Holiness Isn't Clean

How Vasa's Rock Pastor Inspired Me (Continued)

Pontus didn’t walk a golden road lined with clean slates and polite applause. He clawed his way back from addiction, destruction, and spiritual famine—not in some revival tent, but in the grit of real life. His testimony isn’t made-for-TV. It’s made for the trenches—for the addict, the dropout, the one who's been told by “God's people” that they’re too far gone. He’s not just preaching to the choir—he’s shouting truth into the alleyways where churches fear to go.

He reminded me of the seers and singers of old—men like Väinämöinen, the mythical sage of the Kalevala, whose power wasn’t in brute force, but in words that shaped the world. Pontus wields his guitar like a kantele, his testimony like song-magic. That’s what true ministry looks like—when music becomes a weapon of healing, when storytelling cuts through pretense and speaks to the marrow of a man. That’s the kind of messenger I respect. The ones with dirt under their nails and a war behind their eyes.

I don’t care how many letters come after your name, or what seminary stamped your ordination. If you’re not preaching a gospel that gets its hands dirty, that comforts the broken while challenging the comfortable, then what are you even doing? Jesus flipped tables for less. He didn’t die to birth a franchise. He came to tear down the walls of fake religion, to call out the hypocrites who dressed the part and devoured the poor. If your church has a VIP section, you’ve already missed the point.

The outcast is my audience. The tattooed, pierced, broken-hearted and barely-holding-on. The ones turned away from the altar because they didn’t fit the mold. Guess what? Jesus didn’t come for those who had it all together. He came for the sick. For the sinner. For the tax collector and the prostitute. And if that truth makes the modern church uncomfortable, maybe it needs a little discomfort. Maybe it’s time the temple trembled again.

Pontus J. Back reminds me that the Gospel still reaches deep—beyond image, beyond status, beyond religious fluff. He didn’t sugarcoat his past or clean up his edges to make people more comfortable. He owned his scars. And through them, the light shone brighter. That’s real testimony. That’s the kind of fire I want to burn with.

You don’t need a polished pulpit to preach. You don’t need a six-piece worship band or a fog machine. You need conviction. You need truth. You need the kind of raw honesty that makes demons squirm and religious masks fall off. I saw that in Pontus. Not just in his words, but in the spirit behind them.

It’s that same spirit I carry with me. Not perfect, not pious—but painfully real. And if you’re still reading this, maybe you carry that same fire too. Maybe you’ve been called too loud, too bold, too broken. Let me tell you something: those are the exact kinds of people Jesus used to change the world. So if you don’t belong in the pews of the modern church, maybe it’s because you were born to stand in the ruins and speak resurrection.

A Different Path: What Jesus Actually Stood For

Pontus lit a spark in me, but the fire was already there. It’s the fire that comes from seeing a man live out the Gospel without playing the game. But as I step back from his story, I look again at the foundation of mine—the one built not on pulpits or traditions, but on the raw, unvarnished truth of what Jesus actually stood for.

Let’s not pretend the modern church hasn’t been compromised. It’s traded in humility for branding, swapped out sacrifice for status, and bartered truth for a watered-down theology of comfort. These so-called Christian movements are wearing sheep’s clothing stitched from corporate strategy and cultural conformity. But scripture warned us—wolves would come. False teachers would rise. And many would follow their ways because they offer *easy* grace with no cost, no repentance, no transformation.

Does my approach contradict their polished perfection? Yes. And I’m good with that. Because Jesus didn’t come to form another hierarchy. He came to dismantle one. He didn’t seek the favor of the religious elite—He rebuked them. He flipped their tables, exposed their hypocrisy, and called their bluff when they used scripture as a weapon rather than a lifeline.

And this right here? This is the part religious institutions love to gloss over: Jesus wasn’t about building mega-churches or launching branded ministries. He was about reaching the heart of man. And sometimes, that meant crossing boundaries and breaking norms. Remember when He said, “I have other sheep that are not of this fold”? (John 10:16) That wasn’t just about the Gentiles—it was a warning shot across the bow of every exclusive, self-righteous system that tried to box God in.

That line is the heartbeat of A Different Path. We’re not all from the same pasture, but we answer to the same Shepherd. If Jesus could recognize the faith of a Roman centurion, praise a Samaritan woman’s insight, and heal a Canaanite woman’s daughter—what makes you think He won’t move through the ones your denomination dismisses?

