. And so much of that was erased. Or at least, they tried.

But history has a strange way of resurrecting what we try to bury.

When the Nag Hammadi Library was discovered in 1945, and the Dead Sea Scrolls just a couple of years later, it was as though the desert itself was crying out. These texts, sealed away for centuries, became like voices shouting from the housetops. The secrets hidden away by the sands were now spilling into the public square. And what did they reveal? Not scandal, as the gatekeepers feared—but depth. Layers of thought. Rich theology. A Christianity that was not singular but plural. Diverse. Deeply mystical. Some of it poetic and philosophical, some of it raw and bold. The Gospel of Thomas, for example, isn’t interested in dogma—it’s interested in awakening. “The kingdom is within you and all around you,” it says. That’s not a creed. That’s a call to remember who we are.

The discovery of those texts wasn’t just archaeological—it was spiritual. For me, it confirmed what I had long suspected: that much had been hidden, suppressed, and forgotten—not by accident, but by design. The early Christian movement wasn’t monolithic. It was bursting with spiritual experimentation, with different interpretations of Jesus, with wildly different views of sin, salvation, and the soul. And many of those views were deliberately erased to make room for one imperial religion. When Constantine aligned the church with the empire, the cross was transformed. No longer a symbol of death-defying love, it became a sword. It became a throne. The religion of the persecuted became the religion of the powerful, and history was rewritten by those who won.

Still, I don’t think truth can stay buried forever.

That’s why I resonate so deeply with those words from Matthew. They remind me that revelation is often inconvenient. It doesn’t ask permission. It crashes through our theological comfort zones and dares us to see things as they are. And Jesus wasn’t afraid of that. He wasn’t in love with institutions. He didn’t seek out creeds. He called people into light—real light. The kind that exposes and heals, that dismantles and rebuilds.

I believe the gnostics weren’t evil mystics as we’ve been told. They were seekers. Explorers of the inner life. They saw salvation not as a legal transaction but as an awakening from forgetfulness. They believed in a divine spark within, buried beneath layers of ignorance and illusion. And yes, that terrified the orthodox leaders. Because if people found God within, they might no longer need priests or popes. If awakening was the goal, not obedience, then control would slip through their fingers. So they called it heresy. And they buried it. Or at least, they tried.

But the whisper still rises. From the caves of Qumran. From the jars in Nag Hammadi. From the pages of Thomas, Philip, Mary. Even from the margins of canonical scripture, if we’re willing to look again with new eyes. It all seems to echo that original call: “Do not be afraid.” Speak the truth. Tell what’s been hidden. Let the secret be shouted from the rooftops.

For me, this isn’t just about history—it’s about spiritual recovery. It’s about honoring the voices that were silenced, the truths that were buried, and the dreams of a Christianity that could have been—and still can be. Jesus didn’t come to start an institution. He came to awaken sons and daughters of the Divine. He came to liberate—not to dominate. To remind us who we are. And I believe that reminder is breaking through again. This time not through councils or crusades, but through rediscovered texts, through open minds, and through hearts that are done with fear.

The real gospel—the good news—isn’t about who’s in and who’s out. It’s about the unveiling. The light. And the courageous ones who dare to proclaim it. From the rooftops. Just like he said.