I draw from scripture, yes. But I also draw from the pain of experience, the grit of human wisdom, and the fierce honesty of tradition—whether Finnish, Native, or ancient Semitic. Jesus met people where they were. He wasn’t afraid of their dirt. He didn’t need them to dress the part or recite the right creed. He needed their heart, and that’s what modern churches have forgotten in their rush to stay relevant.

So no—I don’t wear the robe of religious doctrine. I wear the scars of one who’s wrestled with truth and come out standing. I don’t care if that offends your carefully constructed theology. I’m not here to protect your denominational pride. I’m here to walk with those who've been cast aside by the very people who claim to represent Christ.

This is what A Different Path is about. It’s about finding the thread of truth woven through the noise. It’s about living a life of honesty, humility, and holy defiance. If that sounds like rebellion, maybe it’s because the kingdom of God always looked like rebellion to those in power.

You don’t need to belong to a building to belong to the body. You don’t need to recite a creed to be counted as a follower. You need truth. You need fire. You need to be willing to go where the church won’t—and love who the church won’t touch. That’s the Jesus I follow. That’s the road I walk. And if you're walking it too... welcome home.

Faith Without Action Is Just Noise

Let’s cut through the fog. The modern church loves to *say* a lot. Sermons. Slogans. Social media graphics. But what does the Word say? James 2:17 (AMP) hits like a hammer: “So too, faith, if it does not have works [to back it up], is by itself dead [inoperative and ineffective].”

You can raise your hands during worship, shout “Amen” with the best of them, and tithe your 10% with military precision. But if your faith stops there—if it doesn’t compel you to get your hands dirty for the sake of someone else’s healing—then all you’ve got is a show. A hollow gospel. A house with no foundation.

Jesus isn’t coming back to applaud church attendance or Instagram theology. He’s coming back with a sword, and it’s not to smite the sinner—it’s to separate truth from tradition. Matthew 10:34 (AMP): “Do not think that I have come to bring peace on the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword [of division between belief and unbelief].”

This ministry—A Different Path—is not an attack on faith. It’s a refusal to participate in a faith that’s become domesticated, neutered, and politically convenient. Jesus never played it safe. He didn’t cling to religious tradition when it contradicted the heart of God. He tore through it, whip in hand, calling out the merchants in the temple and the prideful teachers who spoke of righteousness but acted with cruelty.

Human wisdom has turned the narrow path into a maze. My calling is to help navigate through it—not by following doctrine, but by seeking divine truth. And yes, that means burning bridges built on lies if it leads someone to healing, wholeness, and the raw grace of the real Jesus.

So here’s the uncomfortable truth: if your faith doesn’t drive you to forgive, to serve, to stand up for the voiceless, to look your enemy in the eye and see a fellow image-bearer—you’ve missed the point. It’s not enough to believe. You have to become the belief.

Jesus didn’t die to preserve your comfort. He died to awaken your soul. So if your faith hasn’t wrecked you yet, maybe it’s time to start over.

To be continued...

When You’re Called to Pray for Those Who Hate You

Let’s talk about enemies. Not the cartoon villains the church loves to preach against. I’m talking about the real ones—the ones who slander your name, twist your words, question your salvation. The ones who smile to your face and stab your back before you leave the room.

Jesus didn’t suggest we pray for them. He commanded it. Matthew 5:44 (AMP): “But I say to you, love [that is, unselfishly seek the best or higher good for] your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

That kind of prayer isn’t clean or easy. It’s not poetic or safe. It’s Gethsemane prayer. Blood-sweat kind of honesty. “Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me; yet not as I will, but as You will.” (Matthew 26:39, AMP)

This ministry isn’t about vengeance. It’s about surrender. A surrender that looks like spiritual warfare—not with fists, but with faith. Not with retaliation, but with relentless love. Not by mimicking broken systems, but by becoming vessels that carry sacred discomfort into corrupted spaces.

We’re not better than the Pharisee, not holier than the hypocrite. We’re all made of the same dust, all in need of the same grace. The difference is—some of us are willing to wrestle with the truth, while others hide behind tradition.

So let me pray—not because I have all the answers, but because I know the One who does:

O Great Spirit, Creator of All Life—
Not bound by walls or ruled by men,
We stand naked before Your truth—
Equally flawed. Equally beloved.

Forgive us—those who preach but don’t act,
And those who act without grace.
Forgive the church that lost its way,
And the rebel who lost his patience.

Show mercy to our enemies—
Not because they deserve it,
But because we didn’t either.
And yet You came for us.

Let us drink the bitter cup of honesty.
Let us pray with torn hearts and dirty hands.
Let us become the love we wish we’d received.

Not my will. Not my agenda. Not my rage.
Your will. Your way. Your fire.
Make us One again,
Under You—the First and Final Word.

If that prayer made you squirm, good. It was supposed to. Growth starts where comfort ends. And A Different Path was never paved with ease—it was carved through the wilderness, under the guidance of a Shepherd who bled for every tribe, every tongue, every soul.

The Parable of the Polished Preacher

The club smelled like stale cologne and last chances. Blue lights shimmered off chrome poles and broken dreams. Behind the curtain, a man in a navy suit tucked a wad of church envelopes into a dancer’s hand. She raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak. Business was business.

He straightened his tie. Still had the same one from Sunday morning. Cross pin on his lapel, sermon notes in his glovebox, a practiced “God bless you” ready for the bouncer on the way out.

Then—He walked in. Jesus. No spotlight, no entourage. Just worn sandals and a fire in His eyes that flickered between heartbreak and fury. The preacher froze, like a child caught stealing from the communion plate.

Jesus didn’t yell. He didn’t throw tables or call down thunder. He just spoke.

“It wasn’t the body that defiled you… it was the lie.”

The preacher stammered. “It’s just a distraction. A release. I give to the poor. I preach truth. I’m human.”

Jesus knelt next to the dancer, placing a hand on her shoulder. “She never pretended to be someone she’s not.” Then He looked at the preacher. “But you? You wear righteousness like a costume and call it calling.”

The dancer’s eyes filled with tears. Not from shame—but from being seen, maybe for the first time, without being judged.

“I came for the honest,” Jesus said, “not the hidden holy. For those who fall and get up—not those who pretend they never hit the ground.”

The preacher slunk out the back, suit still pressed, tie still tight. But the weight of his double life had never felt heavier. Jesus didn’t follow him. He stayed with the ones who knew they were broken.

Later, the dancer sat outside, robe around her shoulders, smoking a cigarette in the cold air. She whispered to herself, “Maybe there’s a God after all.” And somewhere in the silence, she heard: “There always was.”

“Not my body… not my past… but my truth. That’s what He wanted.”

Scripture & Gnostic Footnotes:

• Matthew 23:27 (AMP) — “Woe to you… hypocrites! For you are like whitewashed tombs which look beautiful on the outside but inside are full of dead men’s bones…”
• Mark 7:15 (AMP) — “There is nothing outside a man [such as food] which by going into him can defile him… but the things which come out of the heart…”
• Gospel of Thomas, Saying 6 — “Do not lie… for nothing hidden will not become manifest.”
• Gospel of Mary, Fragment 8 — “The Teacher answered: ‘All natures… are resolved again into their own roots.’”
  Truth brings us back to ourselves—naked, raw, redeemed.
• John 8:32 (AMP) — “And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”
• James 5:16 (AMP) — “Confess your sins to one another… and pray for one another, so that you may be healed.”

Consent isn’t just permission—it’s freedom. But deception is theft. If we’re going to call out sin, let’s start with the kind that hides behind pulpits and prays only when the lights are off. Because **Jesus sees through silk robes and stained glass—and He still chooses to stay with the honest ones.**

• 1 Timothy 2:9–10 (AMP) — Modesty is not repression. It's a defense of dignity: “...women are to adorn themselves modestly and appropriately and discreetly… not with superficial beauty, but with good works.”
• Matthew 5:28 (AMP) — Jesus didn’t just speak against the act, but the posture of the heart: “But I say to you that everyone who [so much as] looks at a woman with lust for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”
• Proverbs 31:25 (AMP) — A reminder of where strength lies: “Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she smiles at the future.”
• Gospel of Thomas, Saying 114 — “Every woman who will make herself male will enter the kingdom of heaven.”
  Contextually understood—not as a gender statement, but a radical declaration that identity and salvation aren’t bound by social constructs or performance. Liberation begins within.
• Gospel of Mary (Magdalene), Fragment 9 — “The Savior said, ‘There is no sin, but it is you who make sin when you do the things that are like the nature of adultery... That is why the Good came into your midst, to the essence of every nature in order to restore it to its root.’”
  Redemption is not legalistic. It's restorative—bringing people back to their original, sacred design.
• Isaiah 61:1 (AMP) — “The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me… He has sent Me to bind up the wounds of the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to captives and freedom to prisoners.”
• Romans 2:1–2 (AMP) — “Therefore you have no excuse… when you judge another, you condemn yourself… for God’s judgment falls on those who practice such things.”
  Judgment is easy. Humility is harder. Redemption isn’t selective—it’s inclusive, but it starts with honesty.